#⚠

[ucami]

chainsaw, hacksaw

[themarimosystem]

scrolling tumblr while cocon like im here im vibing then

[bluteamplural]

OF COURSE EVERYONE TRIES CONTACTING US WHEN I'M IN FRONT

[ditzyrafe]

— getting backshots from ex!rafe

warnings — p in v, doggystyle, creampie, unprotected sex, lewd language

the impact is jarring, forceful, driving you forward onto the mattress. your hands slam down flat against the cool sheets, bracing yourself as rafe grips your hips, fingers digging in possessively. there's no preamble, no bullshit, and no wasting time letting you adjust to his large length. just the hard, rhythmic slam of his body against yours. "god, i've missed this pussy."

each thrust is deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and a low groan rumble in your chest. his breath is hot and ragged against the shell of your ear, his grunts syncing with the relentless pace he sets. the headboard knocks against the wall with every powerful thrust, the slapping of skin on skin resounding in the room.

you arch your back instinctively, pushing back against him, meeting his force with your own need. it's wrong, considering the complicated history between you two. but right now, none of that matters. all that exists is the raw friction, the overwhelming sensation of being taken, filled completely.

"ah, rafe…" you gasp out, the name torn from you involuntarily as he hits a particularly sharp angle, sending sparks erupting behind your eyelids.

his hold tightens, knuckles white against your skin. he doesn't answer, just drives into you harder, faster, pushing you closer to the edge. sweat slicks your back, making his grip slide slightly before he readjusts, pulling you impossibly closer, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural sound.

the pressure builds relentlessly inside you, a tight, coiling knot low in your belly. your breath comes in short, sharp pants, vision blurring at the edges. he can feel your climax building, pulsating around his cock so tightly, he knows he’ll savour it forever.

“you’re mine. this needy pussy is mine,” he groans, a rough, strained sound, just as the dam inside you breaks. pleasure floods through you, hot and electric, making your muscles clench violently around him. you cry out, burying your face in the pillows as the waves crash over you, sharp and overwhelming. seconds later, you feel him pull out of you, spilling all his seed along your back, his ragged breathing loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"you’re mine. say it."

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[laguzmage]

Tried to have a foxgirl drawing ready for today but I gotta edit the pose and redo the lineart, so I'm gonna reblog some foxes from my art blog instead

This may contain foxgirl boobies, you've been warned

[inkytoru]

KISS WITH A FIST ── .✦ ꒰ caleb y. ꒱

SYNOPSIS: You were tired of constantly being treated like a thing to protect by your older stepbrother, Caleb. Having reached your breaking point, you punch him. These are the consequences of your actions; the aftermath spelling out the beginning of the end.

PAIRING: caleb yizhou x f!reader WORD COUNT: 2.4k ⚠ CONTENT WARNINGS: dubcon, pseudo/stepcest, non-consensual spanking/impact play, humiliation, blood, violence, power dynamics/imbalance, unhealthy relationships, yandere behavior, vaginal fingering, manipulative aftercare

A/N: minors dni. this was supposed to be a short drabble idk what happened. anyways, angry caleb with a nosebleed anyone?

ao3 mirror.

“You always do this, gege!” you whine, and Caleb thinks you look breathtaking as always, but especially so with the way tears of frustration bead at your lashline and how that damned pout of yours makes his cock stir.

The restraint it took to not ravage you right then and there almost makes him want to groan.

Instead, a slight frown tugs at his lips as he looks down at you.

“He’s no good for you, pips. Why do you always go for the shitheads?” And why won’t you ever look at me the way you do at them?

You looked as if a scream was about to tear itself from your throat.

“Who are you to tell me who’s good for me or not?!” your voice was rising to a dangerous volume, and Caleb was glad grandma wasn’t home.

“I’m not your girlfriend!”

“You may not be,” Caleb grits through his teeth, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t look out for you.” The way a good boyfriend would do.

At this point, the tears that were welling up in your eyes now fell freely and slid down your cheeks. It broke Caleb’s heart that he was the one making you cry, and a flash of regret might’ve flickered across his face, but you were too busy wiping your sleeve against your eyes to notice.

“You need to understand that not every boy will have your best interests at heart,” Caleb goes on to say softly, but his disapproval still remains weaved within his words, “trust me on this.”

You slowly lower your arm from your face to glare at him from below your lashes as betrayal is written plainly on your features.

“Then why were you snooping through my phone, Caleb?”

His face pales.

“Pips, it’s not like—“

You cut him off with your quiet tone and unwavering gaze.

“You were the one who violated my trust in you, and you dare to tell me to trust you when you go so far as to look through my messages? Not only that, but you also deliberately found out my boyfriend’s address just so you could threaten him? What, did you really think I wouldn’t know? What’s wrong with you?”

Caleb’s eyes were downcast, his frown beginning to quirk up into an infuriating small smile.

“So, you’ve got me there,” he replies with a leveled voice, sunset eyes going on to peer at you as the most punchable expression you’ve ever seen him wear makes your insides boil and simmer with anger.

“Aren’t I pathetic?”

It was as if the fractured lines within you finally gave way as something snapped, and you reeled your clenched fist back before connecting it firmly against his nose. You didn’t even register that you did it until you spot the red seeping from his nostril.

Not expecting your violent retaliation, he had stumbled a step backwards, eyes widened in shock as he looked at your just as shocked face, to the now bloodied hand he had just used to touch his now broken nose, then back to your face.

You watch in abject terror as you see the surprise morph to hurt in his eyes, then to how it darkens like a storm cloud; the calm before the downpour of a quiet fury you’ve never seen him direct towards you now settled onto your frozen form.

With a vice grip like unyielding iron, Caleb drags you screeching by the wrist up the stairs.

“I-I… I didn’t mean to—! Gege, that hurts, stop—!“

Your frantic stammering does nothing to deter him from shoving you hard onto his bed as he closes the door behind him with a jarring softness.

“Do you know,” he begins lowly, “how many times I have let you off the hook?”

Words seemed to be lodged somewhere between fear and your throat. All you could muster in response was a tiny nod.

“How many times I have been nothing but a good brother to you?”

As he talks, he slowly approaches you, feet stopping right before the foot of his bed.

You crawl backwards out of fear until you reach his headboard.

“You’re not getting away scotch-free this time, no,” he barks out a laugh before he’s on the bed inching closer to you.

“You’re going to be punished, and you’re going to see just how mean gege can get.”

“Caleb, let me go! I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late for sorries.”

With ease, he yanks you down by the ankles; then, in a flash he pins your wrists above your head.

The blood from his nose drips onto your face as his hovers above yours, its metallic taste meeting your tongue as it dribbles into your agape mouth.

It tasted like the beginning of the end, like a jigsaw puzzle falling apart, like the pieces of it will never be able to be connected the way they once were ever again.

Then, your eyes travel down his body to see the tented up fabric of his jeans. Your eyes widen— part trepidation, part incredulity.

“Are you seriously hard from—“

Before you could finish your sentence, his crimson-stained lips crashed against yours, the taste of his blood becoming ever more omnipresent to you.

He growls into the kiss as you squirm around beneath him. Your whimpers were muffled before being silenced by his tongue wrestling against yours.

Why was heat flaring up within your core? Were you… liking this as much as he was?

After a moment, he pulls back, a string of shared saliva stretching from his lips to yours. He looks at you with an indiscernible look in his eye before going to sit at the side of the bed.

Without the tenderness that usually accompanied his words, he sharply demands:

“Get up. Strip and lay across my lap.”

“Caleb, I don’t think we should be doing this.”

His steeled stare doesn’t budge from you. “That wasn’t a question.”

Biting at your lip, you do as you’re told; you shrug off your top, then slip out of your shorts and panties.

“No bra?” Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat. “You want to be ogled at by men, don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before he impatiently jerks you towards him by the hand. You get the memo and sprawl yourself down onto his lap.

A large hand deceivingly trails up the back of your thigh to the flesh of your bare ass.

”Count.”

Without waiting for your reaction, that same large hand was mercilessly and swiftly raised in the air before striking you on the left asscheek. A loud yelp leaves you.

“O-One,” you begin.

Your stepbrother wordlessly raises his hand again. The palm of it meets your skin once more, and another cry falls off your lips.

”Two!”

Deceptively, Caleb’s palm caresses your reddening behind. But what relief it provided was short-lived as it was struck against the meat of your ass again.

”Three,” you sob out with a hiccup, jolting slightly in his grasp. Your gaze remains on the carpeted floor as heat not only rises to your asscheeks, but also to the ones on your face. You were a tad curious what expression he was sporting right now, but knew better than to look.

”Four.” Tears of humiliation well up in your eyes this time.

”Keep moving around so much and we’ll start again from zero,” comes Caleb’s flat voice devoid of any joviality that you were so used to hearing from him.

You try to give him a small nod in acknowledgement amidst your breathy whimpers, but Caleb tuts in dissatisfaction while pinching the fat of your ass hard enough for you to shriek “yes gege!”

As the fifth spanking lands, your tears were now streaking down your flushed cheeks and your voice began to wobble while continuing to count.

”N-Nine…”

If only you were able to see the hardened yet pitying expression on his face.

But bad girls needed to be punished, and you were no exception to the rule.

Two fingertips dance along your slit, now coated in your slick— Caleb quirks a brow, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

”What’s this? Are you seriously wet from this, pipsqueak?”

Your ears burn red at him using your own words against you from earlier; your immediate reaction was to deny it, but he had already made it clear that he was onto you and the way you actually enjoyed this with your stepbrother of all people.

An impatient resounding slap echoes when it meets its mark and you hiss in pain. “I asked you a question,” he chides.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

”Oh? So it’s like that, huh.”

Smack!

That last one hurt more than any of the others, evident through how you wail out his name.

”I didn’t tell you to stop counting either.” Caleb’s tone was resolute and pertinacious.

”Ten!” you cry out, “yes I am, sir!”

”Yes, you are what?”

A beat passes before you think twice about ignoring his questions again.

”I’m wet because of you, gege!”

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost reverently. You wanted so badly to deny it, but when you’re rewarded by his long digits dipping within your folds, the shameful slickness there told the truth for you. You couldn’t help the embarrassingly lewd mewl that escapes you at how the two of them easily slide in with the help of your natural lubrication.

”Now was that so, so hard?” Caleb rhetorically asks as you squirm around atop his lap. You can feel his neglected bulge poke your stomach with every motion you make.

His deft fingers curl upwards to repeatedly stroke your walls, eliciting another drawn out moan from you as they directly make contact with your g-spot. The obscene squelching noises resulting from it cause you to squeeze your eyes shut in burning shame.

”Look at me,” he orders.

You oblige by turning your head with a sniffle. By now the blood from his nosebleed had dried up, the fading red stripe from his nostril down to his shirt reminding you of your monumental mistake.

When your tear-stained face peers up at him, something in his stare softens, but only by a small margin. He hated to see you cry—always had ever since you would bruise your knees at the playground when you two were little—but he knew this was necessary to make amends for your misstep out of line.

Actions never fail to have consequences, as you would come to thoroughly learn.

”There’s my girl,” he says with a slight quirk of his lips, “y’know, I’ve always wondered how you would scream my name and come undone by my touch. Not like this, however.”

You stay silent, unsure of how to proceed with this conversation. You also did not want to incur more of his wrath by saying the wrong thing.

Much to your relief, he continues it for you by sighing and issuing another command.

”Sit up.”

Obediently, you straighten yourself up on his lap, wincing as the sore flesh of your ass chafed against the rough material of his jeans. You wrap your legs around his midsection before burying your face into his chest.

And then it was like the dam broke, the brunt of your mixed emotions surfacing and coalescing into more intense, body-wracking sobs. You unreservedly snivel into his shirt as you shed more and more tears.

His arms tighten around you when he notices your smaller form begin to quiver like a leaf in the wind. Only when he realizes you’re speaking does he relax his hold while leaning back to hear you more clearly.

”I’m s-sorry,” you babble, your words tumbling out one after another while being intermittently punctuated by hiccups, “it was spur of the moment, I’m sorry for hurting you Caleb, you didn’t deserve that…”

Your beloved gege cups your face in his large hands, the pads of his thumbs brushing sweetly against the wet skin underneath your eyes; the very same pair of eyes he swears will be his downfall one day.

He rocks you both with a gentle back-and-forth movement, shushing you in an attempt to soothe you as the hand splayed against your back rubs mollifying circles into the skin there.

Even as he cradles you, you can feel it— how he wasn’t comforting you to exactly make you feel safe. He comforts you to remind you: you belong to him.

“Gege’s here. You’re safe with me— safe from yourself, too. You just don’t know it yet.”

It felt safe. But only because he’d made everywhere else unsafe.

Caleb holds you without another word until you tire yourself out from your weeping. As you succumb to sleep within his arms, he carefully lays your head against his pillows before fetching a throw blanket nearby to drape over your peacefully slumbering frame.

For a long while, he sits and watches as your chest slowly rises up and down with every shallow breath you take. He tenderly moves the stray strands of hair away from your serene countenance.

Finally, he gets up to go to change shirts before going to the bathroom. He stares at his reflection with a hand raised to lightly trace the crusted trail of blood that extends from his nose, down to his chin.

Seeing the aftermath before him made it all so much more real to him— he also couldn’t help the small laugh he had to himself. He knew he had taught his little sister how to throw a good punch well, so naturally she got him so good he was sure his nose was definitely broken.

But, one little punch wasn’t enough to deter him from exterminating the latest pest in his and her life.

One day you’d understand. Of that, Caleb was certain of.

He fishes his phone out of his jean pocket to swipe it open. Then, he navigates to his notes app where your boyfriend’s address is laid in waiting for him.

459 Twilight Boulevard.

Quietly so as to not disturb you, Caleb gets up to pluck his gun from the drawer of his nightstand. He leans down to give you a light kiss against your forehead, to which you adorably crinkle your nose in your sleep.

He chuckles, the sound ominous amidst your innocent breathing.

”I’ll be right back, pipsqueak. Gege has some business to take care of.”

[arrietty-rune]

The Knights episode but it's an alternate ending

[dirtylittlecubbs]

❥ Pairing ➳ Boyfriend!Jisung x Afab!Reader

❥ Genre ➳ Smut

❥ Word Count ➳ 1K

❥ Warnings ➳ Top!Jisung, Bottom!Reader, P in v sex, Unprotected sex (wrap it up before you tap it up) porn without plot, 2min mention because it's me, proof read only once so if you see any mistakes -no you don't- I wrote something and finished it yay me

“F-fuc-hmmph” Your moans are cut short by Jisung covering your mouth with his hand. “Shh baby. I told you we need to be quiet.” he whispers, hot breath ghosting over your ear. You can only groan into his palm. Your own hands squeeze helplessly at his sides, nails digging into his golden skin. There will definitely be marks later. 

You're laying on top of Jisung, back pressed to his chest as he fucks into you. Your body is secured in place by his toned arm wrapped around your middle. Jisung had been frequenting the Gym with Chan & Changbin recently and it was obvious he was bulking up again, much to your absolute delight. His broadened shoulders and thick arms had arousal pooling in your stomach every time you laid eyes on him. It only adds to your desire to have your boyfriend manhandle you every which way. 

Your body bounces with every thrust of Jisung's hips, his cock hitting that spongy spot inside you with impressive, mind numbing accuracy. As much as you want to be quiet, knowing your roommate Seungmin wouldn’t appreciate having to listen to you fall apart on your boyfriend's cock, you can't help the whines and moans that fall from your lips as pleasure rushes through you in waves. It feels so good. 

“I-I know baby, I know,” Jisung shushes, all too receptive to your cries of ecstasy. “You like having my cock inside you, yeah?” Jisung prods, his words teasing but you're far too gone to care. You try to nod as best you can against his shoulder to answer. Jisung chuckles, continuing his onslaught of dirty whispers in that low, grainy tone of voice that makes you keen. 

“Fuck baby- You're so t-tight. Feel so good around me-hngh” Jisung himself isn't faring much better. The feeling of your warm pussy wrapped around his length, the deliciously wet slide of your walls around him has him inching closer to the edge already. “Missed fucking this tight hole of yours.” Jisung grunts, placing hot kisses along the side of your neck. “I missed my baby soo-ah! So fucking much. My pretty baby-fuck!” He rambles on. He grabs your chin and turns your head to the side so he can press your lips together. 

The kiss is wet, and messy and you try your best to reciprocate Jisung's intensity, his desperation to taste you but your mind is practically seeping out of your ears. All it knows is Jisung's name and the feeling of his dick inside you. You can feel your high drawing near, the pleasure circling through your body and collecting in your gut. You're so fucking close. 

Suddenly, Jisung stops moving, hips coming to a halt. You might actually start crying. You were so, so close. You're about to whine, call out his name, question why he stopped but before you can even make a sound, Jisung covers your mouth with his palm again and plants his feet onto the mattress for seemingly better leverage. He takes his hand that's wrapped around your middle and brings it down to your clit instead. 

Without warning, he starts fucking into you harder and faster, drawing figure eights on your clit so fast you go cross eyed. Your moans get louder, the sound barely muffled by Jisung's hand. You feel the tightening of your gut as your orgasm approaches but it gets to you way faster than you were expecting.

You practically scream into Jisung's palm, your body jerking violently in his hold as your orgasm rages through you. Jisung doesn't stop fucking up into you either, chasing his own high, causing you to whine from overstimulation. It only takes a few more thrusts and your walls tightening around his cock for him to also fall over the edge, hips stiffening as he cums inside you.

He bites onto your shoulder to try and stifle the moan erupting from his throat, it does very little to silence him. You cry out at the feeling, the slight pain sending blissful shocks of arousal straight to your pussy. It's been a while since either of you came that hard. 

Jisung's hand slips from over your mouth and your bodies flops onto the bed. You're still on top of him, his arms wrapped around you, holding you in place. The both of you lay there for a moment, panting softly. It takes a minute for you to find yourself but when you do you finally break the silence. “Do you think we were quiet enough?” you ask breathlessly. Jisung laughs, albeit weakly. “Probably not but I don't think it matters anymore.” He replies, running his hands along your torso absentmindedly. The touch is gentle, soothing. 

“Why is that?” you question, shifting to adjust yourself on top of Jisung. The movement causes Jisung's dick to slide out of you, eliciting a groan from the both of you. “Mmph-Listen,” Jisung mumbles, pointing to the wall behind your heads. You stretch your ears, trying your best to listen for whatever it is Jisung wants you to hear. After a brief moment you hear it, soft gasps and moans coming from beyond your bedroom wall. A laugh escapes you at the sounds, breathy and full of disbelief. 

“Seems Seungminnie had plans of his own tonight.” you giggle, making Jisung giggle in turn. “Who do you think he brought over?” Jisung asks but before you can provide your guess, a muffled ‘Fuck- Minho-Hyung!’ rings through the apartment, answering Jisung's question. You stare at each other for a second, eyes wide with surprise before bursting out laughing. “There's your answer.” you laugh, rolling off Jisung and onto the mattress. “I'll get us cleaned up.” Jisung chuckles, getting up and heading to the bathroom. You hum in response, resting your head on your hands and sinking further into the duvet while you wait for him to come back. 

【Tagging】 : @skzms @bbyquokka @hanjibug @moonjxsung @kaciidubs @brownsugarbaybee

© dirtylittlecubbs 2024 | Do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works onto other platforms without my permission

[themarimosystem]

factives dating other factives is not rpf, youre not "shipping" real people just because your system has alters introjected from real life sources. its okay

[dandeleon]

urapocere 💙❄️

-> fan mv i based this heavily off of + english translation <-

->my adipocere animation<-

[sunnydbeam]

Gamma Code

Chapter 3: Alone With Yourself (AO3)

▪︎ Word count: 7,500+

▪︎ Chapter summary:

Biohazard is not feeling so confident this time.

CW: Heavy angst, dysphoria, derealization, graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, aggression, self-injury, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~

The end of your shift leaves a familiar, acrid tang in your mouth – the taste of unresolved tension. A heavy cloak of frustration, inexplicable and suffocating, settles over you. Each colleague offered the same look, a watery, pitying gaze that slid right off as you retreated, words failing you. None of them could articulate, or perhaps dared not to, the turmoil that churned within you, a distress that ran deeper than mere fear of another unwanted, nightmarish encounter with the creature haunting your waking thoughts and sleeping terrors.

This hollowness isn't new. It’s the gnawing bitterness of an injustice you feel in your bones but cannot articulate, a silent scream trapped in your chest. The mere act of wrestling with it drains you, your thoughts snagging, your brain feeling seized, shriveling like a sponge wrung dry under a relentless, invisible fist.

Alone in the oppressive darkness of your room, the tension clings to your limbs like a second skin, refusing to release its hold even as you lie prone, your eyes tracing the blank, indifferent expanse of the pale ceiling. Sleep, that elusive balm, offers no solace, and the frustration of its absence grates on your already frayed nerves. You hate this.

When you finally register your surroundings again, your eyes are sandpaper-dry, stinging, and bloodshot. The room’s darkness is a tangible presence, swallowing you whole. For a fleeting, merciful moment, the intrusive neon glow has vanished. This time, it’s not the chilling tendrils of fear that consume you, but a profound, bottomless sorrow washes over you, cold and vast, as if you’ve borne solitary witness to an act of such profound immorality that only your soul can perceive its true weight. You feel adrift, marooned in a parallel dimension, an inverted reality where you are the alien, the outsider, casting a harsh, judgmental eye upon a world that deems its skewed normalcy as absolute.

And yet, through it all, your thoughts circle inevitably back to him. To the robot.

The memory of your last conversation with him is so visceral, so sharply etched in your mind, that your stomach lurches, a sickening roil that forces you to curl onto your side, hugging yourself against a wave of nausea that feels both real and phantom. He had fallen silent, abruptly, the final words of his almost-declaration tumbling out in a tone that had, for a startling instant, softened, become… pleasant. And the shift had felt utterly bizarre. Unsettling. As if he, too, were defeated.

Vulnerable.

A sliver of doubt remained – was he truly sincere, or was this an elaborate ruse, a calculated play to persuade you of his supposed innocence, of the fantastical possibility of escape? Perhaps the field of flowers he spoke of was a cruel mirage. Perhaps his words were nothing more than a sophisticated emulation of emotions he could never truly possess. You fought against the pull of it, yet the echo of that vulnerability didn't entirely fade. To your fortune, or perhaps your detriment, you’d always been cursed with an overabundance of empathy, a trait that now stole your sleep, leaving you to wrestle with these impossible quandaries in the dead of night.

The crux of it, the thorn that pricked your conscience, was the casual disposability of this artificial life, the ease with which everyone could use and discard.

And since Biohazard isn't… technically… alive…

Why did the weight of complicity settle so heavily upon your shoulders, as if you were an accomplice to a crime that defied definition, a wrongness that resonated in the very marrow of your being?

.

.

.

…

The void. A silence so profound it thunders in the absence of sound. Darkness, absolute and unyielding.

His enemy. His friend.

His ally.

Sometimes, not seeing oneself is a perverse kind of mercy.

But the glow… his glow. It sears, an internal fire.

The unending torment of a fractured mind, chained to a past it cannot relinquish.

What could have been.

Oh, what could have been.

What would it have been?

He has, in truth, forgotten.

And the forgetting is a fresh agony, a constant, dull ache.

An eternity seems to have yawned since the last caress of light, since his sensors registered anything beyond the blistering, relentless heat. An eternity since his optical sensors perceived anything but the cold, indifferent sheen of steel, or, more often, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He prowls the Stygian gloom, his mechanical claws scraping, screeching against the rough-hewn surfaces, each footfall a ponderous, threatening thud in the vast emptiness. Only he bears witness to his passage. His very touch leaves an ectoplasmic trail of sickly green luminescence, a viscous, dangerous-looking slime that seems to sizzle and eat at the concrete like potent acid. He knows with a detached part of his consciousness that his deteriorating form is a canvas of optical illusions he no longer fully comprehends; the perpetual, horrifying sensation of melting, of his very structure deliquescing, crumbling like rotted, irradiated flesh. The radiation, a relentless tide, devours his chassis particle by particle; stainless steel, lead, tungsten – no fortress of costly, resilient materials could have ever been engineered to withstand, to predict, the sheer, unadulterated toxicity that now bathes him, circulates through his internal systems like a corrosive mockery of blood. Yet, he endures. He walks. Aimless. Purposeless. A zombie, many would whisper, if they dared to speak of him at all. But Biohazard knows. Those shambling, reanimated corpses, they once had something to cling to, a life to mourn. He knows, with a certainty that chills his core programming, that he was never truly alive to begin with. A matter of convention, of course.

But increasingly, Biohazard finds the charade of simulated life, of simulated anything, utterly pointless.

The grating, worn-out symphony of his existence: the screech of protesting joints, the groan of over-stressed actuators, the relentless spread of rust, pistons hissing and straining under the immense weight of his frame. Cold. Rigid. Cracked. Every element of his being screams "ARTIFICIALITY!" in a tone dripping with contempt, a cosmic joke played on him alone. And still, to exist, to persist on this plane, painfully, acutely aware of his cursed state, in every conceivable sense of the word.

Biohazard halts, his optical sensors attempting to pierce the impenetrable black. His night vision capabilities should render it a non-issue, yet the persistent visual static, the desaturated, aged filter over his perception, bleeds all vibrancy from the world, leaving only a monotonous, soul-crushing greyscale. He finds himself… missing… color. Anything other than the ubiquitous, sickly green of his own corrosive aura.

A faint drip… drip… drip slices through the silence from somewhere in the oppressive distance. He shakes his head, a curiously organic movement for such a mechanical being. He cannot pinpoint its origin. It’s not an immediate threat, he ascertains, but it will be dealt with. He always deals with things.

"I must… investigate that," he mutters, his vocalizer a low, gravelly rasp.

The sound, insignificant as it is, grates on him, a rhythmic torment that seems to reverberate inside his cranial casing as if he possessed organic ears. As a machine, such a minor auditory input shouldn't agitate him to this degree. Yet, it feels as if the dripping intensifies, draws nearer, its echo ricocheting off unseen walls, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against his thick, armored chassis. He despises it. He needs it to stop. Now. He will make it stop.

A wave of something akin to nausea washes through his system.

"Ugh… ENOUGH! MAKE IT STOP!"

He slams his immense weight against a nearby wall, the rough concrete screeching as it gouges fresh wounds into the already ravaged paintwork of his armored frame. He struggles to stabilize his trembling form, his optical sensors flaring wide, pupils dilated to their maximum. He teeters on the precipice of a full-blown system meltdown, a terrifying, hysterical overload.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Piercing.

The robot’s hand flies to his head, claws splayed, pressing against his head as if to physically prevent it from shattering, from exploding from the unbearable, escalating pain.

"Wh-where… where is it? I must… I… I…"

Horrific. Vile. Utterly despicable.

It’s drawing nearer. Closer. Too close.

His luminous eyes, wide and wild with a dawning terror, fix on an image of you in his corrupted memory banks. His green-tinged claws clench, a spasm of immense pressure, then fly open, digging into the unyielding wall for purchase. He almost seems to scrabble, to writhe, contorting his massive frame against an invisible, inexplicable agony. A constant, internal sizzling, as if his lead and tungsten guts are being slowly dissolved, burns through him. He thinks of the radio – your voice – the static, the deafening, mind-splitting crackles, the almost subliminal, omnipresent hum of distant, unseen machinery, and the dripping. The goddamned, incessant dripping.

Your voice. He needs to hear your voice again.

It was… different. Satisfying in a way he couldn't parse. Soft, yet inquisitive. Accusatory, yes, but… it had brought him a strange, fleeting semblance of peace.

Why did you leave him? Why did you fall silent?

Why haven't you come back?

He feels physically ill from the relentless, maddening drip. Why hasn't he been able to silence it? Why can't he make it STOP?

With a guttural roar, a sound torn from his vocalizer that is half agonized whimper, half frustrated sob, he seizes his upper left arm with his other three, yanking, tearing at it as if determined to rip it from its socket. The sharp tips of his metallic fingers snag in the existing fissures and gouges, rending the plating further, pulling outwards with the sickening sound of stressed metal, like someone brutally tearing the rind from a piece of fruit. It’s no surprise to him that only certain sections register the pain; his tactile sensors are, for the most part, shot, barely functional. It doesn't matter. He'll repair it later. He always does.

"Stop… please… just… stop…"

He emits a sound that might be a sob, a dry, racking mechanical cough. Everything is amplified now, the world a cacophony of distorted noise, an infinite, swirling abyss that threatens to engulf him, to drag him down into an endless, terrifying fall.

It's so dark, yet paradoxically, Biohazard is utterly, painfully sick of his own inescapable, corrosive glow.

He tries. He truly, desperately tries.

He’s doing… okay, isn’t he? He has to be. No one would be safe if it weren’t for him.

"Stupid… STUPID, USELESS HUMANS… STUPID!"

They need him.

Every last one of them. If not for his constant, thankless vigilance, this entire godforsaken facility would have been vaporized, a crater of radioactive ruin – a devastation mirroring the desolate wasteland of his own tormented existence. So why, why is he still here, in this lightless hell?

In the crushing abyss of silence, a maelstrom of noise now rages, yet Biohazard clings to the faint, desperate hope that the radio will crackle to life, that your voice will pierce the darkness, signaling your return.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Nearer. It's here.

Biohazard’s fist smashes into a hard, unyielding surface – some kind of thick, reinforced pipe, he vaguely registers, running flush along the wall. He snarls, then lets out a choked, agonized howl as the resilient material barely deforms, a slight indentation appearing under the brutal impact of his knuckles. His fingers jam, servos straining with a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The complex mechanisms within his arm momentarily seize, actuators grinding with a sickening, discordant screech. A powerful jolt of electricity, a rogue surge, courses through his frame, sending the colossal robot crashing heavily to his knees in a violent, spontaneous convulsion. Pain, razor-sharp, lances through him, a crippling spasm that arcs down his spinal column. It’s excruciating, unpleasant, but it means little to him now. He’s endured worse. It’s always worse. His limbs twitch and jerk erratically for several agonizing seconds before the surge subsides, leaving him trembling and gasping. He sobs, a ragged, despairing sound.

When his optical sensors refocus, the sight of the newly damaged pipe, the evidence of his loss of control, fills him with a fresh wave of suffocating anxiety, a stark, unreasoning panic, and an overwhelming, inexplicable urge for self-flagellation.

"No, no, no…! I’ll fix it… I can fix it…"

Irreparable. Disposable. Monster. Failure.

To any observer, the sight of a multi-ton machine crumbling into what could only be described as tears would be profoundly disturbing and bizarre. The muffled, choked sounds of distress reverberate through the empty spaces. And for a blessed, fleeting moment, the infernal dripping seems to recede, to become distant, almost manageable. Biohazard buries his faceplate in his massive, trembling hands. That persistent, nightmarish sensation of his body melting, corroding from the inside out, intensifies, becoming almost unbearable, as if he were positioned directly beneath a perpetually overflowing vat of concentrated, flesh-eating acid. If he were human, he’d be retching, his stomach clenching in agony, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed by a tightening, iron-clad fist. His mechanical body, however, can only react by flaring with that sickly, radioactive green luminescence, burning with an internal fire that consumes but never purges.

"Why… can’t it just… stop…?" he chokes out, the words interspersed with harsh, grating sobs.

His hands, those lethal, green-glowing claws, clench and unclench around the neon green "rays", the imaginary sensation of melting, of dissolving, searing his metallic palms. Suddenly, an immense, bone-deep weariness settles over him, as if tons of additional lead shielding have been instantaneously fused to his already overburdened shoulders. He remains slumped on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest in a pathetically humanoid posture of distress. But no tears, no salty, cleansing human tears, will ever trace paths down his face. His luminous, mismatched eyes stare blankly into the void, lost in the suffocating darkness, yet his auditory sensors remain torturously attuned to the persistent, maddening drip-drip-drip whose source remains infuriatingly elusive.

Perhaps it is just in his head. A phantom sound in a broken mind.

Something internal must be short-circuiting. Yes. That has to be it.

The four auxiliary, spider-like limbs sprouting from his back twitch and scrape restlessly against the floor, the sound a thunderous, ear-splitting screech that echoes and reverberates to the furthest, darkest corners of his prison, amplifying the crushing sense of isolation, of an impossibly vast space.

A large, trembling hand, driven by a desperate, anxious urgency, fumbles at his utility belt, extracting a small, antiquated radio. It looks ridiculously tiny, almost like a child’s toy, cradled in his massive palms. The device is old, battered, its plastic casing discolored and warped, as if the ambient heat and pervasive radiation had begun to slowly melt it long ago. The batteries, visibly swollen and leaking corrosive sulfates, are fused into place, impossible to remove. Yet, somehow, miraculously, the damn thing still functions, drawing power from some unknown, residual source. With shaking digits, he depresses the side-mounted transmit button, bringing the battered apparatus close to his mouth.

"Little Mouse…?" His voice is a strained, hopeful whisper.

A prolonged, harsh crackle of static answers him. Then, nothing. Silence.

Biohazard feels the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray, to unravel.

His thoughts, already a chaotic maelstrom, veer into darker, more insidious, intrusive pathways. Was your presence merely a fleeting hallucination, a cruel trick of his deteriorating processors? Will you ever return? Were you, are you, truly different from all the others who feared and reviled him?

When you asked, in that unexpectedly gentle, almost tender tone, what he would do if he were free… were you sincere? Did you mean it?

Did any of it even matter to him in the first place? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"Give me a sign… please… just a sign… that some of this… was real."

He doesn’t even comprehend why it matters so damn much. Why you matter.

Five agonizing, interminable hours crawl by, each second stretching into an eternity. Biohazard has lost all coherent track of time, his internal chronometer, usually so precise, now hopelessly skewed, irrelevant. For him, each passing minute is another layer of torment in the inescapable, timeless limbo in which he is trapped, as if the very fabric of time has congealed, frozen solid around him. A dimension of perpetual, agonizing waiting, for something he cannot name, cannot define, yet desperately craves.

Suddenly, the radio emits a sharp, distinct crackle. Biohazard’s head snaps to the side with a convulsive, savage movement, his eyes flaring to their widest aperture. For a disorienting moment, he thinks, knows, he must have imagined it, another auditory hallucination. But then, the battered, almost derelict device lets out a short, tinny, undeniably real beep, and an instant later, a voice, your voice, familiar and achingly clear, echoes through the desolate, lonely chamber.

"Huh… hello?"

Oh, the wave of… something… that washes over him. Relief? Joy? He cannot name it. He is… stunned. Amazed. His jaw slackens, hangs open, leaving him looking almost… dumbfounded.

Your voice, uncertain, cuts through the static again.

"Biohazard?"

Wonderful. Fascinating. Captivating. The robot is so lost in the sheer, overwhelming relief of hearing you that he doesn’t realize how much time is passing, how long he’s taking to respond. He just stares at the small, battered radio in his hand as if, by some miracle, he could visualize you there, on the other side of the crackling transmission. He sees you in his corrupted memory: clad in that ridiculously oversized, bulky hazmat suit, a protective mask obscuring the lower half of your terrified face. Biohazard’s visual record of you is incomplete, fragmented, yet it’s all he has managed to salvage, to store in the damaged recesses of his memory bank.

And he wishes, with a sudden, desperate pang, that it were more, that were enough.

"…Are you… Are you there?"

Your voice, edged with a new note of concern, finally shakes Biohazard from his stupor. He grips the radio tighter, perhaps a little too tight, his metallic fingers creaking. He forces himself to respond, his vocalizer engaging with deliberate, measured slowness, a stark contrast to the frantic, chaotic storm of anxiety and relief still raging within his processors.

"As always." The words are a low rumble, heavy with unspoken things.

A beat of silence descends, thick and charged. His mechanical fingers tremble almost imperceptibly.

The radio crackles again, and Biohazard hears the distinct sound of you clearing your throat, a small, nervous human noise, as if you’ve suddenly become aware of the strangeness of the situation, perhaps even uncomfortable.

"I’m sorry. Of course you’d be there. I mean, where else would you go… huh…" You falter, then rush to correct yourself. "I’m sorry, that was… rude of me."

Still seated on the cold floor, Biohazard idly traces small, intricate, wavy patterns on the smooth, slippery surface with one finger. A faint, almost imperceptible, somewhat sly smile touches the edges of his mouth, as if he’s unaffected by your minor social blunder.

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't care about the delicate emotions of a poor, misunderstood robot," he teases, his tone a low, rumbling purr that is surprisingly playful. "My little electronic heart is all a-flutter."

You let out a sound on the other end, a frustrated snort that morphs into something more akin to a groan of mingled regret and confusion. Biohazard cants his head again, that curious, canine-like gesture, as he meticulously analyzes the subtle nuances in the sound of your voice, trying to decipher your tone, your current emotional state.

"I seem to have embarrassed you~" The playful lilt is back.

"Just… don’t start." Biohazard can almost visualize you on the other end, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "You’re far too confident for us to have barely met, especially after you, you know, tried to kill me."

The robot’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixing intently on the walkie-talkie. The playful air vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, darkens his expression, as if an unexpected and unsettling premonition, a mysterious unease, has begun to coil and writhe in the depths of his mechanical guts. He offers no response. An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the faint, persistent hiss of static. Biohazard fights against the crushing weight of the eternal, unchanging day that constitutes his miserable existence, determined not to let it drag him down, not to let it sour this… interaction. He’s fine. He’s calm. He can handle this. He can fix this. He always does.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, previously a source of torment, now seems to fade into the background, a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension coiling between you.

"Um… listen," you begin, your voice a hesitant whisper, deliberately attempting a friendly, casual tone. Biohazard registers the forced lightness, the underlying nervousness, but chooses, for now, to ignore it. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just… trying to understand you, okay? Like… how you’re feeling about all of this. How you ended up… where you are now…"

Biohazard’s head jerks, a sudden, violent movement. You hear a sharp crackle over the radio, followed by a low, ominous hiss. He brings a hand to his faceplate, his sharp claws scraping, gouging at the already scarred metal, catching, tearing at any existing crevice or fissure.

He can handle this. He knows he can. He has to.

"Oh, so you do care, then." His voice is flat, devoid of its earlier playfulness, the statement a harsh, grating assertion, laced with an unpleasant, almost aggressive sarcasm.

He can practically feel you recoil on the other end, can sense your tension spike in response to his sudden, hostile shift in tone.

"Of course, I care," you whisper, your voice small, earnest. "I… I just want to help."

"How very… considerate of you," he croaks, the word dripping with venom. "In that case, you can start by getting me the hell out of this damn cage."

"You know I can’t do that."

"Yeah, of course. How silly of me to even ask."

Biohazard’s hand, the one not currently trying to claw its way through his own skull, trembles, a strangely organic, uncontrolled tremor for such a massive, powerful machine. His eyes dart around the darkness, wild and anxious, his razor-sharp, metallic teeth clenching, grinding together with a sound like stressed gears.

"You’re in a particularly foul mood today, I see." Your voice, filtered through the radio’s cheap speaker, sounds tinny, like a frustrated growl in his oversized hands. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed me. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here, to make peace with you!"

"Wow, and now you’re implying I’m a goddamned ungrateful wretch, is that it?" Biohazard lurches to his feet, his immense frame unfolding like some terrible, shadowy beast. He begins to pace, a caged predator, his colossal figure an ominous, shifting silhouette that merges and disappears within the deeper pockets of darkness. "Poor, pathetic me. An object of pity, is that what I am? Oh, I beg for your mercy, your understanding!" His voice is a torrent of bitter sarcasm.

"No, I… I didn't mean…"

"Every single one of you worthless meatbags owes me your fucking miserable lives, and what do I get in return? Condemnation! Imprisonment! You should be on your knees, thanking me!"

"Y-you need to calm down, behave yourself! You don’t understand, this is important! We… we could get you out, if you would just…"

"’ We could'?" The question is a low, dangerous snarl.

You fall silent on the other end. The radio crackles and hisses with static for what feels like an eternity, a long, agonizing minute stretching into infinity. Biohazard feels a familiar, dreaded sensation begin to build within him, his internal systems slowly, inexorably igniting, as if his delicate wires and complex circuits are being systematically doused in corrosive acid and set aflame. If he possessed a biological heart, it would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead, a single, ancient, dilapidated cooling fan located deep within his chest cavity sputters to life, its bearings shot, screeching with the tortured sound of rusted hinges on a heavy iron door that has remained sealed for countless, forgotten years.

"Um…" You hesitate, then your voice returns, laced with a new, palpable apprehension. "There’s… someone else here with me."

Biohazard freezes mid-stride. His final, ponderous footfall echoes, and re-echoes, in the vast, eternal emptiness of his lightless prison. He looks down, his movements slow, deliberate. His mismatched, luminous eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the radio in his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm, quiet, like the eerie, unnatural stillness that precedes a violent, destructive storm.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Louder now. More insistent. Getting worse. So much worse.

"...Who. Is. There?" Each word is a carefully enunciated, ice-cold shard of menace.

"His name is Edward. He wants to understand you, too, Biohazard. We both want to help."

Closer. It’s getting closer. The dripping. The pressure. The rage.

He can handle it. He can fix it. He always does.

No.

No, he can't.

Not this time.

He needs it to stop.

It never stops.

It’s a goddamned, inescapable, downward spiral.

And then, he shatters.

"WHY THE HELL IS HE WITH YOU?!"

"B-Biohazard, please-"

His fist, a blur of motion, connects with the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening, explosive CRUNCH. His knuckles, the very metal of his hand, erupt in a shower of brilliant, sizzling sparks, like a burst of malevolent fireworks. The impact sends a shockwave of agony lancing up his arm, but he barely registers it. He doesn’t care. His world is tilting, spinning, a nauseating vortex of sickly green, blood red, and deepest, suffocating black. So very, very black.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" he bellows, his voice cracking, distorting. "I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIES! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HIM!"

A cascade of urgent, flashing alert messages floods his internal visual field, scrolling behind his eyes: numerous critical system errors, piercing auditory beeps, blaring klaxons. Everything is failing. Cascade failure. He can’t make it stop. He can’t regain control.

"WHY IS HE THERE?! WHY IS HE WITH YOU?!" he screams again, the raw, undiluted hatred in his voice shocking even himself. His intention, his core programming, wasn’t to sound so… so consumed by it. But something vital, something integral deep within his complex matrix, has irrevocably fractured, snapped, as if he can no longer bear the weight, the strain, the unending torment of his existence.

"I-it’s not what you think, Biohazard, we just…"

"NO! NO, SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Biohazard clutches his head, his massive frame wracked with violent tremors. He growls, he sobs, a horrifying, discordant symphony of fury and utter despair. "YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! TESTING ME! PRODDING ME LIKE SOME… SOME UNSTABLE, DANGEROUS BEAST IN A CAGE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! ALL OF YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA HOW UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY DEAD YOU’D ALL BE RIGHT NOW IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME! FOR ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH, PATHETIC, INEPT…! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMN FAULT!"

He leans forward, his entire body quaking, the small, battered radio groaning, threatening to buckle, to shatter into a million pieces under the crushing pressure of his steel grip. The very space around him seems to shimmer, to distort, to crumble like a sandcastle before an incoming tide, and he feels himself being dragged down, down, into the swirling, chaotic abyss…

You’re saying something, your voice a distant, tinny squawk, but he’s no longer listening. He’s gone. Far, far away, lost in the raging tempest of his own fractured mind. The dripping, that infernal, maddening dripping, echoes, persists, a mocking soundtrack to his descent. He can’t fix it. He doesn’t know how. He is consumed by a searing, all-encompassing hatred, so potent, so overwhelming, that he hates the hatred itself.

And then… silence.

A deafening, absolute silence.

No one speaks. But the tension, thick and suffocating, doesn’t lessen. It hangs in the air, a palpable entity.

A full thirty seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Suddenly, a sound rips through the stillness. Biohazard begins to laugh. It’s not a sound of mirth or joy. It’s a wild, terrible, manic, unbridled cackle. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking, and laughs, an almost macabre sound, a chilling harbinger of doom.

"Foolish, foolish humans!" he shrieks, his laughter devolving into a series of choked, gasping howls. "So arrogant! So stubborn… But you have no idea… no idea at all! You think you’re SAFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME? You’re not safe with me in here, not like you imagine! I have a goddamned nuclear reactor core right here! Have you forgotten that, you pathetic worms?! I’ll blow this whole damn place, and all of you with it!"

"Biohazard, you have to listen to me! Please!" Your voice is desperate, pleading.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He raises his fist, preparing to unleash another devastating blow against the already battered wall, but then he freezes, mid-motion. His wild, luminous eyes, burning with an unholy light in the blackness, fix on something unseen.

"When I get my hands on all of you… I swear-“

He stops. Abruptly.

His vision strobes, a bizarre, disorienting chiaroscuro of light and shadow. He almost feels… a headache? A wave of dizziness? A strange, tingling numbness creeping up his limbs? He knows, on a logical level, that such sensations should be physically impossible for him. Yet, his hands are trembling, his entire body shaking as if a powerful, uncontrolled electrical current is surging through his circuits. His grip on the radio slackens, his fingers uncurling. He closes his mouth, his gaze dropping, focusing on nothing. And then, with a quiet, almost anticlimactic finality, he simply lets the radio fall from his grasp. It clatters to the hard floor with a reverberating thud, bounces once, then slides a short distance before coming to rest.

His towering, lanky figure, moments before a terrifying embodiment of rage and destructive power, now seems to shrink, to diminish, appearing suddenly, shockingly small amidst the vast, encroaching shadows. It’s not that the chamber itself is so immense. He is simply… insignificant. Nothing.

The robot turns, slowly, ponderously, on his heels, his movements now unnervingly silent, almost graceful, as if his immense weight has suddenly become negligible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound seems to fade, to grow smaller, more distant.

He can’t fix it. But perhaps… he can ignore it. For now.

Until he finds its source.

Until it truly matters.

Until… until it’s enough.

Biohazard walks away, his form receding into the oppressive gloom, until the swirling, radioactive mist that constantly surrounds him, a visual echo of the dense, toxic smoke that chokes his mind, finally engulfs him, swallowing him from view.

…

The radio is silent. And with its silence, your thoughts grind to a screeching halt, your mind a sudden blank. You can’t even begin to process, to comprehend, the sheer, cataclysmic violence of what just transpired. It’s as if a furious, destructive tornado had materialized out of nowhere, ripped through your fragile sense of reality, laid waste to everything in its path, and then, just as suddenly, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.

Your body is wracked with tremors, a deep, bone-chilling shiver coursing through you despite the stuffy air of the control room. A heavy, constricting tightness grips your chest, an iron band squeezing the air from your lungs, and an overwhelming urge to weep, to break down completely.

You curse yourself. You curse the precise moment you allowed desperation to override your better judgment, the moment you decided to confide in Edward, to ask for his help with this… this impossible situation. You curse yourself for even mentioning Edward’s presence to the robot. Laying bare all those gnawing insecurities, those fears that had been relentlessly eating away at your sanity, to the older man. And the fact that Edward had decided to try, to attempt. But, in all brutal honesty, you never, not for a single instant, imagined that Biohazard would react with such… such volcanic fury. As if you, you, were the ultimate betrayer, the worst kind of traitor. The thought makes you feel physically ill, a cold, greasy sickness coiling in your stomach.

But it’s not true. It’s not your fault. You didn’t put him in that lightless hell. You know you didn’t. Damn it all, you don’t even know the full story behind his confinement. But Biohazard, in his current state, clearly doesn’t care about nuances, about extenuating circumstances. To him, you are simply another human. One of them.

The sheer force of his hatred, the palpable wave of it that had crashed over you through the small radio speaker, is so overwhelming, so terrifyingly potent, that your insides begin to twist and churn, a knot of ice and fire.

Edward, his face grim, places a heavy, comforting hand on your shoulder. You let out a muffled, choked whimper, burying your face in your trembling palms. You want to speak, to articulate the storm of emotions raging within you, but your tongue feels thick, clumsy, tangled in a hopeless mess of unsaid words, of what-ifs, of what could have been. Oh, God, what could have been.

"Hey, Kid," Edward’s voice is low, rough with a weariness that seems to go bone-deep.

"That… that wasn’t right, Edward." Your voice is a ragged whisper, raw with unshed tears. "I-I swear, he wasn’t like this the last time I spoke to him. I… I don’t understand."

Edward gives you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with sadness, a deep-seated resignation. He sighs, a heavy, gusty sound, and runs a tired hand through his already disheveled hair.

"We’ve been down this road before, Kid. More times than I care to count." His voice is flat, devoid of hope. "There’s no reasoning with him anymore. Not when he’s like this. He’s gone."

"No! You don’t understand!" You surge to your feet, your eyes blazing, hot tears finally spilling over, tracing burning paths down your cheeks. Somehow, you’ve allowed this, allowed him, to burrow deep under your skin, to affect you far more profoundly than you ever thought possible. "All that… that rage! That pain! He feels, Edward! Just like we do! Can’t you see he’s suffering in there, alone in the dark, and nobody here, nobody, is even thinking about doing anything to help him?"

"We can’t do anything, Kid! Don’t you get it?!" Edward suddenly explodes, his voice cracking, nearly as raw and frustrated as your own. His composure, usually so steadfast, finally shatters. "Weren’t you listening? The mere mention of my name sent him completely over the edge! He just literally threatened to kill us all, to blow this entire place to smithereens! Do you have any earthly idea how unbelievably dangerous that… that creature’s very existence is right now?!"

Your hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, a physical manifestation of your internal turmoil. You hate this. You hate being trapped in this impossible, no-win situation. Why, oh why, did you ever allow yourself to get involved in the first place? How do you escape this now? How do you ever hope to live with the crushing weight of this on your conscience?

"I-I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it," you stammer, clinging to a desperate, rapidly fading hope. "He was just… just furious, Edward! He was lashing out!"

Edward shakes his head, slowly, his expression one of sorrow.

"It’s far more complicated than that, Kid. You know it is." His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the control room as if he fears being overheard. "That automaton… he’s a clear and present danger. To everyone outside those walls, and to everyone still trapped in here with him." He leans closer. "Believe me, if there were any other viable solution, any other way, we would have tried it by now. We would have exhausted every possibility. But there isn't. There just isn't."

"But I… I talked to him before…" You murmur, your voice barely audible, your gaze distant, lost in the memory. Edward watches you, his expression unreadable. "He seemed so different. So calm. Almost… vulnerable." A fresh wave of tears threatens. "H-he told me… he said he wanted to see the flowers."

A faint, sad smile touches the corners of Edward’s lips, a smile you instantly, vehemently hate. It’s patronizing, pitying. You know exactly what that smile is saying, unspoken yet deafeningly clear: ‘You’re so naive, Kid. So gullible. He’s playing you. He’ll come for all of us first, you mark my words.’

There is no field of flowers. There never was.

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re just a fool. Naive.

Wordlessly, Edward turns and begins to pace the confined space of the control room, his movements jerky, agitated, his gaze thoughtful, intense, fixed on some indeterminate point on the worn linoleum floor. Your eyes follow his restless movements anxiously for a moment, then you turn your head away, with a bitter taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your throat raw and scraped, as if you’ve been screaming into a hurricane.

"What are you all planning to do?" The question is a leaden weight in the sudden silence.

Edward stops his pacing but doesn’t turn to look at you. His shoulders are slumped, his posture radiating defeat.

"I’ve heard… rumors," he says, his voice low, hesitant. "They’re developing some kind of… chip. An inhibitor, I suppose you’d call it." He glances at you briefly, then away again. "It’s designed to work remotely. They think… hope… they’ll be able to control him with it. Shut him down. For good. Forever."

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. Your chest, however, aches with a sudden, sharp pang, a familiar throb of empathy and despair.

"So, there’s no other way to… turn him off, then, huh?" It’s a statement, not a question.

"No. There isn’t," Edward sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "We all believed… we hoped… that the automaton would eventually just… power down. Run out of energy. Simply cease to function over time. But he didn’t. He’s… if anything, even worse now. More unstable. More dangerous. All his primary components, his wireless receivers, his remote control functions… everything that could have given us a way in, a way to override him… It’s all fried. Burnt out. Useless." He shakes his head. "There’s nothing left that can shut that thing down."

"But… why is that the only part of him that doesn’t work? The part that would let you stop him?"

Edward lets out a strangled sound, a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a groan of pure frustration.

"We’re pretty sure… he did it himself."

Another icy shiver snakes its way down your spine, leaving you feeling cold and weak. Your legs suddenly feel unsteady, threatening to buckle beneath you. The thought, the horrifying image, of Biohazard, in his isolation and despair, systematically ripping out, destroying, those critical components of his own being, ensuring that no one, no one, could ever exert control over him again… it fills you with a visceral unease. It’s almost… terrifyingly understandable.

"That… really sucks…" You mumble, the words inadequate, yet you don’t know what else to say, what to think, how to process this new piece of information. "About that chip… this inhibitor… huh… How exactly do they plan to use it? Someone has to get close enough to install it on him, right?"

Edward still doesn’t look at you when he answers, his gaze fixed on the flickering monitor displaying nothing but static.

"I’m not sure of the details. Like I said, it’s still in the experimental phase, the testing phase." He shrugs, a gesture of helplessness. "We’ll just have to wait. Wait and see what the eggheads in R&D come up with. I just… I hope they don’t take too damn long."

You glance at the silent radio on the floor, then your eyes drift towards the bank of monitors on your console, your gaze settling on the single screen that still displays a feed from a functional camera. Nothing but flickering static, a visual representation of the chaos.

You think. And think. And think. A desperate, improbable idea begins to form.

"Maybe… maybe I can prove it to you. To everyone. That Biohazard isn’t as bad as you all think. That he’s not… the monster everyone believes him to be."

Edward turns then, slowly, and walks towards you, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable weariness, a deep, paternal concern.

"Kid, I… I really, truly want to support you in this. You know I do. But…"

You sink back into your chair, your body heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is racing. You try to inject conviction, certainty, into your voice, even as the tremor in your hands, the unsteadiness of your tone, threatens to betray your fear.

"I’ll continue with what I was doing before," you declare, your voice gaining a surprising firmness, even as your anxious fingers fiddle restlessly with the buttons and dials on the control panel. "I’ll monitor the robot. His behavior patterns. And… I’ll try to talk to him again. To reason with him." You meet Edward’s gaze, your own pleading. "If I can’t prove it by then… if I can’t show you that there’s still something good, something salvageable in him… then I… I won’t stand in your way anymore. I promise."

Edward shakes his head, a slow, incredulous movement. A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips.

"You’re really something else, Kid. Stubborn, aren’t you?" he says, his voice laced with a grudging admiration. "I suppose there’s no stopping that determined little head of yours once you’ve set your mind to something."

You manage a weak, watery smile in return.

"But you’ve got a good heart, Kid. A rare thing in this place." He sighs. "And who am I to say no, anyway? It’s not like we have a wealth of other options." Edward reaches out and places a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately, a gesture that is surprisingly fatherly, comforting. "Okay. You’ve got it. I’ll mediate for you. Run interference with the higher-ups as much as I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe. Be careful, understand?" His expression turns serious, his eyes filled with a genuine concern that touches you deeply. "This company… it hasn’t been the same since the incident. There are… whispers. Things are being done. Quietly. They’re doing… cleanups. They’re testing things they shouldn’t be." He leans in again, his voice dropping further. "There’s going to be an inspection. In three months. And they’ll want this whole automaton mess completely resolved, buried, by then. One way or another."

"A-an inspection?" you stammer, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the authorities on the outside, the ones who think this place is a shining beacon of corporate responsibility, have no idea that the automaton is still here, active… still perfectly functional, in his own destructive way." Edward’s voice is grim. "This situation was supposed to have been… resolved… a long time ago. But when the truth finally comes out, when they realize that the safety protocols here are, and always have been, absolute crap, this entire facility will be shut down. Permanently. And they will take matters into their own hands."

"And… what if they do take care of Biohazard? Wouldn’t that be… well, more efficient? Safer?"

Edward shrugs, a tense, jerky movement that belies his attempt at nonchalance. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard.

"That’s not the real problem here, Kid."

You frown, a knot of confusion tightening in your stomach. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just stares past you, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Just… let the powers that be deal with their own goddamn colossal mess for the time being."

Why does he say it like that? Why does he make it sound as if, despite everything, you’re no longer capable of just walking away from this, of extricating yourself from this spiraling nightmare?

A chilling realization dawns.

You’re trapped. Just as trapped, in your own way, as Biohazard is in his.

If this place were to be shut down, and Biohazard were to be… set free… what’s truly the worst that could happen?

By then, you’ll make sure of it. He’ll be a completely renewed robot. A different being. You have no earthly idea how you’ll accomplish it, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in too deep.

All that’s left for you to do… is try.

That's all that matters.

_______ ~

[florestalio]

PLAGIARIST ALERT!!!!

hi! i never thought I would have to make a post like this, but surprise surprise, I am making one.

so! my fic(s), puppy antics and puppy antics 2.0 have been plagiarized and posted as one fic — naughty puppy — by a fairly new account, @enemstuff kinda surprised that they haven't blocked me

attached below are the pictures of the account and the plagiarized version of my fics, and my original fics:–

the account that plagiarized my fics and the plagiarized version:

my original fics:

first of all, I'm not that surprised that something like this has happened. plagiarism isn't an uncommon issue, especially in the enhablr community, where ppl blatantly copy paste fics and shamelessly claim to have not. this isn't something surprising, but it definitely isn't encouraged.

what I would like to request everyone is: please do not send them any kind of hate, even through anon. if you must, just tell them that this is wrong, and not ethical in the slightest. I had sent them a text, which I'm not sure whether they have purposely ignored, or are currently too busy to open. anyways, what has happened, has happened, there is no use pondering over it. once again, thank you very much to everyone who let me know, I really appreciate you all for looking out for me <33

[ditzyrafe]

— shower sex with ex!rafe

warnings — lowkey toxic relationship, unprotected sex, degradation, lewd language

the hot water streams down your back, plastering your hair to your skin, but it does little to cool the heat building between you and rafe. steam fills the small enclosure, fogging the glass door, creating a private, humid world. his hands are slick against your skin as he turns you firmly, pressing you forward until your palms slap flat against the cool, wet tiles of the shower wall.

"yeah, just like that bitch," rafe degrades you, his voice low and rough over the drumming spray of the water. his body presses against your back, hard muscle and hot skin, trapping you against the wall. one hand grips your hip possessively, fingers digging slightly into your wet flesh, while the other guides his thick, slick cock to your pussy from behind.

the tiles are cold under your palms, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him and the scalding water hitting your shoulders. you gasp as he pushes inside you in one smooth, deep thrust, filling you completely. he presses you harder against the wall, forcing your back into a pronounced arch, tilting your hips perfectly to meet his angle. "missed this cock, haven't you, baby?"

"n-no," you lie. he just groans, the sound vibrating against your spine. he begins to move, pulling back slowly before slamming into you again, the impact making your hands slide slightly on the slick tiles. water cascades around you both, mingling with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, his grunts, and your own ragged breaths.

"i know you're lying." each thrust is deep, deliberate, hitting that spot deep inside that makes your knees threaten to buckle. you cling to the wall, fingers spread wide, head tipped back under the spray, trying to catch your breath. "this pussy seems to have missed me with the way she's gripping me so tight."

he reaches around, his wet hand finding your clit, rubbing firmly in time with his thrusts, sending shattering waves of pleasure through you. "oh- fuck, rafe…" you cry out, the sound swallowed by the noise of the shower, as the dual stimulation pushes you over the edge. your body convulses around him, muscles clenching tight as you feel the inevitable release soon approaching.

"cum for me, baby. show me how much you've missed me," he groans, your walls fluttering around him as the release washes over you. your name falls from his mouth as his own climax follows right after, his final thrusts deep and shuddering as he floods you with his heat.

he stays pressed against you for a long moment, pinning you to the tiles, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, both of you panting heavily under the relentless spray. the water continues to pour down, washing over your slick, trembling bodies, blurring the lines between sweat, steam and shower water in the aftermath.

"you're mine. don'cha forget that, slut."

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @bbshann @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore @dollyfiles @kild4re @zzhenyac @sparklyananas @dsfault @athaliahxoxo @allislths @nonbeliever1 @drewsephrry @soft-starr (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[sorvqlz]

Anatomy of Want

Part II

Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader | Past-Friends-to-Strangers-to-Something Else?

⸻

You had known him before the mask.

Freshman year, second week he sat next to you in Bio 101, dark hair a mess, hoodie too big for his wiry frame. His name was Jack. He made dry jokes about cadavers and rolled his eyes when the professor talked down to students.

You liked him immediately.

You stayed up late in the library whispering about classes, horror movies, and how unfair it all was the pressure, the grades, the future.

And then one day, he vanished.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just… gone.

⸻

Now he was standing in your bedroom, clawed hand hovering near your cheek like he didn’t trust himself to touch.

“Why did you leave?” you asked, voice low, raw. “What happened to you, Jack?”

The name made him flinch.

He sat on the edge of your desk looming, tense and turned his face away. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are.”

He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, with a slow, shaking hand, he reached behind his head.

And lifted the mask.

⸻

The face beneath wasn’t human anymore.

His skin was pale, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. His eyes or what should have been eyes were black pits, deep and hollow. Not empty. Hungry. His mouth was carved into something more predatory, something wrong, but still… somehow familiar.

You stepped closer despite everything in your body screaming not to.

“Jack,” you whispered again, and this time, the sound of it broke something in him.

His claws flexed at his sides.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he rasped. “Not you.”

He stood up, suddenly furious with himself, with you, with the pull between you both. “I’m a killer. I don’t get to want things. I shouldn’t want you.”

“But you do,” you breathed.

He was in front of you in a blink, his body inches from yours. The energy between you was electric volatile. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. You could smell the faint trace of metal and something feral, something that once was man but now wasn’t.

You looked up at him his real face and your voice trembled

“I still recognize you. Even like this. I know it's you, Jack.”

He growled, low and raw, like the sound was being ripped from his throat.

“You shouldn’t say that.”

His claws brushed your jaw sharp, cold, trembling with restraint.

“Because if I believe you—” his voice dropped to a dark whisper, “I won’t stop myself.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel it the tension stretching between you like a taut wire, on the edge of snapping. He leaned down, forehead brushing yours again, but this time without the mask.

His voice was almost broken now.

“I’ve imagined it. Every night. You under me. Your hands on my skin. You accepting this… thing I’ve become.”

He gritted his teeth. “I watch you sleep. I stand there and I imagine touching you. Taking you apart, inch by inch not to kill, but to understand. To own.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve been horrified.

Instead, you whispered, “Then do it.”

His eyes widened those endless black voids drinking you in like you were salvation and sin in one breath.

He pressed closer lips barely hovering over your mouth, his claws now caging your hips, shaking with restraint. The heat of him rolled off his body in waves, suffocating and addictive. You could feel him fighting it.

Fighting you.

“I want you,” he hissed, “but not gently. And not like someone human.”

You swallowed.

“I know.”

That single sentence shattered the last wall.

He surged forward not kissing you, but claiming the space between your bodies like it was his by right. His breath was fire against your throat. His claw slid under your shirt, not cutting not yet but testing the pulse hammering beneath your skin.

His mouth ghosted over your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

Not touching. Just almost.

“I'm going to ruin you,” he whispered.

And God help you, you wanted him to.

⸻

Part I: 1/?

Author's note: idk if i should make a third part or make it a mini series

[inkytoru]

FORCED CHEMISTRY ── .✦ ꒰ gojo s. ꒱

SYNOPSIS: You're exploring a foreign planet with the galaxy's-most-renowned scientist Gojo Satoru as his assistant. Or rather, was, until you were both knocked unconscious.

PAIRING: gojo satoru x f!reader WORD COUNT: 3.6k ⚠︎ CONTENT WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics, omegaverse, dubcon, yandere!gojo, mating bites, breeding, knotting, sex pollen, injections

A/N: minors dni. veeery old repost of one of my more popular fics from 2021 (also crossposted to ao3 so don't be alarmed if you see it under a different alias)! we're so back

Heavy are your footfalls that meet the unyielding terrain of the mysterious planet that’s been on you and your fellow scientists’ radars for quite some time now. You exasperatedly thumb through what’s left of your notes while your lanky boss stretches a foot or so ahead of you, long arms inviting the sky into them. He throws his head back over his shoulder to flash an award-winning smile at you. It drops and forms into a pout when you don’t even dignify him with a look.

“Still mad at me?” he asks.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yes,” you hiss through your teeth, “Gojo you ruined a significant portion of my field notes with your reckless, thoughtless piloting. Again.”

Gojo’s suddenly in front of you, face leaning into yours. You jump, taken aback at the close proximity in which you can smell the aroma of coffee off of him from the stack of unsalvageable notes you had thrown at his face.

“Y/N.”

“Yes, Gojo?”

“You shouldn’t frown so much. Y’know, they say it takes twenty-six more muscles to frown than it does to smile.” he cheerily singsongs as he pulls at the corners of your lips into a mock smile. You swat his hand away, irritation etched deeply between your brows. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re gonna get wrinkles the more you keep contorting that pretty face of yours. C’mon, follow my example!” Gojo says as he beams down at you. You continue staring at him with such blatant unamusement that he practically deflates and kicks a rock away dejectedly. He mumbles under his breath, causing you to quirk an eyebrow.

“Have something you want to say?” you inquire before he mumbles again, this time facing away from you. 

Whining, he turns to fix puppy-dog eyes on you. “I already said I was sorry…”

You suck in a harsh breath, the irritation rolling off of you in waves. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it you absolute idiot! You knew how important those notes were. I needed those to work off of for Yaga’s report and you just—!”

“What if I told you I already submitted a report for you using the notes you like to just leave around where any old idiot like me can pick them up?” Gojo grins seeing you sigh and rake a hand through your hair.

Before any words could leave your mouth, a bellowing boom shakes the ground somewhere in the distance, acid green liquid spewing high into the air. You both share a glance.

“Adventure awaits, dearest Y/N!” your moron of a boss exclaims before marching onwards towards the source of the booming noise. You follow in his footsteps, trying in vain to match his strides. Why’d the damned bastard have to be so tall?

As you two cautiously approach the area of concern, Gojo quickly throws a set of technologically-advanced headphones at you which you catch effortlessly and immediately wear. Beyond the planet’s flora and fauna that spreads into the horizon, a geyser comes into your line of sight. Another rumble reverberates through the ground as that same liquid from earlier shoots out of the hole. Stabilizing your feet, you continue on alongside your partner.

“Hand me a reinforced test tube,” Gojo tells you in a businesslike manner. “We need a sample of that to bring back to HQ. Stay here.”

You nod solemnly as you place the tube in the waiting palm of his hand, expecting your boss to come bounding back to you excited at the prospect of new material to research.

What you didn’t expect when you went to search for him, was the blow to the back of your head, effectively shutting the lights of your world off, submerging you into total-encompassing darkness.

Your head felt leaden as you tried to raise it with much effort; the rest of your body felt strung out much alike to that of a harp’s strings. It soon clicked that that was due to the spread eagle position you were in, suspended in mid-air, naked, wrists and ankles encircled with sturdy shackles that upon closer inspection (and by that, you mean squinting) seemed to be of extraterrestrial origin. Your senses were overwhelmed with the blinding fluorescent lights that swathed the room you were in, which appeared to be an observational room of sorts if the one-way window is anything to go by. A groan comes from your left, indicating that you were not alone.

You turn to see your superior in a similar predicament as you, his signature high-tech shades nowhere to be seen thus allowing his crystalline blue hues to be bare for all to see. He’s blearily blinking, and just as naked as you are. You couldn’t help the blush that dusts the apples of your cheeks when your eyes trail down his lean body of their own accord.

“So you two are finally awake.”

Your gaze darts around in order to locate the source of the voice until Gojo’s own voice reaches your ears. “Don’t bother. It’s communicating with us via telepathy.”

Bewilderment and puzzlement is soon replaced by anger, and you pull at your shackles fruitlessly. “Who are you and who gave you permission to probe around in my head?” you shout at the glass a few feet away from you.

“Relax, descendant of Gaia. We cannot root around your heads as much as we’d like, however we can translate our thoughts in our own mother tongue into yours within your thick-headed craniums for the convenience of all parties.” The disembodied voice responds, skipping a beat as if to allow that information to be absorbed properly. Your eye twitches at the insult. “We’ll cut to the chase. We have been watching and waiting for you foolish Gaialings to step foot onto our planet and your audacity will not go unpunished. You see, we give you puny humans a new purpose and life here.” Wait— so you and Gojo weren’t the only humans to have attempted to explore this luminous body? Your mind reels with a plethora of questions that get interrupted by mechanical whirrings grating in your ears the louder and closer it comes. You gasp when you see the clawed ends of a robotic contraption clutching two separate syringes of some sort of questionable, red, viscous serum. Gojo remains silent beside you.

“What the hell is this?” you cautiously ask, eyeing the syringe wearily.

“Well, we’re glad you asked,” the mystifying voice coolly states. “That serum will gift you a certain set of new qualities that determine which… class you fall under. You have your alphas— those with either a newfound or amplified domineering disposition and changes to their genitals which may result in a knot at the base, or a knot at the base of a penis that will grow from the vulva when the subject presents. Next are the omegas— the ones who perpetuate the growth of our dearest slaves. They have a tendency to be rare, thus being prized amongst the human population here. Heat cycles affect them greatly, and will accordingly need to be placated by an alpha whose job will be to breed and thus impregnate the omega. The knotting process will ensure a healthy litter of pups to come the next month or so.” 

Gojo pipes up. “Do you know how we would present ahead of time?”

“We do not have a surefire way yet to predetermine what category you will fall under, so this will be as exciting a reveal as it will be for you to us. However, we’ve come to find that most females fall under the omega class while the alphas are typically the males; of course this is not true for every case but it is likely that that will be how each of you present.”

“And could you be so kind as to elaborate on the nature of this society you have cultivated for those of our kind?”

There’s a reverberating chuckle before the response that makes your stomach drops comes. “It’s quite the dog-eat-dog world, we’re afraid to say. Alphas fight to the death over the ownership of omegas, omegas try to find ways to off themselves, so on and so forth. Now enough of the chitchat. Let the procedure begin.”

“Wait—!” you start, only for the next words to die within your throat as the sharp tip of the syringe punctures your thigh. You can hear Gojo audibly grit his teeth, and you bite your tongue to curb the scream that threatened to burst forth from your mouth. The pain was immeasurable, white-hot heat that shot all throughout your body ruthlessly.

Suddenly your restraints release you unceremoniously to the floor, Gojo following as his detached as well. Upon contact with the floor, you both begin to convulse, screams of agony and strained noises escaping from two pairs of lips. You could’ve sworn you could feel your DNA rearranging itself to leave room for the serum’s properties to make themselves at home.

The torment the serum put your body under was much too excruciating; excruciating enough for your consciousness to slip away once more and for blackness to fill your vision.

Red. That was all you could see when your eyes groggily opened, and you ponder if you had made it to hell before it registers in your brain that the red was simply the paint that enveloped the ceiling of the new room you were in. You muster the energy to sit up, bouncing slightly atop of what seems to be plush bedding with a plethora of pillows brimming with down.

To your side, a familiar presence can be felt, especially when the owner of said presence shifts around into a sitting position next to you.

You open your mouth to say something as you turn your head only to be met with more nude Gojo.

“Like what you see?” he cheekily asks while wiggling his brows. Before you can answer with a retort he goes on with flapping his lips again. “Actually wait no— don’t answer that. The answer itself is already written all over that cute little face of yours.”

Your eye twitches but the heat rising to the apples of your cheeks betray any and all notion of annoyance your eye twitch showed and you huff as you look away when your bastardly boss winks at you flirtatiously.

Crossing your arms together to hide your breasts along with pulling your knees up to your chest, you speak after a beat or two of silence, suddenly nervous at the potential of the silence stretching on for far too long between you two. “Don’t suppose you have a plan to get out of here, huh?”

“Babycakes, I literally just regained consciousness.” He looks down at himself. “And so did Gojo Jr. it seems.”

You scrunch your face up, shielding your face with your hands. “Eugh, some things are better left unknown Gojo.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. Care to help out your lonely boss a lit— Mmf!” The heart-shaped throw pillow you hurtle at his face comically knocks him back.

You didn’t want to announce it as proudly as Gojo did (due to his admittedly impressive length), but you felt yourself getting wet. The reality of your predicament hadn’t fully dawned on you yet until you replay what the alien explained to you both in your head. Knotting? Breeding…?

The blush returns to your face with twice the ferocity it did before. Did that mean…?

“It’s exactly what you think.” Gojo comments as if he was reading your mind. “Don’t look at me like that— the dawning realization on your face speaks volumes.” he goes on to say, yawning with his long limbs outstretched.

Unfortunately, you weren’t allowed much time to let the prospect of what was to happen sink in in its entirety as some sort of gaseous substance begins to meld with the air of the room. You frown.

“What’s all this?”

Gojo studies the gas with keen eyes for a moment, and says the words you half-expected and were half-afraid to hear. “It’s some sort of sex pollen and also a way to speed up the process of our presentation, I believe.”

“Shit, Gojo what do we do?” you ask in a rising panic.

“I think—” starts Gojo, who gets interrupted by the gas seeping deeply into his lungs, resulting in a coughing fit that wracked his whole body.

You begin having a coughing fit of your own as the gas infiltrates your hyperventilating mouth and nostrils. Your mind was overcome with a haziness that soon developed into one of a burning desire to be claimed and bred, rationale taking a backseat to libido. With a whine, you can feel slick beginning to trickle out of your opening, slowly increasing in volume; your body temperature significantly rising.

So caught up in the heat overtaking your senses and body you were, that you failed to notice the growing feral presence in the room with you until your half-lidded eyes locked with ones with pupils blown so wide that only a ring of darkened blue was left. 

Panting even more, a louder attention-seeking whine escapes your lips, your lust-addled omega brain becoming more and more desperate for the touch and mark of an alpha. “Pl-Please Gojo… Make it stop…” you plead while you shakily snake a hand to your sex in a futile attempt to relieve yourself. His nostrils flare before he has you pinned against the sheets, one large hand smacking your own away from your core.

A low rumble from within his chest that sounds like a possessive growl has you bucking your hips up to meet his angry, leaky cockhead.

“I know baby, you want your cute little cunt stuffed and overflowing with my seed, don’t you?” Gojo coos as he folds your body into a mating press which effectively puts your glistening pussy on display for his hungry eyes to take in in all its beautiful entirety.

You feverishly nod. “Just— Just give it to me already! This is unbearable!”

“I’ll make it all better,” he promises before lining himself up with your desperately clenching entrance; in one swift motion, the tip of his engorged cock meets your cervix, having you howl as you tighten up instinctively.

Gojo’s mouth hangs open and you swipe a slick-coated finger against his bottom lip, to which he graciously licks clean. He moans appreciatively at your taste. “Mmm, fuck— I’m going to cum if you don’t loosen up a little—”

“Isn’t that the whole point of this?” you pant out, the first tendrils of annoyance slithering into you. “Move already.”

“So bossy,” he chuckles. “Your wish is my command.”

He doesn’t waste any time in finding a barbarous rhythm with his thrusts, effectively rendering you unable to do anything but cry out his name and scratch your nails down his toned back, enough so that they left red lines in their wake. Gojo didn’t seem to mind; in fact, it seemed to spur him on even more.

Sweat slid down the vast expanses of both your bodies as praise tumbled out of your alpha’s lips.

“Your scent and taste is so intoxicating—like fresh flowers and vanilla extract—I think I can get drunk off of it alone,” Gojo sighs, cherry red tongue laving up the side of your neck.

You take note of his scent as well, deeming it somewhere between sandalwood and pine. It was heady and stupefying; the type of scent you were sure that would have any omega fall to their knees before him.

He then noses at the junction between your neck and shoulder, and next you’re keening at the scrape of his canines against your flushed flesh. ‘Claim me! Claim me! Claim me!’ screams your mind. You must have said something out loud because Gojo finally stops toying with you and seeks out the perfect spot for a mating bite, teeth piercing and unrelenting even as you whimper over the pain.

Not long after, that pain tangos with the pleasure his cock brings by filling you up again and again. It was a combination of deliciously contrasting sensations that had you seeing pure white— it had your eyes rolling back and your pink tongue lolling out of your mouth.

“God, I never knew you were capable of such a sexy facial expression,” the alpha above you comments in awe as he takes a mental snapshot of the face you were making.

You don’t give a coherent response but Gojo didn’t seem to care. Filth continues spewing from his mouth and you had half a mind to process it all.

“C’mon, I know I haven’t completely fucked you stupid yet. Tell me how much you love this alpha cock.”

“I love, love, love it! Please don’t stop! Gimme more! I want your children!” you babble, incapable of focusing on anything else other than the way your new alpha was breeding you. Your moans only serve to amplify his need to ensure you’d bear his litter the next coming month.

“And who owns this pretty omega pussy?”

“I— Mmmh…”

A slap against your cheek echoes around the four walls you were both imprisoned in, and it clears the fog in your brain just enough for you to answer him back properly when he repeats himself, this time with more of an intense edge.

“You do! You do, Gojo! I need your knot!”

His chest heaves with a growl. “Can’t wait for those teats to fill with milk and that belly of yours to be round and fat with mini-Gojos. You’re going to be such a good mama.”

The alpha before you takes a nipple into his mouth to suck on harshly as a pale hand rises up to give attention and knead at your other breast. “Those little munchkins better share mama’s milk cause daddy has an appetite too,” he makes known after he stops playing with your sensitive bud in his mouth with a ‘pop!’

He then licks his way from your breast, to his mating mark, then to your lips; your mouth was already open so the rutting alpha took the opportunity to shove his tongue into it. His lips merge with yours in a searingly passionate kiss that further stimulates the tightening sensation that rested low in your stomach and was on the verge of coming undone any second now.

And then it happens.

Slim hips stutter in their pursuit to attain their high, their owner quickly pushing the fuller part of the base of his cock into you. It was a mildly burning but not unwelcome stretch that made you definitively lose it.

Your body seizes up as immense pleasure overrides any thought you have made prior to its arrival, and your toes start to curl while your wet walls lock down on the cock that doesn’t cease in penetrating you over and over, coaxing the rest of your orgasm out of you. Stars dance across your vision, your breasts rise and fall with a regularity, and you still find it in you to emit a cry when the bulbous knot inside of you increases in its breadth.

Gojo leans down to rest his forehead against yours, sweat mingling with yours and rosy pink lips agape as he shares breaths with you.

“How do you feel?” comes his concerned voice.

Your eyes flicker down to where your bodies meet, before connecting with his gaze again.

“Satisfied. And full.” comes your answer.

He smiles and gives you a fleeting kiss with adoration for you—his new lifelong partner—shining through his eyes.

You were elated at your union with the alpha being successful, and you mewl at how copious amounts of cum are driven into your womb, making Gojo smile wider as he rocks into you back and forth slowly, making sure his seed takes.

The mating process had taken a toll on your now exhausted body and soon, your eyelids flutter closed. Scenes of domesticity in your near future begin playing in your mind as you think one last thought before a deep slumber engulfs you: ‘Maybe life as an omega here wouldn’t be so bad, as long as I have the universe’s greatest scientist turned alpha—my alpha—alongside me.’

“What’s the meaning of this? We had a deal you conniving Gaialing!”

“Your first mistake was thinking you could negotiate fairly with Gojo Satoru.” states one of the special grade soldiers currently holding the lead extraterrestrial at gunpoint.

“And your second,” another chimes in, “was finalizing a deal with Gojo Satoru.” She grinds the sole of her combat boot into one of the lifeless alien’s faces that lay in front of her.

“Right Gojo?” one more speaks with a shit-eating grin.

The man in question mirrors his grin as he stands with his hands in his lab coat pockets behind the soldiers, pleased that everything went according to plan and that his trusted team of mercenaries triumphed over the natives of the planet that underestimated humans.

He thinks about how you, his now precious omega sleeping soundly in his arms bridal-style, was his first rejection. How you refused his confession, preferring to keep the relationship between you two plainly professional. But he knew. He knew you had feelings for him, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Catching wind of what the aliens on this planet were up to had to have been the best intel he’d ever received, and he’d have to thank Mei Mei for that.

“Give us your word, sir.”

Gojo starts to walk towards the spaceship waiting outside for him and his team, speaking in a commanding tone as he does so.

“Leave no alien behind and meet me outside in five.”

He looks down at you with nothing but love. You looked so serene, and you were at the very least subconscious of your alpha’s presence because you snuggle in closer into the comfort of Gojo’s chest.

Finally, he had you where he wanted you, and the wicked smirk on his face was evidence of that.

[arrietty-rune]

Working at bit for that Sea World AU (basically a Mermaid AU with more species) and wanted to share here some fan screenshots >:)c

(some lore at the ALT)