King Of Infinity.

King of Infinity.

Yan (Villain) Gojo x F Reader. 

Synopsis: You don’t get the starring role. You’re partially happy about it; because you don’t have to break a leg.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships/kidnapping(?), descriptions of genocide, descriptions of corpses, manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome(ish), and degrading language against the reader.

Word Count: 1.1k.

can technically be considered a roleswap AU but up to you as geto isn’t talked about rcfncodnorjr…

*~*~*~*

“I never considered you someone who would be fond of apartments.” Satoru pushes his sunglasses up with his pointer finger as he wraps an arm around your trembling shoulders.

The same hand that holds you so very tenderly in the eyes of his followers is the same hand that turns on the lighter to envelop his cigarette in a small flame – a flame you had learned long ago to not attempt to put out, lest you would like it seared into your palm like the tattoo he forced on your neck.

‘The Star.’

“It’s a good strategy though,” Those words are the closest thing to a praise you have heard in months. They are akin to Satan reflecting on his reign of hell and comparing, considering whether or not it would be better to serve in heaven. But then he would laugh as his servants danced, not wanting any angel or God to take such bliss away from him.

Satoru had you dressed in what he considered to be the highest quality fabrics monkeys can make, while he had attire made from the sorcerers he had wrapped around his finger. Yours were not suitable for Tokyo’s snowstorms and his clothing covered up more skin than he would ever let you cover – because you aren’t him, the one he loves the most more than anything else in this beautiful world; Gojo Satoru, the special grade sorcerer that killed more than thirty thousand people in a single hour outside Jujutsu High and was never punished after that fateful evening.

You still remember that night. It is etched into your memory like a child had drawn it on a white wall. Despite everything, you will not ever be able to erase it. You will grow old and never dream of anything but him, the center of your now small universe, the only flower that is allowed to bloom under the eternal blood moon. Everything else will rot – even the earth’s shadow will not remain once Satoru’s dreams are realized. His will is all that matters now, he is the priest of the god of destruction and you are so very far below him. 

A monkey. That is where you will stay and continue to be after you rot and he steps on the soil placed on top of you so you cannot breathe or scream. Only gratitude can fall from your disgusting lips because Gojo Satoru’s only fuel is the groveling of every living creature that makes up the infinite number of galaxies. He will gladly replace your tongue with the worms who decompose you if you have more to say than that. After a while, he’ll comfort you and say that it doesn’t get too bad underneath because that is your one true purpose in life; to not speak and only do.

“You didn’t cry too much this time,” The ends of Satoru’s mouth move upwards, having the freedom to do as they please because his lips aren’t sewn shut. Yours on the other hand can hardly get something that tastes pleasant. “That’s an improvement, wouldn’t you say? I’ll be sure to get you some mochi after this mission, pet.”

You’re not sure if he is talking about the car ride here or the corpses strewn across the floor – occupants of this apartment and a poor security guard that just so happened to be in the general vicinity and heard flesh being torn apart like paper.

There are glimmers coming from the knife block in the kitchen area, the sunlight hitting them just right to make them glow a silvery hue. But the idea dies as soon as you feel its warmth – almost nonexistent because of the burning cold – and slink back into the shadows where you belong, where you are meant to be.

“I never took you to be one for planning. Usually, it is Nanami who does that.” 

A puff of smoke comes out, but you can still see his glowing eyes. You can always see them no matter what you do, even if you close your own, so you decide to imagine them as a different color; something less bright and more normal, something like black or brown. Sometimes you get away with it, and other times he somehow knows.

“I don’t mind it though.”

From across the street, you see the clocktower that stands at the gate of the nearest train station… or bus stop. You don’t care enough to remember which it was. Most likely the former though – you highly doubt any mere bus station would have a clock that large when said buses only hold less than fifty people.

“Will you miss me?” The tone in his voice is teasing, you think because his lighter isn’t on his lap or in his hand – it is on the little coffee table beside the sofa you two are sitting on. But you must still behave according to Satoru’s design because the placement of the flames can easily change. The comfort is cold, but it is better than a scorching hot truth.

“Yes.” 

The real reason you had chosen an apartment and not some corporate office that was under the thumb of the Star Religious Group was because you wanted to be somewhere that was halfway normal. It’s selfish, you know that. But the floors are aged and not polished daily, the air smells different and the heating is at its lowest setting because the owners wanted to save a bit of money. It was oh so very selfish of you. But when you are forced to be the companion of Gojo Satoru, someone who is every definition of the word, you have to combat it in a way that won’t leave your skin black and blue.

“It’s almost eleven,” Satoru groans, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. Some blood managed to get up there along with a bit of a leather shoe, probably the husband’s. You two ignore it for different reasons that are just as strong as the other. “Be good.”

When he reaches towards the table, you think he is reaching for his lighter. But with a slight detour of his hand, he opens his wallet instead. A few thousand yen is handed to you when your eyes are closed, your mind prepared for another fight or flight response. All you get is another poke of your cheek.

“You know where the market is, don’t you? The one I took you after our date last week.” 

You nod. “Would you like mochi, master?”

“No,” Satoru chuckles. “Get me something you like.”

HELLO EVERY ONE...

My name is Fatima Alanqar, I am 30 years old, and my husband Bilal Dader is 33. We are parents to five children: Yazan (12), Fadl (11), Zina (10), Rajaa (7), and our baby girl Basma, who is just a year and a half old.

We live in Tal AlHawa, Gaza. In the early days of the war, we were forced to flee our home after it was completely destroyed by occupation forces with fire and missiles. Our car was also burned down to a heap of metal, and all our clothes were burned too. We have been displaced 17 times, each time escaping death by a miracle. We walked long distances on foot with our children who struggled to keep up, driven by fear to escape danger.

Here we are: homeless😔, without clothes, blankets, food, or a safe place to seek refuge. Suddenly, everything turned to ashes. They burned our home and car. We had everything necessary to provide a decent life for our children. But now, we have nothing to offer them. My children do not deserve to spend their childhood in war and displacement; 😢they have already suffered from poverty and illness.😔

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it’s so crazy how many mid movies r made every year that u wouldve never learned abt if ur mutual didnt want to fuck an actor that plays in them

i genuinely hate how people have to sit and write a post that stands out while boosting a fundraiser because most people won't bat an eye at the misery and inhumane conditions Palestinians are living in.

i see people making art and telling others to use it because fundraisers with art are generally reblogged more often. i see people using colored text in order to make the post more eye catching.

palestinians on instagram are using popular audios and stitch trending reels at the beginning to make the world pay attention to them. imagine having to make something look entertaining in order to survive.

they are living under constant threat of israeli airstrikes, bombing, scarcity of food and disease. many have lost a lot in the past few months.

palestinians on tumblr are posting their pictures and the horrible conditions in which they are living. they travel long distances for internet connection only to be called a scammer by some privileged ass who cannot locate gaza on a map.

here are some verified gfms. please share the linked posts. it's the bare minimum we can do from the comforts of our home.

@amjadshiltawu: link to the post

vetted

@dima96yousef: link to the post

vetted

@tamer200333: link to the post

vetted

@ahmed8311: link to the post

vetted (#161)

@saratahrawi: link to the post

vetted

Cupid's Chokehold.

Yan Lucas x F Reader. 

Synopsis: With your vision, lines are always blurred. But the one on your mind right now is the line where the basement is and where the warm, inviting stairs begin… and how little distance is too close to the woman shackled up.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, past not SFW implications (non-con), cannibalism, and depictions of violence/corpses.

Word Count: 1.2k.

a little fanwriting for the amazing @wri0thesley / @needleanddead's oc lucas! check them out if you haven't already! <333 (if you want me to take this down, please let me know!)

*~*~*~*

“Darling?”

The door Lucas had come through you had sworn you hadn’t seen before. It is like it came out of a fictional reality, in all senses of the words – the bricks seemed too gray, too monochrome to be real, the cracks so similar to each other it is like an animator gave up halfway through and scribbled straight lines downward, the dark brown stains of wet dirt on the carpet in front of it too large to be anything human.

“Yes?” 

Lucas doesn’t like being ignored; he pulled your ear once because he thought you were. Despite your claims that you were not and simply just tired, which were all true, his pinching fingers continued to bite into you. He didn’t yell then, at least. Lucas never yelled at you, despite his temper and whomever he is screaming at when he sends you off to bed. His voice is the only voice you have heard for weeks.

You don’t hear even your own anymore after all your sobbing into your pillow that you do on the daily. 

“Clean yourself up, alright?”

You don’t nod as quickly as you usually do.

Perhaps it is Stockholm Syndrome getting to you or the curious cat in you wondering where that door leads. Where either way leads you don’t like.

Just like the way the basement stairs lead you down and the stairs next to the kitchen lead you up.

After a raise of Lucas’ eyebrow and a cross of his arms, you hurriedly go on your merry way. It is almost like you are a child running after shutting off all the lights and returning to the safety net that is their room, except candles were still lit in lanterns and the fireplace still had enough wood to keep on burning.

You aren’t allowed to close your door. It is something you fought at first, weeks ago. But after some gripping on your hand that was far too tight to be anything less than a warning, you learned that sometimes things must be let go for better things.

Privileges you had before that you can still remember when you lived on your own and you were free and happy. Being able to change your clothes. Being able to walk to the farmer’s market by yourself. Being able to say no when someone touches you in ways you don’t want.

However, beggars can’t be choosers, especially ones that don’t exactly know what is in their kidnapper’s locked basement. Like the gates of hell, you want that door to remain shut despite wanting and wanting to know the horrors within. Isn’t that a human’s nature? To seek out things unbeknownst to them?

But it’s not like you don’t have a general idea. Lucas hasn’t come home as pissed off as of late – a sure sign that maybe less of the meat he cooked was a person’s arm or leg. You can’t be picky with your food either; you need energy and you need Lucas to not be mad and threaten to stick a feeding tube up your nose.

Lucas told you he didn’t have people down there, and for your sanity, you believed him. The steak tastes better when you don’t think about the cow being in the slaughterhouse. The waters keep calm when you don’t rummage around and throw yourself inside them.

A familiar hand sneaks around your neck, and your chest, and goes up to your mouth – but there is still enough distance for you to speak.

“I always liked that dress on you.”

You don’t scream and you don’t cover up your chest with your arms anymore – that would make him annoyed and, yes, not mad, but annoyed is still a bad emotion to feel when you are Lucas.

Instead, you continue to put on the pink frilly dress Lucas got you when he wanted to reward you for being good the previous night. You said you wanted him to go get something handmade and soft, he added the word ‘pretty’ to your request, and he came back with that. It isn’t the shortest thing in your admittedly full wardrobe, but it isn’t the longest either.

It still shows things you don’t want to show this man, this depraved killer.

But he’s here in this cottage with you and you can’t change when he wants to leave. You can’t change where you are when you are with him. 

An idea pops into your head at that very moment.

You can change when he leaves sometimes, when you ask.

“Luke?” The nickname is forced out of your throat, yet echoes so naturally in Lucas’ ears.

“Yes, angel?” He sounds even more excited, most likely because your tone is filled with such saccharine affection.

“Can you make a small trip for me? Please?”

*~*~*~*

With the door shut, you cannot see the thirty or more steps you have to continue to take to get to the bottom. When you had gotten on the fifth or so though there was a dusty chain dancing on top of your hair. Against your better judgment, you pulled.

The light wasn’t the brightest and flickered with each blink of your eyes, but it was better than nothing. It seemed so filthy however that you presume Lucas doesn’t use it very much – either he has better vision than you or he uses one of the candlelit lanterns he fancies from the sitting room.

There is a creak on one of the floorboards. It almost makes you fall down the stairs because of how suddenly your heart jumps. No, the town is about an hour away. Lucas wouldn’t be here, it is only you making those sounds.

“Lucas?”

The voice is so raspy it is like another creak on the floorboard. It essentially reaches out to you like a snake, ready to swallow you whole.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

The second time the person speaks, you are better at identifying them. It sounds more feminine than Lucas’, although that didn’t say much. Perhaps a fellow woman.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I… I’m sorry I bit you… I’m sorry… I… I’m so sorry…”

“Lucas… is out…”

You’re not sure if you should have said that. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all before she took a look at you and she had the opportunity to ask any questions she had. From how she screams and cries and how you hear chains shake, she probably either thinks you’re a savior or an accomplice.

“Oh God!”

After you reach the final step, you stop. Your bare feet don’t touch the dirty floor – the stairs are cleaner, and the thought of getting too close scares you for some reason. The woman doesn’t care, you think, because what comes out of her mouth are inconsistent ramblings waiting to be answered by you and only you – about him, about you, about everything that has happened since she was locked up down here.

“Why are you here?” She asks.

The bucket beside her smells, and the boxes on the far end of the basement have flies going inside through little holes centipedes and cockroaches also use.

“He… He left the door unlocked. …Why?”

She screams again. 

You almost scream too, but you don’t know what for. Yet.

i miss u vampire au adeuyuu…..