#I thought her name was a funny pun

[rainbow-flavoured-skittles]

Nya ref is here! I think she's my favourite so far

Name: Nya Smith

Alias: Naiad

Powers: Hydrokinesis, enhanced healing and durability, enhanced senses

Age: 15

Backstory: After their parents disappeared, Kai and Nya ended up on their own. They took care of themselves and eventually left their hometown for Ninjago City. She meets Wu when Kai tries pickpocketing him and fails, but Wu gives them a place to live and training instead of being angry. She originally has the alias Samurai X, but once she gets her powers takes on the name Naiad instead.

Additional notes: She is the last of the team to develop her powers, so she created Samurai X as a way of helping them. Her parents disappear when she is 9 instead of 4 in this universe.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Trick or treat, dragoona fans- a 113 word drabble fic!

Draculaura gets stage fright before her first ever display of no-longer-illegal witchcraft, and Lagoona is there to hug her better again.

for u @ratstuckinamarble

A hundred monsters murmured as Draculaura cringed backstage. “Right.” She said firmly. “I’m going.”

Lagoona smiled. “Onstage?”

“To faint.”  

“Aww, bonita.” Bending down Lagoona snuggled her. “You will be magnífica- your witchcraft will BLOW them away!”

“What if it does?” Draculaura clutched at her wide-brimmed hat. “What if I miscast and hurt them or scare them and they ban witchcraft all over again-”

“Then we would fix it,” Lagoona interrupted with a squeeze, “like always. Okay?”

Draculaura peeked up at her. “Promise?”

Lagoona’s grin sharpened. “On the tooth-marked bones my frienemies.”

“…Okay.” Draculaura breathed out. “I’m ready.”

“And I will be right here!”

*SQUEAK*

“Ah-! With Señor Squeaky, too.”

"My heroes." Draculaura giggled.

[buggywires]

🩷Meet Wire!🩷

Meet Wire!! She is my One Piece Self Insert/OC and is the reason I made this account!! Hopefully y'all enjoy her like I do :3

Art done by @robovalentine !!

[ivorycowboy]

I’d like to share two of my Dragonball Xenoverse 2 OCs, now that I’m getting back into it! Ettimamay and her youngest child, seven year old Beylla. I have my own headcanons on where the character duplicates inside Conton City come from, but long story short, Beylla and his siblings technically don’t exist since they were born in Conton, and Beylla’s dad is Raditz.

His other siblings (in order of oldest to youngest) are his older brother Likhen (13), an arcosian (frieza race), his older sister Burtavia (11), also a full blooded saiyan and daughter of Conton’s Turles duplicate, and his other sister Myntea (9), a Majin that happened after Likhen accidentally blew off a chunk of Majin Buu’s arm (and was subsequently allowed to keep said chunk). If you’d like to know more, hit me with an ask.

Progress pics under the cut!

[bakafurai]

man I don't know what my mum was expecting when i started nitpicking her joke bc one part didn't make sense to me like,,,, i'm autistic I just kinda Do That(tm) sometimes sorry 😔

[cornyforjk]

Drive me crazy | Day 1 | jjk

SUMMARY In which you are stuck living with an arrogant rookie racer who thinks of you as an obstacle, ready to ruin your glory, but things get heated when he has a pervy smile hidden under that pretentious attitude. Emotions that are complicated. You could never fall for your enemy! He's sabotaging you.

Pairing: racer!jk × racer!oc

Genre: angst and pure filth smut

Warnings: trash language only for now.

A/note: HI I'M SCARED BUT HI ALL THE BEST HAVE FUN . First chapter out and I am already head over heels for this Jungkook. I'd say to keep your hobi water ready anytime cause the spice never ends.

___________________♡____________________

"You'd be better off as a pornstar, why not start an only fans page."

The guy beside me whispered as I clenched my fist, a helmet covering his face. Well he was lucky the helmet was there to protect him, or else by now, his limbs would've fallen apart, bit by bit until he was screeching for mercy.

"Stay out of my way." My helmet was a barrier to the fiery glare I was sending his side. I heard him emit an audible but distressed sigh as his tongue clicked in disappointment.

I scanned him from head to toe, not as if I knew him, but my desire to call him a "gay stripper" grew stronger with each tap on the floor.

I close my eyes, collecting my thoughts that were scattered around an endless black hole. Echoes of heels clicking against the floor catching my attention, ear perking up I fix my posture, shoulders rolling back, clearing my parched throat.

A woman with huge circular glasses resting on the bridge of her nosewalked in. Her pencil skirt accentuated her broad hips, her blue eyes fixed on the notepad wrapped around her arm, and the silver metallic pen held her elegant hairstyle together.

She was the definition of what I call 'classy'.

I suddenly felt my shoulders slouch down when her blue icy eyes scanned me, her orbs slowly widening in astonishment. I raise my hand giving a small wave with a crooked smile.

Maybe that was a bit too crooked. Screw it! She can't see me.

"Ahh..." I suddenly squealed under her intense gaze that was scanning me over and over again, pushing the glasses that adorned her button nose back. She cleared her throat grazing over her notepad one last time.

"Lady, you know I am still here, right? Maybe you can do this goo-goo eyes after I'm checked in." The guy beside me commented, earning an eye roll which he couldn't witness. I stomp over his boots, almost throwing my whole weight on his foot.

"OUCH!" He grunts, turning my way, maybe or maybe not glaring like Donald Trump after he found out his steak was cooked medium rare and not brought alive.

"Fight me you ceramic bitch!" He shrieks, ready to throw hands. I hide behind the elegant woman for protection who just watched us bicker.

She cleared her throat again, catching me off guard. She turns my way. "Jungkook and Y/n?" She pursed her lips, narrowed cat-like eyes waiting for our nods.

"Jungkook...more like junk looks," I coughed out, wheezing at that lame pun, perhaps no one has the sense of humour of a five-year-old. The world is turning tables pretty quick.

"Ms Y/n, you aren't supposed to be here?" She waits for my reaction as I freeze on spot.

"What do you mean I am not supposed to be here?" My voice slightly rising, "I checked in myself as the new rookie in racing." I practically throw air quotes at her statement, panic wavering in my

voice.

The so-called guy 'Jungkook' choked, his broad chest heaving up and down as he laughed.

Did I say something funny?

"You are at the wrong location, I think there was an error in our system while registering you, we may have added your name to the wrong list." She ran her index finger across her crisp notepad, eyes moving back and forth like a hawk.

"No, no, no, no-no." I gasped, "do you know how long it took me to persuade my sponsor?! This is my only chance to race; if I don't enter, all of my years of preparation will be in vain."

She looked at me with sympathy. "Can't you make any changes to send me there?"

"I'm sorry...you won't be able to reach in time and we cannot let you go until the board takes a look at this major mistake and have you safely enter your designated place."

She tapped her foot on the marble floor.

Suddenly my head dropped, audibly sighing as my fingers tapped against my thighs. Just one opportunity is given...and it will all wash over like golden sand at the seashore.

"Okay, sad. Moving on, I'd like the Keys to my quarters." Jungkook arrogantly demanded, pushing his hand in front of the woman. She looked at him with no emotion, rolling her eyes, once again checking the name list.

Think Y/n! Think!

I felt my heart clench, the corner of my eyes collided with the water. My craving to have wind tangled in my locks while the engine roared at the starting line with determined racers kept increasing.

That desire in my heart burning stronger than any fuel.

"I can race here!" I exclaimed, earning a groan from the tall man beside me. The woman blinked her eyes, glasses almost falling off her snatched nose.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I can race on this track here in California, till then your board can sort out all their work." Adrenaline rushed in my veins like hope, secretly fist-pumping the air. Finally, this could work out.

"Listen up kiddo, this is California. Here racers make history. They don't sit on the track to have some pink princess tea party, so you can take that bag of yours and move your ass out of this place because you don't belong here." His words were foul, a snarl creeping on.

He was filled with bitterness, swiftly peeling off the helmet on his face. His action left me speechless.

His ethereal beauty was hidden behind the helmet; his soft, glowing skin was the centre of attention; his doe-like eyes were pools of overflowing emotions; his soft lips, the bottom one a little fuller, a mole on his cheek and one under his lip.

I would've stumbled on my face gazingat such charm if only he wasn't being a jerk.

"It's because women aren't usually seen racing here, in fact for the last 50 years no women had the guts to continue on this track." The woman abruptly spoke. I felt the uncertainty in her voice. She was trying to cover up for that jerk.

"but there is no rule against women racing here." I protested back.

"Yes there isn't but-" "Then I race here."

Jungkook's intense stare had my knees go weak. I could feel the sharpness and cold wrath all at once. An unspoken cold blooded war was rising between us.

"What do you think you are doing?" Jungkook exclaimed, his warm hand skimming on my shoulder, the grip crushing my meek corpse.

His jaw clenched and eyes obscuring, he glowered behind the lustrous locks covering his orbs that bled out of outrage.

outrage.

Staring into his eyes my body shook violently, I harshly pushed him away, disgusted by the warmth his hands held. "Don't touch me." My eyes were bloodshot red, wrapping my hands around my torso.

"I won't be outmanoeuvred by a jerk. Especially you, Jungkook."

___________________♡____________________

DM me or send me an ask to be added in the taglist.

[thatfandomslut]

Not Into Guys

Regina George x Lesbian!Reader

Word Count: 1k

Trigger Warnings: Aaron Samuels (i'm joking, they're besties), underage drinking

Request:

Can I please request a fic where Regina is like “I know your secret you like Aaron” and super flirty reader is confused and like “Why would I like him when you’re here” and Regina is shocked and it’s super cute and they’re gay for each other!

Mean Girls requests are open.

This all started because of a rumor accidentally started by none other than Gretchen Wieners. "I heard her flirting with Aaron Samuels. She called him her boy toy." Gretchen informed Regina who crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair in thought. It wasn't hidden information that Regina George liked (Y/n). Regina thought they had a thing. Obviously, she was wrong if (Y/n) claimed Aaron to be her 'boy toy.' As she listened to Gretchen go on about everything she had heard, Regina's icy blue eyes landed on (Y/n) as she made her entrance into the classroom.

Typically, Regina had only kind things to say about (Y/n). Unfortunately, her entering with Aaron seemed to cause anything nice to leave her mind as she narrowed her eyes at them. She just couldn't understand why anyone in their right mind would choose Aaron over her. She was gorgeous, popular, and rich. However, Regina supposed that Aaron was kind and funny. People didn't usually associate Regina with those two attributes. Instead, they associated her with beautiful but mean. Which, was right, of course. Regina just hoped that wasn't something (Y/n) thought of her. She wanted (Y/n) to like her the way she did (Y/n).

"This class is kind of lame. I might leave before it starts," Regina interrupted Gretchen, hoping she would stop talking about (Y/n) and Aaron. If she had to hear any more information about them being together, she would either vomit or kill Gretchen. There was a possibility that both of those scenarios were likely, and she would commit both rather than either. Fortunately, the honey blonde beside her seemed to catch on, and she stopped talking about them. "It's not like I'm ever going to actually need geometry. I have people to do my math for me."

Karen nodded enthusiastically at the point that she made. Regina could easily ask Cady if she needed someone to look over floor plans. She was above math, she decided. Aaron had left once the bell rang, leaving (Y/n) by herself at her desk. A small, devilish smirk crossed Regina's lips as she stood up. "(Y/n), I was thinking about skipping class. Would you like to join us?" Regina questioned, and it didn't take a second thought for (Y/n) to accept the invite. Just like Regina, she didn't necessarily care for math. Instead, she would rather escape the confines of those four walls that held math puns and math memes due to the teacher trying to fit in. Karen and Gretchen were about to follow Regina out before she told them to stay. She had some things to talk to (Y/n) about. Specifically, things involving Aaron Samuels and why (Y/n) thought that Aaron was better than her.

Regina would never deny the fact that she was the jealous type. She had decided a long time ago that (Y/n) was going to be her girlfriend, Aaron wasn't going to ruin this plan with his boyish good looks or boy-next-door kindness. That was why Regina brought (Y/n) to the mall, to show off her money in an attempt to woo (Y/n). An attempt that failed as (Y/n) had to assure her over and over again that she didn't want anything Prada or Gucci. Regina was beginning to wonder how attached (Y/n) was to Aaron. If she couldn't convince her to date her over name-brand items, how was she going to convince her to date her at all?

"Okay, what's wrong, Regina?" (Y/n) questioned once they got to the food court. She was starting to grow concerned when Regina didn't comment on how badly styled the mannequins were like she usually did. She was starting to think that maybe it was something that she was doing wrong. If Regina would communicate with her, she would be able to accommodate and change whatever she was doing that was bothering Regina. "I feel like I've done something to upset you."

Regina realized she was beginning to let what Gretchen said about (Y/n) and Aaron get to her. However, instead of being able to keep it in, she was expressing it. A smile crossed her lips as she played it off. "Everything is fine, you did nothing wrong. Now that we're here, though, we can have girl talk." The two girls sat down, confusion bubbling (Y/n) at how quickly Regina changed her mood. "I know you're secret… You like Aaron Samuels." Regina stated confidently, looking down at (Y/n).

(Y/n), on the other hand, was only growing more confused. She wanted to laugh because of how confident Regina had said that. It was completely false. "Why would I have a crush on Aaron when you're here?" She questioned, crossing her arms as she looked up at Regina. It was unintentionally smooth. It caught Regina off guard as her cheeks began to heat up slightly at what she had said. "Aaron is my best friend, and I'm a lesbian." (Y/n) told Regina, wondering why she even thought she was remotely into him.

"Didn't you say he was your boy toy though? I've had great sources tell me this." Regina claimed. She sometimes needed to remind herself that Gretchen took information and ran with it. (Y/n) smiled a bit as shook her head. Leaning in, she kissed Regina, who reciprocated happily. She could hear her heart beating in her ear as she tried to keep herself from messing the kiss up by smiling at it. "Okay, okay, fine… You're not into Aaron."

(Y/n) laughed a bit at the comment before Regina pulled her back into a kiss. This time, she kissed deeper, not as nervous as the first time. Though, her heartbeat remained loud in her ears as they kissed. Regina couldn't care less if anyone was scowling, because all that mattered to her in that moment was how (Y/n)'s hands felt as they cupped her cheeks.

[consistentscreaming]

I'm relistening to The Magnus Archives, and I made a list of Actual Canonical Details we as a fandom forget about

- sasha gets coffee from a specific coffee shop every morning

- Jon has an excellent sense of direction

- canonically in artifact storage there is: a wardrobe light cannot penetrate, a carved rock eye that interferes with the video cameras and therefore is kept in a black velvet bag, and a scalpel ride with disease no matter what they use to sterilize it, kept in a hermetically sealed plastic box

- during halloween week, they have to call in the archives as backup due to the influx of statements. jon canonically gets a good nights sleep after disproving these statements.

- Jon sincerely believes he is far too unlucky for statements to just be a hallucination

- Not-sasha asked not to be recorded multiple times

- when told he benifited from gertrude's death, jons only response was "...I didn't?"

- [daisy became police in ~2002, almost 15 years before the story starts...meaning she is canonically late thirties/early 40s

- even when compared with the paranormal, daisy considers car accidents worse

- mary keay made an eye pun "i know the institute and i haven't always seen eye to eye, as it were"

- jon noticed when ghost hunt uk stopped updating

- sasha is taller than not-sasha

- annabelle dresses like a vintage clothing store exploded on her, has bleach blonde hair and dark skin

- annabelle looked "like the type of person that talked to cleaners as if they were actual people"

- annabelle looms over the cleaner by almost a full foot, meaning she Tall

- "the moment i die will feel just the same as this one" is not just a georgie thing, it's an End thing in general, as proved in ep 70

- not-sasha tends to stay late

- martin worked at the institute in 2009

- micheal has curly sandy blonde hair

-micheal is tall

- melanie and jon are on the same wavelength, and when working together they both came to the same conclusions with the same evidence

- elias does not think daisy is smart

- georgie is observant, and pays attention to peoples behavior

- melanie thought jon killing someone with a pipe was "wildly out of character" for him

- georgie and jon have a mutual friend named Jess who thinks Hungarian food is "too Soviet"

- jon borrowed georgie's coat when he went to meet jude perry

- jon tells jude to kill him as an ultimatum every five minutes

- elias tells tim that when presented with horrors, he finds comfort in beaurocrocy

- jared hopworth is handsome with cheekbones and a jawline to die for

- georgie was canonically willing to cover for jon to the police with no context after an unpleasant breakup and after no contact for almost 5 years

- georgie grew up poor in liverpool, and had a scouse accent until she went to oxford

- basira is a huge nerd and will talk about what she's reading to anyone who will listen

- nikola makes an allusion to not having a face

- martin and melanie got along fantastically

- georgie told jon that he needs anchors

- "if something happened to you, or-or god forbid, The Admiral, I-"

- "Don't be a Stranger." georgie thinks she's funny

- michael had a childhood friend who was taken by something like michael (schizophrenic) and that's what drove him to the magnus institut-he never you over what he saw or didn't see

- Hannah is a black woman who works in the library, had a "Thing With The Milk In The Breakroom" in april 2016. Went on maternal leave to have a baby in June of 2017.

- elias enjoys scheduling

- martin zones out when he has to read a statement, and often takes little notice of his surroundings when doing so/about to do so

- martin was looking for a book called "marvelous spiritualism and the circus in tge 19th century" and a guy named tom said tim had it checked out

- danny and tim didn't talk much, but were still close

- Abigail Ellison-who tim calls abby- is a mutual friend of tim and danny's from "back home"

- tim shipped danny and abby

- out of the two of them, danny was more assertive and tim "had never been able to stand in the way of his confidence"

- tim has a big armchair, a printer, and a couch

- melanie has made everyone in the archives cry

- [basira loved wtg until it "took a weird turn in season 3" when they introduced something she thought was odd

- melanie, basira, and martin used to go out for drinks, and martin and basira were gossip buddies

- Melanie's dad had dementia relatively young, but he always remembered her. He called her "Little Moth", and her mothers life insurance helped pay for him to be put into Ivy Meadows Care Home-where he was killed by the Corruption at the hands of John Amherst before Julia and Trevor burnt it down.

- julia is in her early thirties and wears nondescript hard wearing denim

- jon thought that reading statements could be a classical addiction, but decided that even if it was he had no time to, as he put it, "experiment"

- Peter was surprised that elias killed people kimself-implying elias has people to do murders for him. what other murders did he commission

- martin and basira both noticed something wrong with melanie after the Elias Incidint when her work started to deteriorate-martin said she'd always been "quite conscientious"

- right after being told by basira that standing by with a cup of tea wasnt enough, when melanie entered the room Martin immediately offered her a cup of tea.

- Martin knocked over a stack of papers and defended himself by saying that they shouldn't have been there. the absolute madlad

- after micheal stabbed jon, jon told martin he stabbed himself with a bread knife; and martin then proceeded to A) believe him and B) not trust him with anything sharp after that

- Gerry didn't care abt what happened in the unknowing bc he's a book. jon asked if he was serious. Gerry responded that he was, in fact, dead serious.

- gerry teases jon by saying he doesn't know anything before rescinding that statement avd giving the vaguest hint possible. he's such a dickhead i love him

- gerard didn't trust gertrude-he wanted to, but she reminded him of his mother

- gerard called trevor and julia "the van helsings"

- gerry was jealous of lietner bc his mom paid so much attention to them

- mary haunted gerard for 5 years before gertrude destroyed her, and gerry cried with relief when gertrude gave him back the destroyed book

- before the unknowing, daisy was running around killing mannequins and other Strangers

- tim didn't think they would be able to stope the unknowing

- jon would rather have tim where he could see him-which is why he let tim come (guilt guilt guilt guilt GUILT GUILT GUIL GU

- basiras dad couldn't stand people who passively whined about their problems. he always said "If you don't like something, you accept it and you adapt, or you fight, and you change it. Whining doesn't help."

- Melanie was depressed before the unknowing

- jon rambles about his latest insights and melanie wants to punch him.

- martin: "it felt good, weaving my own little web." "Also, i get to burn some stuff, so that's cool"

- basira was the one to suggest that they not tell Melanie they were doing surgery

-Daisy made jon listen to the Archers. "I hate it. but it feels... good, to hate something that can't hurt me"

[bubbleberryuniverse]

- GHOST PERI AU -

(AKA Petrified!Peri because that name is cool as FUCK.)

REFERENCES ALSO AVAILABLE HERE!

REGULAR COLORS / HIS BODY [NOT GHOST]

GHOST COLORS / HIM AS A GHOST

SO. You may be asking, "what happened to him?" And I am here to EXPLAIN! :]

This AU is still a fairly [pun unintended] big WIP, so some details are still all over the place/undecided, and some may change over time; constructive criticism, opinions/thoughts, questions, are all appreciated!

The general idea is, well... divergent from the finale. What if, after the chip is grabbed and Hazel, Wanda, [and maybe Cosmo? I don't recall if he goes with them/ends up somewhere else] go to fix the wand, Peri explodes. And it gets undone when Hazel wishes to fix Fairy World. Buuuttt... not quite!

It wasn't her 1 Millionth Wish that she used up on Fairy World— which is why it Doesn't Quite Fix Him Going Kaboomey. But I imagine that having 1Mil Wishes had a mild influence on What Happened and why exploding DID get fixed... sort of. [I need to brainstorm specifics on this.]

ANYWAY.

Peri looks GENERALLY normal most of the time, except for, well, *gestures at reference.* Outside of THAT [cracked wand, cracked crown [crack hidden by the glow], slightly off color pallete], there's some other stuff that's just a Hint of Wrong.

Like coughing up confetti and/or rainbows [without any other sign of magical backup [which he can't experience anymore because he did technically already die via backup.]] And sometimes the funny silly wacky expressions that happened during buildup [big ol' eyes/pupils, star shaped pupils, funny faces [like when he was talking to Dev.]

Throwing this in here. Sometimes he just stares like the TBH Creature. It's kinda silly kinda funny. I need to make a Petrified!Peri TBH emote because that fits well.

I was ALSO thinking about the idea that sometimes limbs can detach [the ghost fairy in that one ep is what gave me this thought], mostly for expressive purposes/fun silly purposes. It can be seen in this image here! Still DEBATING on this, though.

ANYWAY.

ANYWAY.

Cosmo and Wanda Don't Know He Died [because of not being right there] But something Is Off. Peri probably doesn't at first either until they [themself] put it together through context clues, and then they're like, "ooohh no, mom and dad probably don't know I exploded!" And he gets REALLY nervous about them finding out because that'd be A Lot and he doesn't want to Worry Them [because... he fucking died.]

So. There's a lot of him just trying not to Act Suspicious. Which only makes them both concerned! I have so many silly funny interactions between them that I imagine, actually!

Like...

Peri: *Talking. Suddenly... star pupils!*

Wanda: Um. Sweetie?

Peri: Hey do you see that?

Cosmo: Oooh, see what?

Peri: Over there! *Points.*

Cosmo + Wanda: *Looks over.*

Peri: *Disappears.*

WHICH. YEAH. SO. GHOST FORM. They're completely hidden when they're actually a GHOST, and has no wand/wings when they're a ghost, either [they do have wings normally, I just forgot to include them in the reference.] And I imagine whenever they poof into their ghost form that they leave a tiny bit of confetti behind!

ALSO.

He reassigns himself to Dev on his own [who didn't forget after the finale.] And his magic is kind of fucked up. Cause he's DEAD and look at his fucking WAND. So wishes kinda get fucked up when granted a bit sometimes ehehehaha...

ANYWAY.

I am also dumping my Peri headcanons onto him. They're transmasc nonbinary and use he/they pronouns and they're also aroace! :3

PLEASE. PLEASE send me any asks if you have any questions! You don't have to ask to draw them, either— just tag me in any art if you ever make any, please! :]

[blackkatdraws2]

4th Batch: The Guardians!

[Blank Scripts AU (non-canonical)]

Inside the deeper layers of the Parable marches the sinister army of monsters, born from the flesh of the Dungeon itself.

Alongside them are human workers, learning to cooperate with these beasts and come together for one purpose.

To protect and nurture the Parable.

BATCH LIST:

- [1st Batch: The Inhabitants] - [2nd Batch: The Janitors] - [3rd Batch: The Citizens] - [4th Batch: The Guardians]

↓ [Thoughts and Credits below] ↓

The fourth illustration is complete after a long, long time!!

Excuse how long it took me to do this one by the way, I have things to do IRL and my own projects to complete [very excited to finish those by the way, it's been so long since I've posted a new AMV hehe] so it took me a while to have the spare time and come back to the OCs / Self Inserts!

Anyway, I'll try disciplining myself to draw more of the submitted characters! I have 4 more batches [19 characters] to draw, so please be patient with me! ＞﹏＜

I swear I haven't forgotten about anyone! I've just been busy, hahaha.

Suru by @tsuru-yasunaga

ARRGHGHHH I REALLY LOVE THIS OMG?? I can totally see her working in the deeper layers of the Dungeon alongside the monsters ARGHH crazy I'm crazy [AND DON'T THINK I DON'T SEE THAT BLACK CAT LOGO ON HER SUIT ARGHHH SO COOL STOP]!!!?? I love that she has an axe, so badass...

Widget by @adventurecrimez

OUH??? Our little platelet doctor!! This reminds me so much about that one anime, Cells at Work... Anyway, I LOVE THEM!! They're so cute and helpful to have around <3

Axl by @tumbling-turmoil

AHEHEHE LITTLE GUY LITTLE GUY!!! For such a cute-looking thing, it sure has a very ominous-sounding title... The all-powerful Axl, decider of Fate.. bowing

Horns by @idunnowhattowriteheretbh

HWUAHE I LOVE THIS THING SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA this is making my creachure-loving brain go uueueueuw looking at this thing with big teary eyes btw I loved drawing their horns [haha funny name pun but yeah I actually did like drawing the horns btw :3]

Nugget by @thenamesmobu

This stinky old mannn, this creatuureee, this gruffy guuyyy hhehwuew he's so silly and he looks so cute but imagining him with a gruff old man voice will never not be funny to me

Abhorrence by @commit-vehicular-manslaughter

OOUHH?!??!! It's missing a leg... poor thing.. I also lived drawing this thing, it feels like a monster I'd see in the woods or something argh... a cryptid.. THE SKULL HEAD IS SO COOL PLEASE

Legal Distinct Bug by @test-url-please-ignore

hehehe little bug, I'm gonna make this thing into a marketable plushy, I will squish this thing very lovingly it's so BIG and it's so FLUFFY and it looks so CUTE I just wanna AGRHAWGGHAEGA let that thing crawl all over me please

[crappy-cat-the-tabby-cat]

the spiderverse script but only some of the notes i found particularly funny

they canon name for this guy being chopper copper

hehe feet feat pun

her cake runneth over...

spider-sense for fucks sake--

fuck it he ball

i love it when they use the fuck word for no reason

literal font change

>:(

PEACE

he COLD-COCKS HIM

yeahhhh spiderverse script came out today, very good read if you liked the movie it has a lot of insights and thoughts that weren't in it

PDF EDIT! I FUCKING FORGOT ACK https://deadline.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Spider-Man-Across-The-Spider-Verse-Read-The-Screenplay.pdf

[sorcerersseestars]

LIMERENCE (II)

Gojo Satoru x gn!reader

part i here

summary: Gojo is uncharacteristically insecure and unsure to the point of double guessing himself—something practically unheard of for the self-proclaimed Honored One. Meanwhile, the ever-feared blood-laden flowers make an unwelcome appearance.

word count: 6.7k

warnings: mentions of sickness and blood, descriptions of vomiting (caution to fellow ppl with emetophobia), characters are anxious and stressed!, cussing (obvs), use of (Y/N), kidnapping!

genre: hanahaki disease au, hurt/comfort, DRAMA

a/n: Here is part 2 (finally lol)! It is a whole 6.7k words (😫) to make up for not updating until now haha. This chapter features serious!Gojo and worried!Gojo 😳. It seems out of character but it’s intentional (or so I claim). Also, I kinda make a pun out of Utahime’s name—hime (姫) means princess in Japanese! Two last notes: for clarification—I use italics to emphasize things, but also for characters’ thoughts. Geto is still alive (still excommunicated tho) in this timeline. More notes at the end of the chapter!

“Hey, ‘Hime, when’s your lunch break today?”

He hears a scoff that hardly conceals the crackly laugh that follows through his speakers. Her laugh is delicate and bright, even over the phone.

“Don’t call me that, Gojo. Never been into the princess thing.”

“We’ve been over this, it’s Satoru. And what should I call you then? Hime is perfect, it’s literally in your name.”

“I’ll call you Satoru if you call me by my real name: Utahime.”

“You’re so boringgg! Come on!” He whines, pretending to pout.

Utahime breathes in sharply at his words, “Satoru…you shouldn’t say things like that.”

Gojo stops walking. His brow creases in confusion: this is how he has always behaved, with obviously facetious and playful words. Even the people that claim they can’t stand him the most, like Shoko and Nanami, recognize when his words are intentionally over the top or ridiculous. Utahime also knows this: he has not concealed this aspect of his personality from her.

He can’t stop his next words from being spoken with a twinge of annoyance. “I was kidding, you know. Is something wrong?”

Utahime sighs, “No, no. Sorry, I’m just a bit stressed since the higher-ups asked for a meeting with me. Have no idea what it’s about…”

“They did? So, you’re not free for lunch? Please say you are…”

His words feel unnatural and stilted, but he brushes the feeling aside. He’s probably just nervous since it’s her, right?

“Yeah, I’m going to my meeting in a few, but I should be able to make it. Could you get the reservation for us?” Utahime asks, tone leaning on snippy.

“Mm, maybe. What’s the magic word?” He teases with a playful tone, trying to lighten her mood. This should work, it should make her feel better. He has experience with this.

“C’mon Gojo, not now,” She groans, apparently disgruntled. “But, fine, could you please make the reservation?”

He frowns. Not exactly the reaction he anticipated.

“Okay, but next time you gotta call me Satoru,” He says with a small awkward chuckle, this time easing up a bit on his teasing tone. “I’ll let you off the hook this time, though.”

“Sure,” She snorts, but not in the way that she would if she thought it was funny. It’s a sardonic snort, rather, and he would bet money that her eyes are rolling.

A loud click signals the end of conversation, but his phone remains pressed to his ear. He lowers it slowly, a strange feeling swirling in his chest. It’s an uneasy, heavy feeling from deep down, but he can’t discern what exactly it means.

“Why would I expect that to work?” He mutters to himself. “That’s so annoying, who would tolerate that?”

Suddenly, an image flashes under his eyelids, almost making him flinch at how intensely it conjures itself. A vivid apparition of you doubled over in laughter appears in his mind. It’s a memory, he realizes: you’re leaning on him as tears part from your eyes, unable to catch your breath due to how hard you’re laughing at one of his horrible, stupid jokes.

He remembers this moment well. You had been crying for real before—quietly sniffling, trying to hide it from him. He knew that you hated crying in front of others—trying to always appear strong, he knew this feeling well—so he started direct attention away from it with the corniest jokes he could make. That’s when your tears, first full of the hurt that he could clearly see in your crumpled expression, turned into ones of relief and joy. Your eyes had sparkled with some other emotion he couldn’t identify—something familiar, something that made him feel warm in the chest, but also made him feel so, so scared.

He never did figure out what it was. Or, rather, he has tried not to dwell on it. Every time it pops into his head, he pushes it down, the fear rising in him each time he comes closer to the answer.

Utahime never made him feel like that. That must be better. He never feels scared like that when he thinks of his feelings for her. That must be better, it has to be.

He enjoys talking to Utahime. He likes that he can get under her skin with little effort, likes how easily he can get a rise out of her: and most of the time, she’s amused by it, giggling and slapping his arm. He’s never scared with Utahime, but…why does something feel wrong?

His fingers, typing in his name for the reservation, pause and begin to tremble when he sees what he typed. He typed your name. His eyes widen beneath his blindfold—he’s grateful it helps to conceal his expression, even if nobody he knows is around. In truth, this is partly why he seldom removes it; he masks his true emotions more often than not. Not that anyone suspects it, though, too convinced by his saccharine smiles and forever jocular personality.

The blue horizontal line blinks in and out of existence as his fingers hover over his keyboard. Your name, though written in normal text, appears bolded to him: it sucks his attention away from anything else on his screen. He begins to break out in a sweat.

Sweating just from their name? How pathetic…

He shakes his head, frantically backspacing, trying to erase all traces of you from his mind. He’s been trying to do this for months, ever since he began to distance himself from you. There is a legitimate reason he has been giving you the cold shoulder, but it feels like an excuse to drive away this fear that grips him when he thinks of that warmth, that sparkle in your eyes.

Fuck. Now he can’t get that image of you out of his mind—his chest aches, his breathing comes quicker, but he does not know why.

He walks almost endlessly in the town he booked the restaurant in, in a pace-like fashion. His large stature and height make the brisk pace he walks at look absurdly hurried to passerbys: they stare at him unabashedly and he barely notices.

It’s only when he checks his phone that he realizes how much time has passed since he called Utahime. His reservation is soon: he will be late if he doesn’t start walking there now. Shit.

His breath comes heavy when he finally reaches the restaurant. It’s a casual yet nice ramen place—something familiar yet suitable for a lunch date. He’s wearing a baby blue button down shirt, nice slacks, and trades in his blindfold for heavily shaded sunglasses: also suitable for a lunch date.

A date. Yes, that’s what he’s on. A nice lunch date with a girl whom he kissed before the first date. A bit untraditional, not that he would be one to mind.

He approaches the hostess, about to ask for a table for two, but then he spots a familiar red ribbon perfectly adorning the dark strands of hair she always pulls back. She’s already here, sitting alone in the corner.

Gojo sighs. Fuck, ‘messed up again.

He hurriedly stumbles over to Utahime, probably looking a bit disheveled. She gives him a questioning glance at his appearance—Gojo laughs and immediately plasters on an easy smile.

“Hey,” He says nonchalantly, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite her.

“Hey. You’re late,” She notes, but she doesn’t sound as bothered as he thought she would. “Did something happen? You look…like something happened.”

He goes along with it, sighing dramatically, “How’d you know? Yeah, Yaga was bothering me about some mission stuff. Dumb paperwork I’m supposed to do and whatever.”

She smiles, but it’s tight lipped, “Of course. But that doesn’t explain why you’re all sweaty.”

“I am?” He questions, feigning confusion, but his next words are partly true. “Ah, well, I realized I was gonna be late since he was pestering me so much. Guess I walked too fast.”

“Hmm,” Is all she says. She stirs the tea in front of her with a small spoon, expression blank as she does so.

Once he realizes she isn’t going to initiate talking further, he takes it upon himself, “How did the meeting go?”

She stops stirring. She sets down the spoon more harshly than she means to: it clangs loudly on the tea tray.

“I have some questions,” She says seriously.

“Questions? About what?” He asks.

Her dark, stormy eyes meet his. “…About you.”

He gulps, “Sure! What type of questions? You know, people ask me a lot of stuff. I’m sure I can handle anything.”

He winks at her, his usual smirk spreading across his face. Maybe if he jokes he can diffuse this god-awful tension. Not that it worked before, but he can try.

Utahime blinks slowly, exhaling deeply, as if attempting to calm herself down. He can see the fire in her eyes between blinks.

“How about that the higher-ups were asking me about my relation to you, when they believed you to only show interest in someone else?”

No. They can’t still believe that.

Terror strikes Gojo’s heart, electrifying his nerves, but he tries to play it off. He breathes out a chuckle and a few weak words, “That wasn’t a question.”

“For once in your life, be serious! We’ve only been dating for 3 weeks and I–” She inhales deeply. “I don’t think it’s a good sign that you’re intentionally avoiding answering me about this.”

“I’m not, I just don’t know what you’re talking about. Who did they even ask about? I can’t think of anyone they could say that about.” He’s lying through his teeth. Alarm bells are ringing through his head, and he dreads her answer.

She narrows her eyes, but seems convinced enough at his alleged cluelessness.

“They were asking about (Y/N). Asking about…your relationship with them. About how close you are. Asking if it’s changed.”

Gojo takes a sip from his glass, avoiding her eyes.“Well, did they say why? Seems awfully strange to ask you about it.”

She’s silent for a few seconds, mulling over her next words. They end up making Gojo bristle. “Satoru, you know I couldn’t tell you even if they did.”

His tone is abruptly serious. “The hell does that mean?”

She blinks at him slowly, with anger flashing in her dark eyes. “Gakuganji is very involved with them. If I told you, it would definitely get back to him. Who knows how he would punish me.”

"So you'd rather possibly endanger (Y/N)?" Gojo scoffs.

“Who said anything about danger?” Utahime says lowly, suspicion clear in her voice.

“Well, when the higher ups ask questions about my life, it usually isn’t just for fun,” Gojo says with a shrewd smile. “I don’t know what the hell they’re thinking so I can only assume the worst.”

“Does this really matter right now? (Y/N) is capable enough if it does turn out like that, and besides, I sorted it all out. Told them that your ‘relationship’ is fine and dandy and yada yada.”

Gojo sucks in a breath, nerves beginning to turn in his stomach. No. No! That’s not what I wanted…

Utahime doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort and continues, “You two have always been close…didn’t you have a thing for each other in high school? They have always had these eyes for you.”

Her tone is strange, gushing and gossipy yet also jealous.

“What?” Gojo says more loudly than intended as he takes in all of the information Utahime just casually dropped.

“You know, I even told them that you two were meant to be together,” She chuckles. “Funny how things work out—or, rather, don’t work out.”

Gojo’s stomach twists painfully at her insinuation—even though it shouldn’t. He likes Utahime, he’s with Utahime. Not with you. He’s not with you, he has never been with you.

“Gojo,” Utahime says suddenly. He blinks rapidly in surprise, eyes finally landing on hers. “Can we agree to be honest with each other?”

“Of course. What do you mean?” He says easily, nervously.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” She shakes her head. “You’re deflecting at every question I ask. You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

Gojo lets himself sigh this time.

He studies her expression. She’s beautiful, he has to admit. She’s beautiful, but she’s not you.

“Utahime…what is this all about?” He asks slowly.

“I should be asking you that,” She counters. “Why did you ask me out if you won’t actively participate in our relationship?”

“What do you mean? I’m here, aren’t I?” Gojo responds carefully.

“But you mind isn’t,” Utahime sighs. “You’re miles away, Satoru. You always are. When you’re with me, you’re not thinking of me, are you?”

The question is so accurate that it seems rhetorical to Gojo, to the point of him not responding for many moments before he realizes she is genuinely asking him.

It’s so true and yet he physically cannot bring himself to admit to it. “I mean, I think about the higher-ups and work related stuff a lot. I’m sorry I haven’t been that present on dates and stuff, but–”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Gojo!” Utahime hisses out, tone bordering on venomous. “You’re always thinking about them. You make decisions thinking of them. I bet even when you kiss me, you think about them. Are you going to deny that?”

“Utahime…” He says softly, guilt constricting his vocal chords.

“I don’t understand you, Gojo. You asked me out and have taken me on fancy dates as if you want a committed relationship, but then your mind is always wandering away. I know that you still care for them, but then I heard from Shoko that you’ve been ignoring them for months. And then the fucking higher-ups ask me your relationship with them. Why would they ask me that and why would they even care? Something isn’t adding up. What’s really going on here?”

Gojo blinks in surprise at the depth of concern in her voice. It’s like she has already moved on from her jealousy towards you, and now is worried for you.

He must look surprised, because she adds on, “Just so you know, I’m not that sad. You’re kind of a shithead for doing this to me, but this wasn’t that serious for me. Obviously not for you, either.”

Gojo winces. Everything she has said so far has been true, but he wishes it wasn’t.

“Iori, I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t even realize that…that I was doing that,” Gojo sighs. “And to answer your question—I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I think I owe it to you. I don’t know what’s going on either, and that’s what scares me. I have no idea what they want or what they’re plotting, but it can’t be anything good.”

Utahime sits there with a small smirk on her face. When he raises an eyebrow at her expression, she just chuckles and shakes her head. “You can’t even say their name. Just how much denial are you in?”

He can’t even answer. He just sits there, a hand brushing his cheeks in order the cover the warmth the rises at the mention of the depth of his denial concerning his feelings for you.

When she realizes he isn’t going to answer, Utahime rises out of her seat. “Well, I guess I can say I’m officially breaking up with you, not that you or I really care. Just…if you need help with this, just know I’m in your corner, yeah? Unless it’s something to do with Gakuganji, and in that case my hands would be tied. Otherwise, just ask. You know, I wasn’t joking when I said I rooted for you guys in high school. That’s a fact and I can’t deny it.

You should really figure this out—for their sake. It sounds like they’re not having the best time with it. And besides, as much as it pains me to say it, you owe it to yourself after fighting against whatever feelings you have had for them for so many years.”

He doesn’t interrupt her even once, instead quietly absorbing her advice. He fidgets at the mention of his feelings for you, still uncomfortable even at the thought of them. Still scared.

“Goodbye for now, Satoru. I hope you figure all this shit out. Have a nice lunch,” She says coldly as she readies her things. Her coldness stings a bit, but what else could he expect?

“Oh, one last thing,” Utahime pauses. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me this, but I guess you’re too in over to head right now to think straight. I think I might know partly why they have taken an interest in (Y/N).”

Gojo’s gaze turns to her sharply, blue eyes bright with curiosity behind his shades. “Why? How do you know?”

“I think the higher-ups must have asked Yaga about them. I forgot until now, but they were asking me if I knew anything about (Y/N)‘s identity. And who would know better than anyone? Your nosey principal who digs deep on everyone,” She rolls her eyes, huffing out a small but humorless laugh. “Well, that should be it then. Bye, ex-boyfriend.”

She gives him one last look, then struts away with her head held high. He sincerely hopes she isn’t hurting too much, despite her very “okay with it” façade.

So it has to do with your identity? In Satoru’s view, you have somewhat of an average identity for a sorcerer. A grade one sorcerer who comes from a sorcerer family. You had not inherited your clan’s special innate technique, but you are still pretty strong regardless. There’s nothing unusual about your background, or at least to the best of his knowledge.

And yet this sickening feeling has begun to creep into his stomach, that feeling that something is horribly wrong. What he does not know is what he cannot control, and each heartbeat and breath of his feels tortured with the knowledge that you may not be safe.

Shoko won’t stop texting you, almost on the hour, despite your radio silence. It’s strange when you think about it—she has always hated texting, always grumbling that it’s going to give her carpal tunnel someday. And yet here she is, blowing up your phone with notifications.

You haven’t been to school in weeks, taking mission after mission instead. It’s very obvious that you’ve been avoiding Shoko and Gojo, but you won’t admit that.

The missions have been grueling and gruesome—your stomach turns when the curses you exorcised spring to mind. They were ghastly and frankly were some of the most mentally scarring curses you’ve encountered. So, you’ve decided to take a break.

You feel your skin crawl when you’re sitting at home doing nothing—the curses come to mind much more easily, and also thoughts of him—so you abandon being cozy for the sake of your mind. It’s cold outside, so cold that your breath greets you in a cloud with every puff of air you release. Winter has arrived, and it nips at your cheeks and numbs your extremities just to remind you.

You haven’t been coping well, and you know it. Avoiding thoughts of Gojo has not been working very well, even after physically avoiding him. You try to forget what you heard that day, but it won’t escape your mind no matter how much you distract yourself. You think of Utahime: her beauty, her quiet strength, of how she always seems so calm and collected and yet somehow always makes her voice heard. She has everything that you lack.

The skin of your face burns with envy when you think about her. And when you picture her with Gojo—her dark eyes looking into his pooling blue depths, her leaning forward and up to kiss him—your chest crumbles in on itself.

It hurts. Right now, everything surrounding Gojo Satoru hurts.

But today, you will change that. This will definitely help. You’ve taken yourself out of your apartment and straight into a place that has always lifted your spirits—the local florist.

You scour the aisles, wincing at the very romantic red roses and the bright yellow daffodils. But then something catches your eye: an array of festive bouquets.

You end up picking out a bouquet fit for the season: it features a string of cranberries, enveloped by branches of pine and pinecones, with a striped garland draped around it all. Despite all of your poisonous feelings inside, you crack a small smile at the sight.

You take it home, putting care into the beautiful and yet flowerless bouquet. You carefully mix the plant food into a vase full of cool water, cut the ends of the stems under running water, then submerge the bouquet.

It brings a sense of homeliness that you’ve been desperately missing ever since you’ve starting living on your own. It almost soothes the ache in your chest.

But, as always, reality swoops in to remind you that you cannot run from your feelings within. Within only minutes of arranging the new bouquet, you accidentally swipe at the vase. It crashes to the floor, the glass shattering everywhere, glinting beautifully as it spins through the air. The cranberries begin to bleed into the water, the impact too much for them to tolerate.

You bend down, slowly processing the collision. When you stare into the expanding pool of water, you see wild eyes brimming with pain. Brimming with heartache. It is then that you are painfully reminded what cranberries represent: a cure for heartache.

The irony is not lost on you. You begin to howl in laughter, and the voice that reverberates back to you sounds crazed.

Then, it begins. You abruptly stop breathing; you are choked, silenced, almost as if something is blocking your airway. And then your throat begins to convulse, an instinctual reaction to choking, and you have no choice but to obey your body. You stumble through the shards of glass and collapse at the foot of your toilet. You heave and heave—whatever is lodged in your throat is large, making it difficult and painful to retch up.

When you finally use enough force to hack up the offending object, you freeze at the sight in front of you. Vibrant hydrangeas the same color as his eyes float in a murky red cloud. Blue hydrangeas: a symbol of rejection and regret.

Your chest bursts in pain at the realization. You are in love with Gojo Satoru, and he doesn’t love you back.

You feel another bloom emerging from within. You shudder in fear, knowing that you have little time left. Once the flowers present themselves, death is almost always imminent.

You spend the next few hours by the toilet, conjuring a newer, more painful bouquet than the one that lays in shattered remains in your living room.

“You told them what?” Gojo exhales deeply, a sigh following his exasperated words. He pinches the bridge of his nose—a gesture uncharacteristic for someone as self-assured as him.

“That (Y/N) is important to you,” Yaga Masamichi states calmly. “Satoru, there is no reason to fret. Their intentions concerning this matter are pure.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now? The higher-ups intentions are anything but pure.”

“I can sense that you are agitated,” He observes, eyebrows beginning to furrow. “But you are blinded by your bias. They first and foremost protect our community. (Y/N) is of no threat to Jujutsu society, thus they should be in no danger.”

“You don’t understand,” Gojo shakes his head. He is clearly angry, but now his nerves are showing through more: his voice is uneven and his tone has an air of desperation. “The higher-ups are out to get them. I don’t have any answers for that, even though I’ve been searching for months. I’ve had to show indifference towards (Y/N) to convince them that there is nothing between us, and it was starting to work. Why did you tell them this without consulting me first?”

A frown etches Masamichi’s stony features. Behind his shaded glasses, his eyes rake over his former student, taking in his state. Gojo isn’t one to openly show fear or anxiety, yet his breathing is audibly shaky and his fingers twitch by his side.

“I see I have made a mistake,” Masamichi concedes. “But why are you so convinced the higher-ups have ill intentions toward them?”

Gojo begins to pace back and forth in front of Yaga’s desk—also very unlike him.

“They called me to meet them a few months ago, asking what my relationship with (Y/N) is. I brushed it off at first and basically told them to stop sticking their nose into my business, but then I started to notice something.”

Gojo pauses by a window. The light streams down onto his face, illuminating his rather uncommonly stoic portrait.

“They started assigning (Y/N) missions that were labeled as second or first grade, but actually turned out to be special grade. And it can’t be coincidental—the incident rate of this happening is much higher for (Y/N)’s assignments than any other person.”

“That does seem to be true,” Masamichi comments, thinking back to reports he’s reviewed.

“No, not seem,” Gojo snaps. “That is the reality of this situation. Ever since I realized that, I’ve acted coldly towards (Y/N), distancing myself as much as possible. And guess what? No more special grade missions. Less injuries. And—”

“Satoru!” Masamichi raises his voice, pulling Gojo out of his frantic spiel. He blinks in surprise; he didn’t even realize how much or how fast he has been speaking.

“I don’t know what they are thinking or planning, but stressing like this will not help the situation. This is our world; this is how they operate,” Masamichi says, leaning forward and resting his chin on steepled fingers. “We will find a way around this.”

“It shouldn’t be like this,” Gojo says, voice rumbling deep and low, dangerously quiet.

“They are resistant to change,” Masamichi counters. “We can’t directly influence their decisions.”

“Not if they can’t make them anymore,” Satoru snorts, a dark and bitter smirk curling his lips.

“That is completely out of the question,” Yaga says firmly in a warning tone.

“Their thinking is antiquated,” Gojo argues. “I think we need a complete refresh.”

“And yours is too radical and rash. No, Gojo. I will not even entertain your idea.” Yaga says with a note of finality.

“Won’t you let me have my fun?” Gojo sighs, exaggerating his disappointment. “You’re such a drag, old man.”

Yaga almost smiles. He’s back to his normal antics.

“So, there is nothing that you can think of that would cause the higher-ups to go after them like this? I know you looked into all of your students closely even before you became principal. You must know something.”

Yaga frowns. You were his student and, as Gojo claims, he did thoroughly look into your background. But—how can you truly be thorough when the information presented is so little?

“There was little to nothing on them,” Yaga says. “Even when I tried digging further, I didn’t find much. However…there are rumors that they have made a Binding Vow.”

“A Binding Vow?” Gojo echoes back. “That’s very vague. That can mean practically anything.”

“But it’s still interesting, is it not?” Yaga says with a wry smile. “If the higher-ups have heard, we can only assume that the Binding Vow is with another entity, not with themselves. Otherwise, why would they be interested? That is assuming this is true, of course.”

“Who did you hear this from?” Gojo asks. “Someone credible?”

“I’m not sure about their credibility. And you can’t really go out and interrogate them, even if you wanted to. If you did, there would be another expectation for your visit.”

Gojo grows suspicious from his obvious attempt at a non-answer, “Yaga, who?”

He sighs, “Geto Suguru.”

There’s silence. Then, Gojo cackles—it’s a bitter and sardonic laugh, slightly crazed as well—and shakes his head.

“Of course. Of course it was from him,” Gojo continues laughing, a hand covering his face this time. “Guess you’re right—there’s no avenue for conversation there. In that case, I’ve gotta go. See ya, old man.”

Yaga bristles at the nickname, but does not attempt chastise Gojo as he walks away without waiting for Yaga’s response. It simply doesn’t work, so why waste his breath?

Gojo walks out, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He opens his text conversation with you, fingers twitching over the keyboard. But what would he even say? The last texts are all from you, scattered over a few weeks from literal months ago. He didn’t respond to any of them. He feels the need to contact you, but how would he even start that? ‘Hey, I know I’ve been ignoring you for months, but I heard that you might have told Geto that you made a Binding Vow and I think the higher-ups know about it.’

Nope. That’s not gonna work. He swipes the texting app out of existence, then locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket.

He leans back on the pillar, resting his head while he closes his eyes. Why does everything surrounding you have to be so complicated? Then, a series of hurried footsteps meets his ears, and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who it is. Gojo is ambushed by someone he hasn’t seen for a few days—your mutual friend, Shoko.

“I heard what happened from Utahime,” She says immediately.

Gojo exhales loudly, not even trying to conceal his annoyance, “Shoko, I really don’t have time for this right now.”

“No. Tell me what’s going on.” She says firmly, her tone hard.

“What? We broke up. What’s more to say?” Gojo says dismissively.

“No, Gojo. That’s not all there is. Things have been going on. She told me that she’s concerned for (Y/N) but wouldn’t tell me more. And it just so happens that I have been texting them just about every day for weeks and have heard nothing back. Tell me there’s ‘nothing more to say’ again! Because obviously something is going on.”

Gojo inhales sharply, his breath suspended at her words. He shifts his weight forward, finally leaning away from the pillar. Shoko takes notice of his surprise.

She sighs, deciding to clarify one detail, “They’ve still been taking missions so I assume that they’re fine…but they’ve never ghosted me like this. Even back then, when Geto…they didn’t…agh. Well, you know what I’m saying. I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

He only really gathered one thing from that. So you’re safe for now. Gojo recovers, his expression evening out into something more normal.

“Shoko, I don’t want to complicate things further,” Gojo sighs. “Too many people are already involved in this, ones I had no intention of involving. I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I should say anything.”

“You ass!” She shouts at him, making his eyes widen under his blindfold. Shoko never blows up like this—she’s always indifferent and sort of passive. “They’re my friend too, and I want to know what’s going on!”

“I don’t know what’s going on!” Gojo blurts out. Shoko blinks rapidly, shocked by the volume of his voice. He hates getting emotional like this, but he can’t help it when he’s so fucking worried. “I don’t know, Shoko. The higher-ups have been probing into my life, but this time– this time it’s about them, and I don’t know why they want to know. I don’t know what they’re looking for. I’m just praying every day that they stop, but then somebody else in our circle tells me that the higher-ups keep mentioning them. I don’t know what’s going on, but it can’t be good.”

She looks at him, finally noticing how…un-Gojo-like he looks and sounds. Worrying about others isn’t something that Gojo does, or at least not something he ever speaks about. He never has his brow creased like he does right now. He doesn’t bite his lip in worry, either, so why is he biting down so hard he’s almost pulling blood?

“Okay,” Shoko yields. “Okay. I believe you. I didn’t realize…I didn’t believe that you still cared so much.”

“You don’t even know,” He mutters under his breath, but Shoko still hears it. She acts like she doesn’t.

“Well, if you hear anything, tell me, okay?” Shoko asks him with a low exhale. “They’re really stressing me out.”

She pulls out a lighter and a cigarette, prepared to light up. The blinks, and the cigarette now lays on the ground, mysteriously absent from her grip.

“Fuck you,” She grumbles. “You know, that’s littering.”

She hates to say it, but her chest, heavy with worry, lightens a bit as his regular smirk spreads across his face. She feels a bit more hopeful as Gojo disappears in front of her, the wind from the teleportation blowing her hair and lab coat around furiously.

“If only you two weren’t idiots, this mess might have solved itself ages ago,” She chuckles to herself. “The densest people I know.”

Your lungs ache. You wheeze with each breath. You blink blearily, rubbing your eyes with one hand. You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep while you’ve been laying on the cold tile in your bathroom. The air is tinged with iron—the smell of your own blood curdles your stomach.

“What time is it?” You mutter to yourself, and jolt at the sound of your own voice. It’s raspy and weak; you almost don’t recognize it as being your own.

Your hands skate across the smooth tile as you try to locate your phone. When you finally do, you grab it and bring it close to your face. Your eyes, barely cracked open, ache at the bright light of your screen.

The time reads as 3:31 AM. You’ve really been here for that long? Under the time, a plethora of texts from Shoko appear. You groan and slam your phone back down on the ground, ignoring the guilt that rises from how long you’ve been flat out ignoring your friend.

I’m being just like Gojo. Your lips curl down at the realization.

You feel a wave of weakness wash over you, and you are forced to lay back down on the ground. You are half conscious, vision swimming half through dream and half through reality. You can barely think, barely process your own actions.

You feel cold metal in your hands, smooth glass under your fingers. You are tapping randomly, the light blinding you so much that you can’t open your eyes to see what exactly you’re doing.

All you hear is your own horrible breath. And then you hear a voice.

“(Y/N)? You called me?”

You blink blankly in confusion. Did you? You can only assume that you did.

“‘Guess so,” You try to say, but you can barely get it out with how sore your throat is. “Who…who is it?”

“What do you mean? You called me, silly.” They say with a small chuckle. “It’s like 3 am. Are you drunk or something?”

Why can’t you recognize their voice? Their voice sounds underwater to you. Your head is spinning so much and your ears begin to ring. Your feel yourself slipping from reality.

You hear yourself saying words, but you don’t remember thinking them.

“No…gonna pass out. Or die. Can’t tell.”

“What? (Y/N), what’s going on? Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you right now.”

You swear you know that voice. It’s deep and smooth, but filled with so much worry that you barely recognize it. He’s never sounded this scared before.

“Oh, you’re…you’re Satoru,” You wheeze out. “Why? Why you?”

You’re not making much sense, you don’t think. But you can’t, not with how far from reality you are right now.

You called him? It’s just too painful, too cruel a fate, that you accidentally called the man you’re in love with and who doesn’t love you back while you’re knocking on death’s door. You cough violently and choke on the bloody petals that rise to your throat. You wince in pain and struggle to breathe.

He is bordering on panic now, but he fights to keep it out of his voice. “It’s okay, (Y/N), just tell me where you are. You’re on a mission, r-right? I’ll come get you. Just hold on.”

Confusion floods your brain. A mission? Are you on a mission? Is that why the scent of blood is clogging your nose?

Your heart beat pounds in your head, faster and faster. It’s scary just how confused you are—how do you not know where you are?

“I don’t know,” You choke out. You didn’t even realize you were crying. “I don’t know where I am.”

“It’s okay, c-can you check your phone for me? It’ll tell you your location. Just open it and–” His breathing is fast. “And check in your maps. Please. Please (Y/N), I need you to do this for me. Then–then everything will be okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” You answer softly. “How do–”

You startle at the sound of a loud bang, your own gasp cutting off your words.

The door to your bathroom—that’s where you are—is knocked down, nearly missing your form where you lay on the tile.

Satoru is calling your name desperately, his voice louder with each repetition of your name. You can’t decipher any other words, but you know he’s shouting things, trying to get you to say something, to say anything so that he knows you’re okay.

A dark shape towers over you. You can’t make out who it is with your blurry vision and with how dark it is—but you are immediately intimidated by their large, broad frame.

“There you are,” They snarl. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this to happen. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

You scramble to get up, grabbing your phone while you unsteadily rise on your shaky legs. You are an inch away from passing out and you fight the feeling with every ounce of your strength.

“Not looking too good, are we?” He says, tutting mockingly. “That’s perfect. Remember what we agreed on, my dear (Y/N)?”

You stare at him blankly, no recognition in your eyes.

“Silly me! Of course you don’t remember. That was intentional, you know. A good move on my part,” He chuckles, and it’s a soft sound that juxtaposes his words. “While you’re the one who has to suffer. Don’t blame me too much, though…this is all situational. It’s not like I ever disliked you or anything. It just has to be like this.”

You hear Satoru’s voice again, and this time it sounds dangerous, “Who the fuck is that?”

Anger runs through the man’s features, and he strikes the hand that carries your phone harshly. You yelp loudly both in surprise and in pain. Your phone clatters to the ground, instantly silenced. Probably broken beyond repair.

His words are chastising and almost playful, but he is furious. “You shouldn’t talk to him anymore, (Y/N). That’s not part of our agreement.”

Then he grabs hold of you and begins dragging you out of the room. You scream loudly, kicking and punching him as much as you can as you’re moved against your will. You are a strong sorcerer, but all of your cursed energy and strength has been sapped away by this horrible disease that afflicts you. You are powerless to stop this man.

There’s one thing you were mistaken about. With the crunch your phone made as it shattered against the ground, you assumed it was completely broken. That’s only partly true: the speakers were damaged, no sound coming out, but your phone actually survived. Your microphone continued to pick up every scream and cry you made as you were dragged against your will—kidnapped. He heard every whimper of pain and every plea of yours for the man to stop! and to let you go!

Even in this state, your heart would ache if you had heard the unadulterated fear that gripped his voice as he shouted and screamed for you through his phone.

Even if you didn’t recognize the man who manhandled you out of your apartment, Gojo Satoru has no doubts about who it was. It makes his blood boil thinking about it—he’s never going to forgive him for this, even if they used to be best friends.

next part

a/n 2: Thank you so much for reading, it means a lot!! This got a bit out of my hands, I will admit…I ended up writing some details I hadn’t planned on (and a lot more lol) 😅 But I think it actually makes it more interesting!

TAGLIST: @certainduckanchor @kawaiivillainess98 @arehzhera @starrylibras @mandysfanfics @rain-and-a-nice-nap @csillana @sup-hoes-its-me @llliissuu @hawkdaddy1111 @unoriginalidea

@dcvilxswish @angel-kyo @eliz-lovesgojo @5268r @wooasecret @timetobegone @ceronnica @torusblindfold @mo0nforme @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @dasztasha

@soapysofi @qualitygiantshoepsychic

Some of these tags didn’t work, but I hope it still tags you…Lmk if I typed anything in wrong haha. 😌

[luimagines]

Steel Trap Mind (1600 Follower Raffle)

Our first place winner was @goopyartiste!

They asked for anything Warrior related so I was given total free reign. :D

Enjoy.

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

“Is he awake?”

“Is he alive?”

“Don’t speak so loudly. Everything’s going to be ok.”

“I need to see him!”

“He took a really bad hit-”

“Lost a lot of blood-”

“-amazing he even survived.”

He groans loudly and turns his head. It’s killing him- not that he wants to make a bad pun over the words he’s been overhearing. There’s voices all around him, he gathers that much. It’s bright on the other side so he keeps his eyelids closed but he can’t help the groan that escapes him as he enters into the waking world once again.

“He’s awake!”

“Oh thank the three!”

“Warrior, you’re ok!”

He huffs and figures that he should at least try to figure out where he is. At least they sound concerned over him. But who’s this Warrior they mentioned? Maybe he’s in the other bed next to him. He’s sure that there’s a lot of men in the infirmary right now. It couldn’t have only been him. He can’t seem to remember how he got here. Was the attack that bad?

What was his name? Link.

Does he have a family? No.

Is anyone waiting for him at home? No.

Where is he now? Well that's a question he has to figure out now, ain't it?

He groans again and forces his eyes open. The lights have dimmed. How considerate. 

There’s a bunch of people around his bed, teary eyed and all wearing expressions of varying degrees of relief. He frowns. Who are they?

“I’m so happy you’re alright.” You say. You reach down and take his hand, holding it gently. Your other hand comes up to caress his cheek, almost lovingly. 

Link can’t think much of anything right now. Only that his head hurts and he doesn’t think he’s home right now. He looks around the room and frowns a little bit. This isn’t the medical ward for the wounded soldiers. “Where am I?”

“We’re in a random town.” A boy with more scars on his face than Link has seen someone have. His hair is long and he has more scars on his arm that Link can see. “You were hit in the head so we brought you here to the local inn to recover.”

Link lets the information sink in. Strangers, then. Very kind strangers. He sighs and leans back on the bed. He was attempting to sit up but he must have been in worse shape than he thought if he could hardly lift his head off of the pillow. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well next time try not to die, alright?” Another boy sasses him. He has pink hair somehow but Link gets the idea that he’s familiar with him. Stranger still- Link has never seen this boy before in his life. “We’ve got enough heroes between us all that there’s no need to make unnecessary sacrifices.”

“You scared me.” You say, gripping his hand tighter. You’re smiling softly even as you start to tear up again. You bring his hand up and kiss the back of it. “Don’t ever do that again. Promise me.”

You know him. You know him. You have to, or else you wouldn’t be doing that.

Link gets the impression that he’s important to you. But- He grimaces slightly, already imagining what this is going to sound like. “...Who are you?”

Everyone in the room goes still.

You seem to freeze entirely and grip his hand impossibly tighter. Frantic panic increases in your eyes as you search his face for something- anything. “You’re kidding, right? Link, this isn’t funny.”

“You know my name.” He whispers softly. The look that crosses over your face is absolutely heartbreaking. 

Tears start streaming down your face before you can even speak. “It’s me! You love me! I love you!”

“I don’t know you.” He settles for. Link doesn’t think he can be gentle with another person like this. Cia was bad enough. Granted, she never said that she loved him. Let alone claimed that he loved her but there have been countless others that have tried to get him to see to reason with similar arguments. He really needs to talk to Zelda about this.

“Hey now.” An older man speaks. “Settle down.”

Link looks at him and changes that assumption. He’s older than him, sure, but enough to actually phrase it that way. He has similar markings on his face though. Link things that if he tries hard enough he can remember why they ring a bell in his head. 

The man puts a hand on your shoulder and very gently pulls you away before you can collect yourself and potentially strike him. “It was a bad hit. Remember that.”

Yeah, ok- the older gentleman isn’t not talking to him.

“Warrior, what’s the last thing you remember?’ Another young man- wait, how many people are here again?- steps closer and puts the back of his hand on his forehead as if he was checking for a fever.

Admittedly, Link might be a little warm. His head still hurts. “Who’s Warrior?”

The room feels as if he had just lit a short fuse on a bomb.

You choke on a sob and Link turns his attention back to you. It’s a heart wrenching sound. As if someone had just stabbed you, or worse, killed someone in front of you. You are quickly escorted out of the room by three of the young men around him. The boy with the scars, another with a fur pelt, and the older gentleman are quick to take you out of the room.

The remaining people (five, he’s counted this time) all stare at him with varying levels of shock and despair.

“...Do you remember us?” A small voice comes from his left. There’s a boy. He’s young. He’s wearing a blue shirt with a lobster on it- hold on.

“You.” Link says and he feels a smile grow on his face. It’s weak and it doesn’t erase the pain he’s feeling, but the familiar face is nice. “I remember you, pirate. You’ve gotten bigger since the last time I saw you.”

“Not really.” He smiles bashfully, stepping closer to the side of the bed. “Do you remember anyone else?”

Link feels the weight behind that question. Looking around the remaining faces, he can’t say that he knows who they are. “Who are they, kiddo?”

The young boy gulps and bites his lip. “It’s a long story.”

One of them sighs and rubs his hand over his face. He’s a rather built young man with a long white cape over his back. Link thinks that maybe he can find someone to fix his scarf to look that cool. “This… is unideal.”

“You don’t say.” Someone snaps. It’s the smallest one there, but the voice doesn’t match the height. He’s probably older than Link originally thought. Link likes his tunic though. Very colorful.

A heart wrenching sob makes its way through the doorway as the older gentleman walks in again. It’s you. 

Link knows he’s caused that. He hates to admit to himself but what else was he supposed to do?

The older gentleman (Link gets ice in his veins when he remembers what the markings are) steps into the room and sighs. He rubs his hand down his face as looks over to where Link is on the bed. “I’m sure… you have questions, Captain.”

A title. Yes. Link has a title. And Link definitely has questions. “Who was that?”

Vaguely, Link knows that shouldn’t have been the prominent question on his mind, but for some reason he can’t pinpoint, he hates that he made you cry.

No one answers his question at first so he tries a different tactic. Clearly, he’s missing some information. “Are they important?”

To the mission? To this group? To him? Link doesn’t register that as a too vague a question, only that he wishes for it to be answered.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Well shoot, Link sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The final young man to speak tilts his head, raising his hands as they glow. Fascinating. Link stares at it. He’s hardly met another Hylian that could use magic so casually. “You wouldn’t have had it any other way. Pushed them out of the way and took the hit and all that.”

“Oh.” Important to him, it is then. Faintly, he thinks he could still hear you cry. “I hurt them.”

“You did.” Pink haired boy grumbles. “But there’s not much we can do about it. It’s a miracle you even woke up again as it is.”

A miracle. Link takes a deep breath. He seems to be running on pure fumes powered by those alone. “I hurt them.”

Somehow, he feels the need to repeat himself. Link doesn’t like the inky feeling that curls around his heart at the thought of that. If he pushed you out of the way of an attack, surely that means he cared about you to not think something through.

It’s stranger still- that it came to that at all.

Link has always prided himself on thinking fast on his feet and having contingency plans for his contingency plans. He’s not one to miscalculate. Many battles have made sure of that. Close encounters on top of even closer encounters have made sure that his senses were sharp and steely as the blade he wielded. 

To be hurt the way he was meant that he had miscalculated dearly. Or rather, the attack would have surely killed you and he wasn’t thinking at all when he acted. If he wasn’t thinking when he acted at the thought of you in danger or being attacked, then you meant more to him than anyone here was telling him.

Aside from you.

You did say that he loved you. And that you loved him. 

His throat suddenly feels dry.

”Here.” A cup is placed by the side of his face in an instant. Link takes it and manages to take one gulp of water before he remembers to take sips. 

“I wouldn’t have wanted them to be hurt.” He says after giving the glass back. He barely finished half of it before he started feeling nauseous. How long was he unconscious? How badly was he injured, truly? “I wouldn’t have wanted them to-”

Link starts to cough.

“We know.” The pirate gently pats his shoulder, rubbing small circles. Another thing he remembers. Link used to do the same to him when the pirate wasn’t feeling too well after a battle. Something about the food and movement not agreeing with him. It’s strange to be on the other side of the act. “They know it too. They won’t be angry at you for it.”

“No?” He looks at the boy, because he knows this boy. He can trust him. Link doesn’t know if he can trust the rest of the faces in this room.

The boy shakes his head. “You would never hurt them on purpose. You’re not that kind of person. They know that.”

Link strains his ear to hear you on the other side of the door. It’s gone quiet, but he’s almost positive that you’re still upset over this development. He wonders what he would have done to get this sort of reaction from everyone here. “Who are these people, kiddo?”

“We’re all Link.” He answers easily.

Link catches onto the way the others flinch slightly. 

He still can’t say that he knows them.

“We have to get his memory back.” The young man with the white cape says after a moment of silence. 

“It’s not that easy.” Magic Man shakes his head. “This wasn’t caused by a spell. At best, we should be asking The Champion how he deals with his memory loss. Amnesia caused by injury is a different challenge entirely.”

Link sighs and looks back to the door with his tongue between his teeth. 

Amnesia? He almost wants to laugh. Do they not know who he is?

Link doesn’t forget easily.

[sunboki]

⎯ THE DEVIL'S PLAYTHING a Christopher Bahng fiction

💣 : Christopher Bahng x fem. reader

TROPE. bodyguard au, demon au, friends to lovers, eventual smut, minors DNI

WORD COUNT. 6.6k words

WARNINGS. chan & han are demons(NO POLY), mentions of lucifer/the devil, eventual smut, descriptive violence, smoking, fighting, cursing, blood, wounds, drinking, reader gets drunk/passes out

PLAYLIST

AUG'S NOTES. this started as a random blurb while in the bathroom(tmi i know) but i just HAD to make a longer adaptation!! as usual, if you enjoy the fic please feel free to leave feedback & a reblog!ised ya’ll bodyguard chan would be back.. your wish is my command~

SYNOPSIS. A petty robbery leads to deep debt for Chan, a white-eyed demon occupying Hell. So eventually, he finds himself faced with no choice but to go job hunting. The best offer available? A bodyguard gig in the human realm. Oh, and the worst part? Jisung’s here too.

or alternatively :

When Chan had to leave Hell to "babysit" (a.k.a. protect) you in the human realm, he wasn’t expecting for things to turn out the way they did — in more ways than one.

SMUT WARNING. usage of the nickname “bunny” and “good girl”, somewhat hinted size kink, praise, dumbification, barely dubcon (reader gives consent ; nonverbal), creampie, chan cums inside (use protection ya’ll), monsterfucking! basically lmao

There’s an infinite list of reasons why humans shouldn’t associate with demons. But was it really all that important? Maybe the humans wanted it.

Or, maybe the demons did too.

Maybe, the demons didn’t have a choice.

What a funny thought.

Although, for Christopher Bahng, a demon himself, it was reality.

So the real question stood. Is it the humans that shouldn’t associate with demons, or the other way around?

The thought occurred to Chan at some point, but his head, ringing with the sound of silver coins clattering on glass surfaces, drowned out every ounce of sensibility. Blood, flesh, he was a demon. And right now, he had hell to pay as Lucifer’s underling. No pun intended.

Demons were an ideal choice for bodyguards, too obsessed with their own greed to pay any mind to the consequences, dogs to somebody else’s beckon, minds trained like hunting dogs.

Taking care of the dirty work, for a price.

A price that Chan needed, desperately. Because one thing demons, including himself, love doing is tormenting.

That is until he’s the victim of the tormenting, and all of a sudden the experience doesn’t feel too welcoming.

Raiding his home was an understatement considering they had utterly demolished every inch, not leaving a single fragment remaining in one piece. Granted, he didn’t cry about it. Instead, he lived up to his name, his title.

..Let’s just say he doubted the red stains would ever leave that shirt of his, metallic scent strong enough to make your nose burn.

Unfortunately, Lucifer wasn’t the greatest at forgiving, and he determined rather quickly this was only the start of his problems regardless of how sweetly the demon lord threatened explained he would dissolve Chan into ash if he ever got tired of him.

Alas, two weeks later, he gets a call.

Combing a frustrated hand through raven-colored locks, he holds the phone up to his ear, repeatedly snapping his fingers. The girl kneeled between his legs raises up begrudgingly, wiping her mouth and disappearing into his bathroom.

Well there goes a good blowjob.

Yet, finally, a job was proposed.

Multiple, according to the drone of a fumbling assistant. Jobs comprised of one he’d primarily work and occasional hitman gigs on the side.

Catch? The job was located in the human realm. Not impossible, but not as easy as sleuthing in Hell, where common folk were demons and not big-eyed, nosy, mind-your-damn-business-mortals.

The job in question? Babysitting. Specifically for Lucifer's right-hand man, otherwise known as the Devil’s Plaything. And, despite not being a demon, served Lucifer as if he was one. How cute.

Or as the trauma-induced auditor phrased it, “guarding” some girl.

“Guarding” was something he was mildly familiar with, but never a human. Never in the human realm. So when the suggestion was offered, Chan’s first instinct was to reject—remind Hell’s moderator that he wasn’t just a regular, but a demon of impressive status. A white-eyed demon, who, in fact, ranged most powerful of its kind.

His first instinct was also to punch the man working at the register of this putrid smelling burger joint right in the face, maybe frame his head as a part of a collection while he’s at it. Demons are creative like that.

Because being in this situation, nonetheless currently walking around in the human realm he swore to never step foot in has his stomach jarring.

“Chan, look at this! It’s called K-E-T-C-H-U-P, what a funny name!”

Oh. Yeah. The walking headache, Han Jisung. Forgot he’s here too.

Digging through his pockets for spare change, all he could find was a few meager pennie’s as the obnoxious noise of his demon-companion scarfing down a double cheeseburger had Chan’ jaw progressively tightening.

“Um, sir, that’s not enough to pay for-“ Without hesitation, Chan lifted his upper lip with his index, revealing the sharply pointed canines underneath and effectively silencing the apron-clad employee, frantically printing his receipt without another word.

Yes, apparently there are perks of being a hell-spawn.

Although, the burger still tasted like shit. What a shame.

Heading to the location wasn’t all too difficult, being that it was rather easy locating such an enormous property surrounded by tall, black hinged gates. The passcode… was another story.

Lucifer was likely laughing his ass off watching them try figuring this out.

“Okay, It’s probably like 666 or something- JESUS— you guys scare me sometimes.” Clutching a hand to his erratic heart with panic, a pacing Jisung nearly toppled over as his soon-to-be Boss suddenly appeared out of nowhere, gates slowly opening behind him.

He may not be a Demon, but by how nonchalantly he appeared from thin air, he seemed to gain some attributes over the years.

It didn’t take long for either of them to figure out why the title “Devil’s Plaything” was attached, because the more he toured them around this palace of a house, the more he told of his reasons for hiring them in the first place. Well, more like why Lucifer sent them here.

Easily speaking, his and Jisung’s role would be to protect you at all costs, considering your father’s current predicament (a.k.a coming under investigation for the bodies discovered in Hanuel Park). Not to mention the countless assassins sent on a daily basis, scouring the property for entryways.

Although he’s not surprised by their hesitance. This man, Yoon L/N, was the closest resemblance to the Devil on Earth.

He was terrifying, and coming from a demon, that said a lot.

Chan has to watch his tongue, because he’s not guarding another one of hell’s representatives, a creature of unprecedented rudeness and hatred, he’s guarding a human.

Someone who falls in love and cries, someone who can’t get away with murder when they’re annoyed and go uncharged.

Humans are pitiful. They’re emotional and too trusting and—

You step down the stairs.

They’re pretty and soft and really, really fucking pretty.

The sound of your father clearing his throat rips him from his trance, your trance.

He can practically sense Jisung choking on his laughter.

“Y/n, these are your bodyguards. Bahng, Han, this is Y/n,” He gestures, and Chan notes the gleaming watch on his wrist.

Best guess that thing’s averaging $70,000. Not to mention that this entire house, though naked to the human eye, is laced in traps.

Whether it’s the more hollow wooden plank on the floor that triggers some alarm or the multitude of switches under your kitchen’s island, the security system is certainly intact, and for good reason.

However, you couldn't have made Yoon L/n’s actions look more hypocritical, appearing so opposingly sweet.

“Nice to meet you,” You hold out a hand.

He doesn’t miss the half-smile you give him.

Shit. Don’t look at him like that.

Introducing themselves, you momentarily slip past, and in your stead, your father beckons either of them to the side.

“I’ll only say this once,” Yoon smiles, but it’s a leery smile, one that causes his gums to gradually show, like it’d belong to a murderer, a serial killer of some kind.

Fitting.

“Get her into danger, hurt her, or disobey my orders under any circumstances and I kill you, understood?”

And even though at the snap of a finger Chan could have this man drop dead, he believed him, both simultaneously nodding their heads without complaint.

Meeting eyes with Jisung, a common denominator sits heavy between them, most likely the first thing they’ve whole-heartedly agreed on this entire time.

This is gonna be one hell of a job.

.. .

District 9’s nightclubs are always a bust. If you’re looking for a drink without it being laced you might as well give up, and the only thing that keeps a person from getting swept away in the expansive sea of high heels, go-go boots, and awkward teenagers that miraculously managed to get past the bouncer is a lone, blinking red sign that reads “OUT”.

The first time you ever came here you never thought you’d be so relieved to open a squealing door.

Leaning against the side of the brick building sits the girl responsible for an entourage of drunk-calls and random texts of her location when she sneaks out.

Her moth-eaten sneakers are pulled up to her chest, bleached hair messily arranged into a spiky up-do while she aimlessly scrolls on her phone. Although you know she’s noticed you by now.

“I feel like..” She sighs, black mascara smudged beneath her waterline. “I should’ve taken that Vodka shot.”

You wrinkle your nose, dropping down on her left.

It’s fairly easy conversing with Ha-joon, a girl who didn’t require a reaction or a response, who didn’t talk much but had a whole pocketful of opinions. And you listened.

She swivels her head ever so slightly toward you.

“Do you think drinking a laced shot will make my life more interesting?” Her remark scarily nonchalant, you chuckle, snatching the joint from between her thumb and index and tossing it against the neighboring business’ wall in front of you.

Unfazed, she rises to her feet, pulling a Marlboro pack from her back pocket, palm cupping the lighter’s flickering flame.

“If you count fentanyl as a good time, then sure,” Lifting your chin to cock a sarcastic brow, she rolls her eyes before abruptly snapping her fingers, remembering. The sound ricochets off trash bags stashed at the furthest end of this deserted alleyway.

“You said your Mafia-daddy hired new bodyguards?”

Ah, you forgot you mentioned that.

Don’t mind the “Mafia-daddy” part.

Nodding, there’s a beat of stillness before she lightly nudges your calf with her shoe, Ha-joon’s sign for you to list some sort of detailed description for her to piece together.

This happens every time you meet somebody new. Her little guessing game before the first impression, apparently.

And so you do, spilling information to the best of your capabilities from the fifteen seconds you met them. Their hair, height, eyes (you recall Han’s especially, huge and hypnotizing like black-holes), clothing, and all the details your jumbled brain can pour out to your overly eager, easily bored best friend.

“So this Chan guy..”

One clever glance and you’re already predicting her next words.

“Does he have a big nose?” Smirk growing the darker your cheeks redden, you pathetically groan, burying your face in your hands.

Of course she’s cornered you, because you can’t deny your yes of an answer without evidently lying and digging further into your self-made rabbit hole.

Leave it to Ha-joon to secretly slip the raunchiest sentence you'll hear all night.

Smugness gradually dissipating, the barely-blonde shuffles back down, phone screen displaying countless messages you don't ask about.

Like earlier, Ha-joon doesn’t talk much, but she has a lot to say. Additionally, if she doesn’t bring it up herself, don’t mention it.

Years by her side taught you that.

“They’re only gonna get you in trouble, I have a feeling,” She murmurs prior to taking a long drag of her cigarette, lipstick shade perfectly contrasting with the soaring puff of smoke sifting from her mouth and nose upon exhaling.

She’s always been on the rougher side. Spontaneously rough, the type that would impulsively send you a text she’s going backpacking tomorrow despite an exam scheduled, the type that would continuously run away on a whim.

In essence, everyone on campus has some sort of crush on her (apart from yourself, obviously), whether it comes down to her rumbling persona or how much of a hard-core lesbian she is, you’re not sure.

You click your tongue, glaring at her flippantly.

“And that’s not doing you any better.” Musing in regards to her bad habits, she laughs lowly, low-rise jeans bagging down by her ankles while bending closer.

Your hands brace in anticipation, coughing when she blows a heavy smoke plume right in your face.

You choke a giggle, shoving her senselessly giggling frame.

“The only thing I’m letting do me is that waitress in there,” Painted nails pointing to the entrance while making utterly obscene gestures, you dramatically gag.

Well, until she spins on her heel, fetching a plastic bag holding two bottles of Cass beer from behind a metal trash can.

You tilt your head, the girl wordlessly cracking one open with her teeth and the other using the junction of her shoulder.

‘A Ha-joon thing’, you think as she hands you a glass, chilled exterior sending an unwelcoming wave of shivers throughout your body.

Your initial response is to decline, but her index to your lips shushes your reasons.

“I know you don’t drink often, but just a few sips just this once, please?” Batting invisible puppy-dog eyes, you sigh, gulping down a haphazard swig.

Last time you had genuinely gotten drunk was back in junior year of high school, all the kids swarmed in a rando’s basement, acting appropriately irresponsible for your age.

You recall your fat crush on Hwang Hyunjin (before realizing he was actually in a relationship) being the main component in getting so drunk that you blacked out, though you’re sure the highly unflattering pictures Ha-joon took would jog your memory.

Yet just a few sips was an understatement, something you should’ve known. Because conversation turns into more conversation, funny conversation, deep conversation while your wrist unconsciously lifts to your mouth till your friend transforms into nothing but a blurry figure illuminated by the moon.

And you wonder, as you feel yourself tilt further and further toward the cement below, if Ha-joon will snap unflattering pictures of this moment too, of stupid decisions leading to stupid consequences.

Most likely.

.. .

"Mmm." You mumble, face stuffed into his sleeve as Chan carries you from the alleyway, ushering a loopy Ha-joon into a taxi with a short bow.

Clad in his work attire primarily made up of black elements, he carefully places you in the back seat of the SUV and pulls off his dark coat to wrap around your body, ensuring you're fully swaddled to secure as much warmth as possible from the biting cold.

"We're going home, so hang on just a bit longer for me." The man assures, patting your head lightly before sliding into the driver's seat and pressing his foot to the gas.

Han, who was sitting in the back beside you while Chan drove, took experimental peeks at the pink-hue decorating your cheeks (evidence that you'd be drunk) to your puffy lips pursed in a pout.

He internally squeals, fiddling with his phone in his pocket, unveiled demon tail practically wagging with glee.

"Hyung, can I? Pleasee Hyung- just one photo she looks so cute–“

“No." The older of them responds sternly, one hand clutching the steering wheel.

As much as he normally wouldn’t care, this was his- their first actual order in fulfilling their duties, and Chan wasn’t willing to pay the price of fucking up Yoon’s guidelines.

His companion huffs, deflating by your side as he directs a childish frown at Chan in the mirror, only met with an equally stern gaze reading "no nonsense".

Chan had always been one to take his job seriously, not that Han didn't, he just liked having a little bit of fun jumping from side to side across those permanent marker drawn lines.

In actuality, if it weren't for his friend, Han would've never gotten the job in the first place.

Stark glowing of your houses’ lights lining the driveway ripped away his thought process, quickly intervening when your door opened.

"I can carry her," He claims, arms crossed while the older bodyguard simply cocks a brow, an action that shouldn't have Jisung shying away like he was.

There's an immense staring contest until Chan releases a hefty sigh, gesturing for Jisung to go ahead.

"If you drop her, I kill you, then myself."

This earns a giggle while Han unbuckles your seatbelt, softly cooing with you lying in his arms.

You're cute, very cute in fact.

Very off limits, in fact, he reminds himself, grip tightening the creepier he pictures your father—and it’s the adorable scrunch of your nose in discomfort that reminds him of his strength, immediately relaxing his hold.

Like Chan said, any wrong moves and they're both off the radar in seconds. Business.

The entirety of it all was a bit hilarious considering how things were when you'd first been introduced to the two, not appearing to be the type to get drunk like this, to get drunk at all in a secluded area next to some nightclub.

Chan wasn’t wrong when he said it’s always a surprise with clients.

Well, he was referring to his hitman job then, but it's still applicable in this situation, right?

…Right?

Forget it.

Slowly, oh so slowly your eyes peel open, instantly noticing the familiar smell and interior that definitely wasn't where you'd been five minutes ago with Ha-joon.

Ah. There he is.

Chan.

Peering over where you're tucked in bed, dressed in pajamas.

Hold on, pajamas?

Scrambling up and simultaneously wincing from the throbbing headache settling a dull ring in your ears, you send him an incredulous stare, face incessantly warming the longer you think about it.

Hangovers provide another of the many reasons why you don’t drink anymore, because this hellish predicament led to a single hellish explanation you certainly didn’t want to face.

"You... My clothes.." Stumbling over how to phrase it, you suppress a scowl watching the ghost of a grin make its way on his lips. Maybe you're imagining it.

One of his veiny hands reaches up to cover his eyes, leaving you to instead infatuate upon plush lips moving when he speaks.

"My job description, along with the papers you read and signed before I was hired gave me consent, but whatever I see is strictly confidential between you and I."

Gathering your sanity, you scoff, humiliation and embarrassment flooding your system at an alarming rate.

Flopping back onto the bed, you slam a pillow over your face, muttering a "strictly confidential my ass" that he had to have heard from the low laugh uttered in reply.

He stalks over, fingertip tapping the water you hadn’t noticed sitting atop your nightstand.

Cautiously stealing a glimpse out from your pillow to see where he distanced himself across the room, you finish the cup in a swift motion, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve.

“You huma- You aren’t good with your alcohol, are you?” He starts, quite entertained witnessing your annoyed gaze, one which very noticeably doesn’t stay focused on his eyes.

Sucking your teeth, you slouch, mirroring his crossed arms.

You’re fine with playing feisty, and by the awfully attractive way he’s cocking his head, he’s also willing to join this biting game.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because I’m never passed out and in need of someone to call for me when I go drinking.”

At this you practically hiss, grasping any futile chance to retaliate to no avail.

Opposed to his teasing nature, he drags a stool to your bedside, insisting you drink more.

Even more opposing, a gentle hand presses to your forehead, checking that you haven't contracted a fever.

To say your heartbeat pounded didn’t credit the surprise to its full extent, and thank whatever God above the experience only lasted a few more seconds, giving you plenty of time to freshen your haywire sensibility and brush your teeth before any more soul-sucking Chan run-ins continued.

You should’ve known better than to think he’d truly leave you be though, said soul-sucking bodyguard currently propped against the bathroom’s door frame.

“How did you get into this anyway? Y’know, bodyguard stuff..” You begin to ask, voice muffled from the toothbrush deterring any fully audible sentence.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“I have my ways.”

“Your ways?”

Within split seconds he’s right next to you, making rather intentional eye contact through the mirror.

You inhale sharply.

“Look, sweetness, my job as your bodyguard is to keep you safe,” He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “And if I tell you, I can’t guarantee that.”

There are three things you realized in that moment.

One, Chan is so, so close.

Two, he has an unfairly gorgeous face.

And three, your mouth is smeared with toothpaste.

Great.

You’d like to admit the first night of meeting these new bodyguards, more specifically Chan, went as normal and as non-Ha-joon-influenced as possible, but this effect on you causing your bloodstream to erupt in a hormonal frenzy of attraction told you the story had just begun.

.. .

"Jisung. Hold. Still! Keep moving and this wand is going in your eyeball."

Three weeks in and one thing after another has lead you closer and closer with either of them, whether it's convincing Jisung to go on ice cream runs (where Chan always ends up tagging along) or attempting to remain focused while they help you study (more like trying not to laugh at Jisung and averting your eyes off of Chan’s biceps in that muscle-shirt of his), the three of you are practically conjoined at the hip, and not on bodyguard standards.

"Okay okay! I was itchy. Can you move the piece of hair by my eyebrow?" He whines, grasping an apologetic squeeze on your waist while you focus in his lap.

You’re currently brushing mascara through his unfairly long lashes, but if anyone saw this without knowing the situation, chaos would likely unfold.

Although for you and Jisung, it's your average Friday night spent watching the weekly scary movie he’d decided on, Insidious. One he’d been commenting on for the past thirty minutes or so about how the “representation of demon’s was wrong” while you absentmindedly agreed, looping your index around the strand before abruptly stopping.

Residing slightly above his temple lay a scar, a decently sized scar at that.

Strangely enough, it's circular, like some type of horn or something had been there at some point. Maybe a biking incident?

"Ji?”

The boy's eyes drift up to you.

"What's this scar?"

Below you, he freezes, frantically thinking up the best excuse.

Lots of options, not a lot of time to decide.

"Ah.. that? When I was younger, I developed a weird kind of bump there, 'had it removed." And thankfully, you grunt a response, resorting back to applying his makeup.

Truth be told, those scars (another you hadn't seen yet) were his old horns, forced to be removed in order to initially land this job.

It still sends shivers down his spine thinking about when they had first been cut off, the recovery process resembling something out of nightmares.

Trust, the headaches were awful.

Chan, on the other hand, could keep his, considering he had the ability to conceal them on command. For Jisung, an inferior red-eyed demon with a few years beneath him and in such desperate need for income, chose the painful way through. As for his tail, that was luckily simple to hide (much to his pleasure).

Nevertheless, you could confidently say that your test-subject could easily land a modeling career after your makeover, and by the way he kept staring at the mirror, he seemed equally as enamored as you.

Well, that’s before a jumpscare leaps upon the screen and either of you shoot up, your clumsy companion whacking himself in the face with the mirror.

Staving your giggles, you try soothing the boy; you really do, but the uncannily gory scene that decorates the screen has you cringing back, and when you look at Jisung, expecting to find him cowering, your blood runs cold.

His lips are parted, but the only thing your horrified eyes are drawn to are the hooked canines peeking there. Not to mention his eyes.

Ghastly crimson, glowing.

Except when you breathe in an unsteady gasp, his head snaps to you, sudden facade appearing unaltered, like you hadn't seen something borderline terrifying.

Softly pulling your face close to him despite the screaming instinct to flee, he observes your bewildered expression, brows taut with concern.

“Y/n?”

Sweet tone contradicting, you immediately double backward toward your bedroom door, awkwardly honing the “I’m going to bed” excuse in hopes that suffices for the night.

Frenziedly closing the door, you determine rather quickly you don’t plan to go to sleep. Not that you think you could, but because this discovery isn’t normal.

None of this is normal.

How they found your location back at the alley despite Ha-joon never contacting anyone, how you “coincidentally” walked in on Chan “washing” his hands despite the water running red. Oh and you can’t forget about the rag left behind, putrid stench characteristic to a specific substance.

Blood.

You weren’t stupid. No father disappears the majority of the year on so-called “business trips” only to come back with new cuts and scratches he makes a sorry effort denying, and no daughter of his has literal bodyguards (yet you’re not sure they’re even official bodyguards thanks to your suspicions) glued to her side 24/7.

He does something dangerous, you know without doubt. But according to this hunch of yours, your father may not be the only one tied up in illegal madness.

.. .

Slipping into the car unknown to them was far easier than you anticipated.

You didn't plan on sneaking in in the first place, sure, but upon overhearing their hushed conversation regarding some type of “target”, you assumed whatever topic they were discussing may answer a select few of your billions of burning questions.

So, crouched in the floorboard of the backseat, you try muting your breathing, noting the clutter of metal sounding from your left, whatever responsible assumed to be shoved in the trunk.

Weapons. No mistaking it.

Your discovery is short-lived however, and you flatten yourself the best you can as Han twists around in his seat to grab something, already thirty minutes into your nearly secret mission.

Shit.

His shocked scream tells you enough.

Chan is fuming.

"Jisung, you told me she was asleep. So care to explain why the fuck she's in the back of the car?"

Han frantically flails. "For the record I told you she was lying down–”

"I. Don't. Care! She's not supposed to be here and all that matters right now is that she's at home and in bed, understood?"

As Jisung's lips pull into a tight line and Chan cranks the gear shift into drive, you glance around, a sudden–though risky–idea coming to mind.

"Hey, I could always tag along?"

"No!" They both shout in unison, heads jerking back to face you as if you suggested driving off a cliff.

That sounded much better in your head anyway.

Well there goes that.

Or so you thought.

Because unfortunately for them, wherever needed them needed them urgently, and through many clearly vocalized “she is staying in the car”’s, you weren’t driven home after all.

Fluorescent green lights cast an eerie glow across the perimeter, the location gnawing at your gut. An equestrian center by exterior, though there’s something else.

Wrong. You can’t explain it, but this place is wrong.

Discreetly unloading the guns, you skin crawls observing Chan messily stuff bullets into the magazine of a M240, the mere size of the thing setting your nerves ablaze. And as rightful asking questions seems, you can’t.

That feeling from earlier glues your mouth shut, like if you spoke too loudly, someone, something, would find you.

Thick foliage lay highlighted by your headlights, paving depth into sequential darkness.

You squint, zoning in on a small expanse of branches ajar. An ideal hiding spot.

Wait.

Bright flashes of iron spur your legs into motion, the switchblade cleaning slicing your wrist while mid-duck.

It forks into the car’s interior where the trunk had been opened, your cry of pain muffled by Jisung who basically throws himself inside a stall with you, the stomping of horse’s hooves muting your ragged breathing.

Firing belonging to none other than the machine gun Chan had been wielding pierces the air outside as either of you stay pressed to the stable wall, the pad of footsteps drawing nearer, causing your eyes to squeeze shut.

This is it. You’re going to die.

Much to your relief, it’s Chan, tactical holsters slightly torn, sweat beading his forehead.

The two share a look, remaining silent before delivering an eventual, affirming nod.

Short-lived.

An additional attacker sifts from the shadows, facial expression ushering no other logic than to kill.

Manic eyes, estranged eyes.

The older bodyguard spins, successfully blocking the first hit. Supplies are scattered everywhere, horses beginning to shift uncomfortably.

The perpetrator is faster, smaller, and lands a decent punch into his abdomen. However, the attack is futile, and just before he can stake his knife into Chan’s leg does the bigger man utilize his own weapon, ammunition positively bludgeoning every square inch of the assailant in baited seconds.

You understand why machine guns are strictly used for long range now.

Immediately, soft numbness floods your senses due to Han’s hands covering your eyes and ears, and you sit there for a while, blocked from the grotesque view of impalpable violence being enacted right before you.

You’d forgotten you were huddled together on the other side of the wall, too horrifically immersed.

It's strange. So much is strange.

These two men that you've grown effortlessly close to, grown effortlessly friends with, murder. Defensively in this case, yes, but they hadn’t brought those guns by chance, they brought them by intention.

Not just a twisted hobby like dissecting animals or something along those lines, but murder.

You’re sure they have their reasons, but it's difficult even imagining it. People who are extremely gentle when with you, responsible for such doings.

Talk about a duality.

The faint clatter of gun shells rattling against the marble flooring earns a subtle flinch, Jisung's hands cupping closer to your skin.

Then you smell it, what he'd warned you of no matter the cleanliness of the job.

A metallic, burning scent of blood, causing your nose to burn and your throat to grow increasingly dry.

Your stomach churns.

"You don't forget that smell" Chan had said before leaving the vehicle, and you knew what he was referring to now.

Putrid reek of rot and gunpowder beckon your lungs into fight or flight, but you remain still, ignoring the sharp sting of your wrist, bubbling blood dripping down your arm and onto the floor below, right atop your shoe.

Faint falling of bullet shells put an end to the fighting, then you’re blindly directed out the door without so much as a glance behind you. For your own good, you assume.

Hell, you’re not certain they’ll be much left of the bodies after Chan’s wrath.

As for right now, your top priority is your wrist. Swollen, skin tainted a grueling red shade.

Speeding home, you find yourself blurily recalling events, though all the little details simply swirl into strange shapes.

Shock is what it’s called. That state of monotonous wandering, occurrence too unfamiliar to take in, senses turning off. A coping mechanism of some sort.

Blearily you see the two men, talking, stepping out of the room, grabbing medical supplies. Like you’re in a time warp, dreaming. No pain, hurt.

On the other hand, your bodyguards were frantic, spewing curses and scouring the household for proper first aid materials.

Meanwhile, Chan was finally wrapping your wound in the bandages Jisung spotted, blinking madly in hopes his fogging headspace eased up.

Demons and wounds were not a good combination. Especially not human wounds.

Uncontrollable urges instructed him to tear you apart right this minute, do something, anything to quench that inexplicably demanding thirst.

Vulnerable, easy prey. His thoughts chanted, forcing him to step out of the room for a moment to where Jisung perched, close-pin fastened on his nose to block the mouth-watering smell.

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” He heaves, carding stressed fingers through matted hair.

“What, a little blood getting to a white-eyed demon?” His companion muses, hastily dodging Chan’s swinging fist. Immune to his threats.

It’s obvious to Jisung that’s only half of the story, but he’ll wait for his superior to admit it himself.

“It’s not just the blood,” He inhales deeply, gratefully accepting the water Han offered. “It’s her.”

Go figure.

To be honest, Jisung wasn’t good at pretending.

Well, in terms of lying he was a natural (a given, after all), but pretending he hadn’t caught onto his friend’s enormous attraction to you was technically impossible.

Quite surprising though, to think such an arrogant demon would’ve ended up like this.

Susceptible, willing. For a human.

Who would’ve thought.

.. .

It’s nothing short of a roller coaster regaining your stable consciousness. Chest wracking, world spinning. You’re situated in bed, injury carefully wrapped(though you can’t recall by who).

The doorknob rattles, and in walks Chan, except, you don’t feel happy, relieved.

Scared. You feel extremely scared.

“What- What are you?” Waver revealing your anxiousness, you curse the subtle tremble.

He smiles.

“Aren’t you a perceptive little one,” His voice dips lower, and as he edges closer, you find yourself pressing further into the pillow behind your head.

“I’m sure you’ve had your suspicions, so I’ll make it easy for you.” He lifts his curls, two perfectly placed horns residing there.

“We’re demons. He and I are different species, but both demons.”

Demons.

Demons.

Instantaneously, a tidal wave or realization crashes salty water into your lungs, expertly piecing your observations together. Red eyes, horn-like scars.

How had you not caught on earlier?

Momentarily, you meet his eyes. Still brown, although you wonder how deep of a red they’d stain, glaze over stunning vermillion or dusky cinnamon tones.

“Species?”

He hums.

“Red-eyed are the best at persuasion, that’s Jisung. I’m a white-eyed demon.”

So neither crimson nor cinnamon, you decide. Perhaps pale, opal color.

“White-eyed demons are usually Satan’s lap dogs, but what lots of people don’t know,” You crane forward to hear his next words, and he leans in as well. “Is that we’re also the most desired species, the most lustful.”

Lustful.

The words don’t truly sink in, and by the time they do, it’s impossible to rip the mischievous look from his eyes.

"What’s that supposed to mean.." You grumble, avoid his darkening stare.

A subtle tap on your thigh has your attention immediately shfiting, your entire body instinctively jolting.

"You want me to show you?" He begins with a laugh, a low, husky laugh that has your stomach tying knots. Not the usual, squeaky laugh, but one that's different, very different. "But if you say yes, I’m sure no one else can satisfy you the way I can."

Your expression pinches with annoyance, a bit offed by his sudden cockiness.

Granted, he looks heaven-sent despite being a demon, and you doubt he'd be any different in bed, but c'mon now, you have a right to be suspicious.

"And how're you so sure of that?" Leaning back on your arms where he sits in front of you, you fixate on the way kinky locks perfectly line the crown of his head, one particularly messy strand tipping over to linger above chocolate pools for eyes.

"Sweetness, Jisung are I are carved out of sin, there's not a particle in our body not built to fuck."

God. Hearing "fuck" come out of his mouth shouldn't have been that attractive. Chan had always been well-mannered, well-spoken, so to hear him say something vulgar for the first time, nonetheless "fuck", effected you more than you'd like to admit.

Slowly, oh so slowly he crawls on the bed, kind tip of his head betraying sinful intent.

“You want this?” He whispers, and your arms immediately wrap around his neck, tugging him into your lips fervently, needily, with a short nod of approval between sighs and stifled groans.

Your wrist aches, but from how heated this kiss is becoming, that matter is the least of your problems.

He feels like fire, tastes like it, nectarine on your tongue.

You waste nimble time undressing, suppressing a high-pitched mewl the longer he sucks deep purple love bites into your neck and down your collarbones, likely to be bruised tomorrow.

He’s careful, learning your body, your sounds. Touch light as a feather, not enough.

He’s big, that’s a given. Head red and angry with thick beads of precum apparent, you can’t possibly think straight, his name the only sensible word falling off your swollen lips.

Chan Chan Chan.

Brows knitting as his fat head bumps your entrance, you murmur pleas, practically delusional on his pleasure, his love.

Most desired, you understand what he meant by that.

“Feel good? Yeah? That's a good girl."

You can feel your entire body keen at the praise, utterly blissful from how amazing he was making you feel.

The stretch of his fat cock has your common-sense threading dangerously thin, head falling back, fingernails raking his back. Delirious.

When he actually started moving? Yeah, you’re convinced you paid a visit to cloud nine, fucked-out brain recognizing only the squelch of your bodies connecting and the squeaky, absolutely desperate sounds he’s pulling from your throat.

Not to mention his voice, accent thickening tremendously the longer he ruined your drooling cunt.

His, his, his.

"Shit- you feel fuckin' divine," He kissed the sweaty skin of your calf hiked over his shoulder, ankle held by a strong hand while the other occupied your hip, squeezing and kneading with each heavy thrust.

Chan wasn't lying about being carved out of sin, fucking like an absolute animal to the point tears began welling in your eyes, overstimulated and euphoric beyond belief as your hands shakily reach upward.

Obediently, he lowers himself, letting you hold his face for some sense of security while feeling so vulnerable.

You pathetically search his eyes, head thrown back after one particular roll of his hips that earns a rumbling moan from the man.

Each time he bottoms out it feels like you're losing it, rubbing that gummy spot that makes your heels dig into his shoulders and your moans transform into high-pitched cries, shuddering.

"Channie- Oh fuck Channie- I can't It's too much-"

Practically gasping for air to ease the buzzing fuzziness blinding you, you cherish the equally mind-numbing kiss he soothes, pressure in your lower tummy building and building at a flying pace.

"Yes you can, bunny. 'Need to cum? C'mon, cum for me, 'atta girl." He tuts, slowing himself down with each squeeze of your cunt signaling your approaching release.

Torturous.

Nothing like this, never in all his life had he felt something like this. So delicate and fragile as you look up at him, glossy dolly eyes far too tempting.

At this point it was an obligation to stuff your pussy full.

Rolling your puffy nub in tight circles, your thighs twitch, gripping the pillow behind your head like a vice as the sharp knot in your stomach finally snaps and a near pornographic sound rips from your throat, back arching off the bed.

The sight of you has his eyes nearly rolling back, so ruined and angel-like. You're a white rose in a field of wilting grasses. Bloomed in his ill-fated fingertips.

His pants stifle, big hands holding the back of your thighs spread for him. His pace stutters, and with a gritted whine of your name he slams his hips, painting your aching cunt white.

The last thing he anticipated visiting the human realm was to find himself in this situation.

And whether he liked to admit it or not, if the Devil had your father wrapped around his finger, you had him tied up without a chance of escape.

So while you both scrambled to clean up your evidence and not fall over your own feet hearing Jisung clumsily drop a clattering frying pan in the kitchen, he thinks, if only for a second, he’d be okay with it.

Being yours, that is.

FIC TAGLIST. @y-ur--i @atinism @darknova2319 @producedbyhanjisung @knightoftime21 @leonswifesstuff

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[haveihitanerve]

Bruce watches Steph, at his side, and memorizes the lines in her face, the tilt of her smile, the spark in her eyes, and tries to pull it away from the images before her. All those who wore the red green and yellow. There is such anger in her, anger he can see in the curl of her fists, in the tenseness of her shoulders. But she covers it, buries it. Replaces it with a smile, a laugh. Unfurls her fingers to help someone to their feet, to give someone a high five, to twine them with his, instead. Bruce can see Jason in every aggressive exhale, every backflip and jump, trusting Bruce to be there to catch her. He can hear Dick in every pun, every funny quip, every bit of sass she throws at him, as easy as her smiles, when he says something she disagrees with. She’s never shy with her opinion of him. He can feel Tim in every hug, with every cock of her head as she scans a crime scene, the way her fingers drum against his thigh, or his head, or his back when she’s thinking. And it hurts. These memories, these reminders of the Robins that have come before. Of the Robin that have all fulfilled their namesake and flown from the nest. Robin means moving on, but Bruce is selfish. He wants her to stay, wants them all to stay, huddled beneath his cape. He knows, probably before she does, that she doesn’t need the Robin cape. That she’s ready for a different color. That the yellow and red and green don’t suit her. He wonders, idly, in the back of his mind, if black would. But he lets her pretend, lets her run at his side, and he treasures every comment, every sly smile, every hug. She craves the touch the way Dick did, the way Jason and Tim did. And he hates it. Hates how they all needed it. That he was the first one to actually offer it to them. Comforting touch. Safe touch. Non violent touch. He keeps her, selfishly, at his side, keeps her beneath the Robin colors, keeps her at the Manor. She deserves more, she deserves to fly free, just as the others have done, but she is content, for now, to follow his lead, to grapple a second after him, instead of before. And Bruce is selfish. And he lets her. He knows, deep in his heart, it will not last. That she will tire of the colors as all the others have, but the thought settles in his chest, cradled and nurtured by his heart, protected by his ribs. Robin moves on. But she has not. Not yet. And he will keep her for as long as she allows, he will admire her in the cage that is Gotham, the cage that is his presence. “Batman?” Her chirp, as much the bird as she is named after, is cautious, but fond. “You still with me B?” He smiles, because he can, because she’s here, because she deserves it, and she offers him one of her grins in return. “I’m with you.” He confirms. And as she loads her grapple gun, cocking her head at him in question, he knows it’s true. He fires his own, letting the sound of her shot comfort him, thrum through his body like a second heartbeat, and whispers the words to himself, to her, a promise. “I will always be with you.”

[sirshiba]

mlp x gf au q&a

hello all !! i'm working on a full informational post regarding specific characters' cutie marks in my au since a LOT of people have been asking about them, but in the meantime i'll answer some questions i've seen in replies/tags/asks! more detailed answers to cutie mark-related questions will be in the full post.

Q: when and how do starfall and little dipper get their cutie marks?

A: starfall gets her cutie mark during the pioneer day episode. little dipper gets his in dipper vs. manliness, which would revolve around his insecurity about being a blank flank instead of his masculinity.

Q: what about primadonna pearl? when does she get her cutie mark?

A: in northwest mansion mystery, most likely.

Q: what's eight ball's real cutie mark?

A: it's a tarot card with gold coins!

Q: wouldn't eight ball's cutie mark be the same as sixfold, because of the whole identity theft thing?

A: it wouldn't really be necessary. most of the townsfolk probably wouldn't recognize sixfold's cutie mark since he was so reclusive while he was at gravity falls. besides, the whole fake cutie mark is part of his whole mr. mystery act, and just sticking with one would ruin the intrigue. he'd probably only paint sixfold's mark over his own if he was visiting family.

Q: why are starfall and little dipper earth ponies while eight ball and sixfold are unicorns?

A: both sets of twins are half earth pony and half unicorn. in this au, hybrids between different pony types will be born as one parent's type (for instance, a child of a pegasus and a unicorn will be either a pegasus or a unicorn, not a mix of both). hybrids may inherit some traits from the other parent, though! that's why eight ball and sixfold are so big and bulky, despite unicorns typically being on the slimmer side.

Q: why did you name wendy windbreaker? doesn't that mean fart?

A: i genuinely wasn't aware of the implications at first. i named her after a type of jacket because her last name is corduroy, as well as "windbreaker" being a weather pun since pegasi control weather patterns. and then many people helpfully informed me that i named her fart. i won't be changing her name, though, so i'm just going to integrate it into her lore. she probably goes by a nickname (maybe windy?) because other ponies at school won't stop making jokes about her full name, and witnessing their bullying is one of the things that makes starfall anxious about growing up.

Q: what's bill's name in this au?

A: i thought about it and i might just call him bill cipher. it'd be funny if everyone else had special pony names and then bill was just... bill.

Q: what about (insert character here)?

A: i'll probably get to them eventually, just be patient!