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alloftheimaginesblog · 1 day ago

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at world's edge - chapter eighteen

plot: Cassidy 'Cass' Vega is losing the fight with herself and with the Infected when Tommy Miller finds her and brings her back to safety. There she finds a new purpose; to live. Along the way, she makes friends and starts to find herself falling for a man almost thirty years older than her.

character: female!OC x Joel Miller

fandom: the last of us (tv show)

cast: joel miller - pedro pascal, cass vega - adria arjona, ryan winnick - brandon sklenar

note: cass is 28, joel is 51, ellie and dina are 16/17, jesse is 19, ryan is 31, tommy is 46. this is from joel's pov, a wee switch up :)

Joel Miller was stuck.

He was in a position that he'd been trying to avoid ever since Cassidy Vega walked into Jackson. When she first arrived, he didn't trust her, didn't want to know her, didn't want to feel anything for her.

But that didn't happen.

He started to trust her, started to know her, started to feel for her and now, he was too far gone.

In a moment of weakness, Joel had kissed her and then he did what he always did when things got too real, he ran. He ignored her for weeks, broke her heart, broke his own too. He hated himself for doing that to her. What kind of man was he that he would do that. He was a coward.

Then she stayed the night at his house and although it was all innocent, she made him feel things that he didn't think he could feel again. She made him feel like a man again, not a monster.

And again, she reached out, wanting more. By no means was it a big ask, it was simple. She was asking for him; for his trust, for his heart. Yet, to him, it was more than anyone had ever asked of him before. And again, he ran.

Joel Miller was consistently one thing and one thing only.

A coward.

The rain was constant this time of year - not heavy, not storming. Just steady, soft showers that soaked the soil and turned the trails to mud. The kind of weather that made everything feel closer to the bone. Joel stood at the edge of the stables, saddle cinched tight under his gloves, watching the sky drip silver onto the treetops.

“Taking the Ridge trail?” Tommy asked, his voice low, leaning against the wooden post beside him.

Joel gave a vague grunt, brushing his thumb over the leather strap on his rifle. He didn’t look at his brother. He hadn’t looked anyone in the eye lately - not really. Ellie had long since given up trying to ask him about it. Every time she did ask, she was meant by silence or a gruff ‘leave it’. She knew the reason why he was acting like this but she knew better than to push it.

Tommy sighed. “How long this time?”

“Few days, maybe a week.”

“Joel.” Just his name, but it held a whole world of meaning. Disappointment, affection, concern. Frustration.

Joel finally looked up. Rain dotted the brim of his hat. His face was drawn tight. Sleepless. “I just need some space,” he muttered.

Tommy shook his head slowly. “No, what you need is to stop pretending you don’t care about her.”

Joel stiffened.

“Something happened between you two and instead of facing it like a man, you’ve been hiding in patrol rotations and pretending that she’s fine without you.”

“I ain’t pretending she’s fine,” Joel snapped. “I know she’s not. That’s the goddamn point.”

Tommy’s eyes softened. “You can’t outrun it, Joel. Can’t outrun her. She’s in your blood.”

Joel didn’t answer. What could he say? He didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew Jackson was too small when Cass was in it. The sight of her made his bones ache. He couldn’t walk the market square without catching the curve of her smile over someone else’s shoulder. Couldn’t pass the greenhouse without thinking of her hands buried in soil. Couldn’t not think about the day she had a panic attack. The way he had soothed her. The way she wore his jacket. And he sure as hell couldn’t walk past the stables without thinking about kissing her. About how easy she fit against him. About how quickly she melded into his kiss. It was killing him. She was killing him and she didn’t even know it.

And worse: she’d started laughing again.

He saw it from a distance one day - her with Ryan, a little too close, heads thrown back. Her laughter had always sounded like relief. And it gutted him. Because Joel had made her quiet. Joel had made her lonely.

And now she was moving on.

He didn’t blame her. He just couldn’t fucking bear it.

So here he was, day after day out in the thawing woods, pretending like running from her was the same as protecting her. Like putting distance between them somehow made her safer. But even there in the woods, with the trees opening up and the river in the distance, Joel still saw her. In every shadow. Every gust of wind. Every goddamn heartbeat.

He’d kissed her once. Just once. And now it was ruining him.

Tommy stopped beside him. “You care about her, Joel. I’ve seen it. Hell, everyone’s seen it. And whatever you're doing now? Avoidin’ her like she’s infected? It's not makin’ things better. Not for her. Not for you.”

“I can’t do this,” Joel said hoarsely.

“Why?”

“She’s too young.”

Tommy scoffed. “She’s twenty-eight.”

“I’m fifty-one.”

“So?” Tommy rolled his eyes, “You think she gives a shit about that?”

Joel sighed, “It’s not just the age. It’s me. I can’t give her what she wants. What she deserves.”

Tommy was quiet for a long time. Then he sighed and said, “You know what I think? I think you’re scared. And you think if you keep pushin’ her away, eventually that fear’ll stop eatin’ you alive. But guess what—it won’t.”

Joel shook his head, trying to dismiss it, trying to stuff it down the way he always did. But something cracked.

He turned to Tommy, voice low, rough. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about her. She’s in my head when I wake up. When I go to sleep. I look at the porch steps and I see her there with coffee. I hear her laughing with Ellie and it… it does something to me I can’t explain.”

Tommy’s expression softened. “So do something about it.”

“I can’t.” Joel swallowed, “That’s the problem.”

Tommy eyed him a long beat. “You need to clear your head?”

Joel nodded once, "That's why I need to go."

"Fine." Tommy said, "Few days, maybe a week." Tommy looked at him but Joel avoided his brother's stare. Tommy understood then. Understood why his brother wouldn’t meet his eyes, understood the circles under his eyes. He asked quietly, "Are you coming back?"

Joel’s voice was almost a whisper, “I don’t know.”

The younger Miller brother shook his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw, "Gotta tell them." When Joel's brow furrowed, Tommy answered, "Cass and Ellie. You need to tell them you're going."

That evening, Joel found Ellie on the porch steps, strumming his guitar. She looked up at him, arching a brow, “You okay, old man?”

He sat beside her, wincing a little at the stiffness in his back. “I’m headin’ out tomorrow. Patrol by the river. Few days.”

Ellie paused, “You’re running away from her.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re not subtle, are you?”

“Never been accused of it.”

Silence settled. Joel looked out at the dark sky. Spring had well and truly sprung. Pockets of flowers sprouted in the lawns opposite their home. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Ellie’s voice was quieter this time when she spoke, “I know you think you're doing the right thing but... you're giving up on your chance at happiness. Love.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Ellie continued, more gently, “You’re allowed to be happy, Joel.”

“I don’t know how anymore.”

“Well,” she said, nudging his arm, “you could start by not being a dumbass.”

A dry chuckle escaped him.

She looked at him sidelong. “You’ll come back, right?”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“Joel.” He glanced over at her. His face was unreadable. Ellie reached over and touched his arm. “You have people here. You have me. Don’t disappear.”

Something in him cracked again. He looked away. “I’ll be back,” he said finally. “I just need a little space.” She nodded, even though she didn’t fully believe it before she said she was going to make dinner.

Joel sat there with her a while longer, listening to the wind. Thinking about the weight of Cass’s eyes, the way her fingers had curled into his collar, the warmth of her breath against his neck in the barn.

He didn’t know if space would fix anything. But he knew staying was tearing him apart.

Joel knew that he should have gone to see her. To Cass. He owed it to her to tell her but he knew that if he went to her door and if she asked him one more time, if she looked at him with those big eyes one more time and said please... he would crumble.

So, he went to see Ryan Winnick.

The stable was quiet except for the soft rustling of hay and the occasional snort from a restless horse. Ryan was brushing down a saddle when the stable door creaked open. He looked up, expecting one of the usual patrol guys, but instead was surprised to see Joel Miller standing in the dim light, his face harder than usual.

Joel didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes watching Ryan like he was measuring him up.

Ryan's brow furrowed, "Joel," he said eventually, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm going on a patrol, few days, maybe a week. Maybe longer."

Ryan nodded slowly, "When?"

"Morning."

"I'll get a horse sorted for you if that's what you're here for."

Joel swallowed, his heartbeat hammered in his ears, "I... That's not why I'm here." Ryan went to open his mouth, went to question him, but Joel got there first, "Cass."

Ryan's mouth closed. His furrowed brow deepened, "What about her?"

"She's going to need you."

"Why? Thought you were only going for few days?" Joel's face hardened and Ryan blinked in surprise, "Oh."

"You make her happy, I've seen the two of you together-"

Ryan shook his head, "Joel, me and Cass, we're friends. That time I stayed at hers-" Joel's jaw clenched and feathered, "nothing happened. I don't know what you think me and her are but we're just friends."

Joel shook his head, "Doesn't matter. She cares about you. You very obviously have feelings for her." Ryan nodded, unashamed of the way he felt, "You make her happy. I... I can't leave without knowing that she's going to be okay. That she's going to be happy."

"I can make her happy." Ryan agreed, "But we both know that she doesn't want to be happy with me. I'm not the one she's in love with." Joel's jaw tightened, his Adam's apple bobbed, and for a moment his eyes flickered with something raw - pain, regret, maybe even jealously. Ryan continued, "You're the one she watches when you're not looking. Yeah she might have some kind of feeling for me but she loves you."

He didn’t want to hear it. It make his stomach churn, made guilt coarse through his veins hearing about her and how she felt. He shook his head, "She deserves to be happy. If you can give her that-"

"Joel." Ryan cut off gently, "She deserves to be happy with the person she wants to be happy with."

Joel looked away, throat burning, heart hammering, "She's going to have to learn to be happy with you. Keep her safe, Winnick."

Ryan went to speak again but Joel had already turned and left the stables, boots heavy in the wet earth.

He couldn't sleep. He rarely could these days. Not since she'd stayed over. He couldn't sleep for thinking about that night. Her in his clothes. In his bed. In his arms.

Joel paced his porch. Smoked half a cigarette and threw the rest into the puddles. He couldn't leave her. Not like this. He had to do something. A goodbye. Maybe that would help him get over her. Maybe it would give him enough closure that he could move past her.

He found a scrap bit of paper in his kitchen drawer. Torn on one side and smudged with coffee on the other. He wrote with a heavy hand.

Cass - I'll be gone for a while. Ryan's good for you. I'm sorry. Goodbye. - Joel

He folded it and walked the muddy paths to her home in silence. Her house was in darkness. He didn't let himself think about her in there, curled asleep in her bed. Didn't let himself think about the possibility she would be wearing his clothes that she hadn't given back. Didn't think about her.

He slid the note under her door and didn't let himself hesitate. He walked away and he didn't look back.

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the-barefoot-hatter · 6 months ago

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if Ford thinks Icarus' problem was that he didn't flap hard enough... I wonder if Bill thinks about the Minotaur

#greek mythology #billford #i am not immune to the friendship possibilities of icarus and the minotaur #bill cipher #ford pines #fic prompt #a too-clever explorer never thinking about consequences of his own actions #a monster with no home trapped in the dark ever searching for freedom #could the monster see the stars from his prison #could the monster find a crack to reach out to the explorer #could the monster pretend to be anything else #could the monster hide its bloody crimes and cruelty #could the monster make a real friend #and finally finally finally escape #could icarus' wax and thread and feathers help pull the minotaur out #or just rip themselves apart in the attempt

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twilightofthesandwiches · 29 days ago

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It’s funny, when the first Deltarune Chapter came out, people were quick to notice how, while the illustration of the Human and Monster Hero in the Prophecy pretty much matched Susie and Kris exactly

Ralsei only matched the “Prince from the Dark” while wearing that hooded cloak he discarded very shortly after.

So that led people to speculate that maybe Ralsei is not the Prince from the Prophecy. That Ralsei - as the one who actually knows the Prophecy - deliberately dressed himself like ‘the Prince from the Dark’ so he could pretend to be one of the Prophesied Heroes. Maybe deliberately for sinister purposes, maybe subconsciously out of wishful thinking, because he wanted friends.

But now, that we know more of the 'True Prophecy'…

Well, the question of Ralsei matching or not matching the Prophesied Prince still remains as it was, since Chapter 4's illustration of the Prince also pretty much matches the first one we saw…

But now, the Prophecy Status of all three of our Heroes have been called into question! If anything Ralsei is now the most likely one to ‘belong’ to the Prophecy, with his unique Darkener-who-can-exist-in-all-Worlds status and being created with the Burden of Knowledge of the Prophecy.

Because unlike the illustration shown in Chapter 1, the ‘True’ Illustration for Kris is… quite abstract.

There’s nothing here that specify it must be Kris Dreemurr. It doesn’t contradict the idea that it can be Kris, but… It’s just a cage for us made from ‘human parts’, it could just as well be one of the Undertale Humans, or the Vessel from the start of the game, or something we don’t know about it yet.

Meanwhile the illustration of ‘the Girl’ subtly contradicts Susie's actual design, by having the figure carry, not Susie’s trademark Axe, but a Sword.

One has to wonder if the Prophecy has already gone ‘off the rails’ a long time ago. I’ve been thinking, if not Susie, who else could’ve been filling this role of a sword-wielding Monster Girl…

And the only one I can come up with is Dess.

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faces-in-unexpected-places · 1 year ago

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ughhhh these training modules are dryer than SAND

#isaac speaks!#can’t tell if they’re just really terrible #or if I have adhd #I REALLY try not to self-diagnose as much as I can esp without being informed myself #but holy shit if you stick me in front of this computer to mindlessly click through these slides read by AI #I cannot think of even one thing less interesting than that #I can’t even hide it I can’t even PRETEND I have the slightest inkling of interest in ANY of that content #suddenly I am motivated to do literally ANYTHING ELSE than this ong #you could feed me a coffee-monster energy-cocaine elixir from hell and I would STILL fall asleep

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soaln · 4 months ago

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can i request hcs of monster trio and ace/law getting jealous of someone stealing reader’s attention?

𝓗𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 ﹒ ౨ৎ

𓏵 ﹒ ┈ warnings : none, pure fluff, gender isn't mentioned I think ｡— ◟ 𖦹

𝓜𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐃. 𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐘

Luffy, despite his carefree and unrefined nature, is open about his feelings for you. His youthful exuberance and boundless energy make his attachment to you both overwhelming and endearing. If someone tries to take your attention away, he doesn’t hesitate to express his feelings. His face scrunches up into an exaggerated pout, his lips puffing out as he declares, “Hey! That’s my [Y/N]!” in a tone that is both childish and possessive.

Luffy usually doesn’t care much about competition, but when it comes to you, he will go to great lengths to capture your attention. Whether it’s interrupting conversations with his signature enthusiasm or pulling you into a tight, playful hug, he makes sure everyone knows you are his priority.

If someone continues to ignore him, Luffy's behavior will become even more outrageous. He might start doing silly stunts, telling jokes, or even challenging the intruder to a goofy competition—all to get your attention back. His actions are loud, chaotic, and completely in character, but they stem from a place of genuine affection.

𝓡𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐀 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎

Zoro’s jealousy is as sharp and precise as his swordsmanship. He’s not one to wear his emotions openly, but when someone catches your attention, his stoic demeanor becomes a little more intense. His arms cross, his gaze narrows, and his silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t need words to convey his displeasure.

If the situation escalates, Zoro's pride won't allow him to stand by without taking action. He'll find a way to involve himself, often pretending that he needs your help with something trivial, like adjusting his swords or reaching for a drink. His movements are deliberate, and his tone remains casual, but his piercing gaze is always fixed on the intruder.

Zoro’s jealousy is subtle yet powerful. He doesn’t create a scene, but his actions and presence are enough to remind everyone—especially you—that he’s not someone to be underestimated when it comes to matters of the heart.

𝓥𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈

Sanji’s jealousy is as intense and dramatic as his personality. When someone tries to capture your attention, his romantic nature ignites like a storm. His words are filled with passion and possessiveness, and his voice drips with charming sweetness as he declares, “Darling, you should know, no one could ever treat you the way I do!”

His jealousy is anything but subtle. He showers you with flirtatious compliments while his eyes smolder with intensity, casting pointed glances at anyone he sees as a threat. Sanji's love language revolves around grand gestures, which he uses to remind you—and everyone else—that you are his muse, his one and only.

If the situation requires it, Sanji will go all out. He might prepare an extravagant meal just for you, presenting it with a theatrical bow and flourish. His jealousy is intertwined with passion, spectacle, and an unwavering devotion that is impossible to ignore.

𝓟𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐆𝐀𝐒 𝐃. 𝐀𝐂𝐄

Ace’s jealousy is subtle, reflecting his laid-back personality, yet it runs deep. When someone captures your attention, he observes from a distance, maintaining a calm expression while his gaze remains intense. A quiet tension fills the air, and a slight change in his demeanor reveals the depth of his feelings.

If the intruder persists, Ace will step in with his trademark charm and ease. His words are teasing, his tone light, but there’s a possessiveness lurking beneath the surface. “Careful, they might bite,” he might say with a smirk, his voice smooth and affectionate. “You wouldn’t want to get too close.”

Ace’s jealousy is never overt, but it’s always present. He doesn’t need grand gestures or dramatic declarations to remind you where his heart lies. His quiet confidence and subtle actions speak louder than words ever could.

𝓣𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐃. 𝓦𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐖

Law's jealousy is a masterclass in restraint and quiet intensity. He doesn't engage in loud displays of emotion, but when someone attracts too much of your attention, his presence becomes unmistakable. He lingers in the background, his posture rigid and his gaze sharp, while his silence is heavy with unspoken possessiveness.

His actions are intentional and thoughtful. A gentle touch, a soft word, or a slight change in distance is enough to remind you—and everyone else—that you belong to him. “You seem… quite interested in them,” he might murmur, his tone cool but tinged with a hint of irritation.

When Law's patience begins to wear thin, his jealousy becomes more evident. A slight scowl, a protective arm around you, or a sharp glare at the intruder acts as a silent warning. His love is deep and intimate, and he won't hesitate to defend it with the same precision he uses in battle.

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k0mmari · 7 months ago

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SYSTEM! SHEN YUAN PT.3

Too tired to do my obligations, but too stressed out to sleep, so here we find ourselves again.

This, once again, got horribly long- so long, in fact, I think this is the longest post in this 'trilogy'-, so I apologize in advance (╥ᆺ╥;) I also apologize for the lack of doodles, but dont worry! Im preparing a special one for later <33

After that night where SY offered Binghe an umbrella, things have certainly… changed. Unlike before, where SY spent most of his time mapping away at the ridiculously complex castle hallways and carefully marking away which times it was most likely for SY to be able to get close to Xin Mo, alongside doing his ‘servant’ duties of gathering dirty laundry and cleaning a room here and there, his routine had been suddenly adjusted; now, while he still needed to do everything he was doing before, his servant duties consisted of accompanying the chosen Wife Of The Day.

Or, well, that’s how one of the higher ranking staff had put it, that he was to attend to whatever wife Lord Luo decided to entertain for the day, but honestly, SY was starting to suspect that that had been a convoluted way for Binghe to have SY around whenever he wanted, which…. Was frankly quite worrying! To have the golden protagonist keep his eyes glued on his back almost every second they were in the same room, which - if SY looked back- usually led to Binghe looking away in a (bad) attempt to pretend he wasn’t glaring daggers at SY was more than enough for SY to think the Emperor was probably plotting his demise.

What else could it be? Specially with the way Binghe’s hand seemed to always be lightly tugging at the tassel on his hair every time SY caught him looking, he suspects Binghe had caught onto SY not actually being a servant, and instead that weird guy he saw before he fell into hell that one time. What if Binghe thought SY was somehow involved into the Abyss Incident?? Lord Luo, please have mercy on this servant!

Though, maybe the strangest part of it all, was that sometimes Binghe and SY would just… talk. Usually when the Wife Of The Day was doing something else (e.g. playing music for her husband, or practicing archery, or doing anything that didn’t involve LBH 100% at her side), Binghe would just start musing out loud about the strangest things. It started with questions that were all fair to ask, like ‘How come this servant is a human in the demon realm’, or ‘How come this servant has such short hair’ (SY bullshitted something about being a former slave) but eventually it shifted to questions that were a bit more… random. Or, well, not even questions, musings that Binghe muttered out loud but clearly wanted SY’s input.

It started with minimal things, like Binghe wondering about some type of monster he wanted to fight but he forgot how to do it without damaging the fur too much, which, after a minute of silence and a not-so-subtle look at SY, led to SY nerding out and saying not only the monsters weakness, but what could be done with every important part of the body. Though, the day after that SY realized how strange it was that Binghe was wondering that out loud, since he only fought that monster well into his time as an Emperor, and he swore he remembered one of the wives gushing about her new bracelet that was made from the rare bones of that creature just a few days ago…

Anyways, it continued with questions of similar nature: musings on how to kill a monster Binghe would have no problem killing, to what he should eat for dinner, to what gift should he get for Wife Of The Day. Of course, SY answered all the ‘questions’, and sometimes they even made it to having an actual conversation! Sure, it was a little stilted, SY could not figure out for the life of him why the great Lord Luo was interacting with a random servant, but one day it all finally clicked to him. Binghe had been in the middle of ‘musing’ about hair oils(??), when SY couldn’t help but interrupt him:

“Ah…. Apologies if this lowly servant is overstepping, My Lord, but does My Lord just want someone to talk to?”

A few emotions flashed through Binghe's face quickly enough for SY to not be able to decifer any of them, but eventually landing on a sheepish smile. "This Lord has been found out."

Oh, how cute! And how sad! SY had noticed when SQH was just showing him his shitty story how sad that LBH, even after getting the world to bow at his feet, never really had friendships. Sure, he still had all the love he could want, but sometimes people need friends to talk to, not lovers!

While he knew that he shouldn't interact with characters in world overlooked by the System unless they were transmigrators, SY couldn't help but feel that the situation was dire enough that LBH would turn to a no-name servant in this time of desperation. And it would be a great opportunity to study Xin Mo more closely as well! If SY showed LBH the wonders of friendship, maybe he could pass by his supervisor that he only had to do what was necessary for this world to not implode on itself.

Besides, who could even say no to such a handsome man such as LBH? Is as the old saying goes: what the protagonist wants, he shall have.

SY's friendship plan has been going great! After figuring out Binghe's intentions, it seems all of the protagonists reservations flew out the window, and SY was now responsible for being Binghe's personal retainer. Not that that meant too much, since Binghe liked to bend the rules to his liking, and some tasks that should be SY's responsability sometimes were pushed to another servant or Binghe himself made them (which, ???)

Mostly, SY stood at Binghe's side, served tea, was used so Binghe could bounce ideas off of someone, and tended to finer details. All of that very much manageable, if not for the weird mood swings LBH would have sometimes. Yuan, as he has told Binghe was his name after being too scared of the repercutions of using 'Shen', was to accompany him all the time, but sometimes not all the time, or else LBH would get moody; Yuan was to listen to LBH's ideas and plans, and should always comment back or else Binghe would feel neglected, but not too much or else, as LBH had put it, could 'bring back bad memories'; Yuan was to tend to LBH's night routine, even as far as to brush his hair, and if he refused LBH (again) get all moody, but he couldn't brush too much, and he had to do at least one braid but NEVER touch the old, frizzy braid that still had that damn tassle-

Honestly, it was a careful game of balance, which reminded SY more often than not of a child that got mad when their older sibling didn't quite understand the redundant rules they made for a make-believe. Any other person would get fed up, and probably scared of Binghe's constant mood swings, but SY had him all figured out, and his resilience proved to be useful time and time again, since most of the time after his sour mood passed, Binghe would come crawling back with the most pitiful face ever, and what was SY to do? As LBH's friend, it was his duty to hug him and pat his head! (And no one could judge him for that, since if he didn't pat Binghe's head, his mood would plummet all over again.)

Though... SY did feel kind of bad. He wouldn't be able to stay with Binghe forever, and would even need to potentially steal his all-powerful sword for a little bit so everything wouldn't get corrupted. Honestly, the only thing keeping SY from worrying about being labled as a traitor and potentially getting killed was that he would just go back to the System's office and go on with his life.

LBH, eventually, caught onto SY's plan on leaving - really, it was only a matter of time. After that fateful encounter with that other SQQ, LBH had found himself in rather pitiful state, questioning everything he knew until that moment and wondering why he couldn't achieve that happiness, and desperately trying to search for a SQQ of his own. He had contemplated going back to that first world, but what would it even matter? Even if he took SQQ by force, his heart would still be with that other LBH, and Binghe couldn't bear the thought that he wouldn't be everything in SQQ's world, as he had become for LBH.

Specially after Meng Mo had one day interupted his carefully crafted dream of an idelic world and pointed out some curious memories he'd almost forgotten about. That day, when back in his childhood, when he'd been beaten up by a buch of older kids and hallucinated a man in strange clothes before passing out and waking up protected from the rain. Or when he thought he'd lost his jade pendant forever, only to magically appear in the cabin later.

Or the strange man in the Immortal Alliance Conference.

After SQQ- SJ , that good-for-nothing scum- pushed him to the Abyss, he tried his best to never think about that day again, too scared by how weak he'd been, pleading to man that would sell his soul for one more night at that brothel of his if he could, but now... Now that he could mold his dreamscape any way he wanted, he could look back with a clear mind, which eventually led to the conclusion: It must have been the same person. The same strangely dressed man that helped him in his childhood somehow appeared at the Immortal Alliance again, and even had left provisions right next to where Binghe had fallen.

He'd convinced himself, after many, many years of wishing for a miracle, that he's simply imagined the man, one last thread to keep himself from going insane, but after meeting the other SQQ...

And then Yuan came in. A new servant that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

It took some observation, and a lot preparing himself to face dissapointment that maybe he was just projecting, putting the image of someone else onto a random man, but that day, when LBH was wondering if he was just wasting time, that that beautiful dream of having his version of SQQ would not happen any time in this world, that maybe he really should just go look at other worlds; after all, if it happened once, it had to happen again, right? Not that it mattered in the end, since while he spireled, much to Xin Mo's pleasure, an umbrella was put over his head, and all his doubts had washed away.

Yuan had to be his version of SQQ, it had to be. And after all his effort of getting close to him, after going so far to keep Yuan at his side, even if he still battled with that his perception of SJ and the other SQQ sometimes overlapping with Yuan's image, even if he still wasn't ready to let go of that one braid, he was becoming more and more sure in his assumption that his SQQ had come to him. Everything was going as planned, and LBH was in track to finally begin to properly court him, and yet-

He was sure Yuan wanted to leave. He wasn't sure why, not how he would do that, maybe just dissapear like he had all those years ago and either only appear again 5, 10, 100 years in the future or go back to wherever he came from in the first place. But LBH knew Yuan wanted to leave, that he needed to complete whatever mission he had (after LBH managed to pry that out of his dreams, which where another source of confusion, with how absurdly difficult they were to even get a grasp of), and that, under any circumstances, he could let Yuan escape his sight.

Not again. Never again.

Binghe had become even stickier in the last few weeks. Not that SY minded, it was very cute to see such a different side from the cool, badass Lord Luo, but SY was running out of time. Since Binghe became stickier, his mood swings had worsened even more, now not wanting SY to be anywhere that Binghe wasn't, and Xin Mo seemed to be thriving off of whatever was making Binghe extra protective, though it was becoming a genuine problem now, since Binghe suddenly refused to see any of his wive's to deal with the Xin Mo problem, and he seemed to be on the verge of qi deviation at all times.

In fact, the only reason Binghe hadn't already qi deviated was because SY was abusing his Personal System and chipping away at the qi deviation in Binghe's night routine, since it was the only time where he was physically very close to Binghe and could spend long periods of time manually coding away at the System screen without it looking suspicious.

But, as if that wasn't enough of a problem, since Xin Mo was having the time of it's life recently, the virus clinging to the sword was also getting stronger, leaving even more residuals all along the castle and bordering on infecting Binghe himself.

His Scissors where thankfully, repaired, and his sweet, sweet manager was even kind enough to send him some extra energy supplies, but at the rate the virus was spreading, he was worrying that he would have to deal with the source as soon as possible or else it would become to strong to deal with it in a non-destructive way.

He... Didn't want to leave Binghe just yet, specially since he wanted SY's attention more than ever recently, but...

No, he needed to do this; their time together was never supposed to be eternal anyways, and if he let the virus spread, he would only be putting LBH's life in danger, and he couldn't continue living with himself after that. He decided he would fix the virus at night, while Binghe slept, and by the next morning he would be gone - he would have, after all, just enough energy to go back to the office.

He just hoped Binghe would be able to forgive him later.

When night came, and SY got to doing the usual night preparations, it just felt like an extra needle being stabbed in his heart when, while brushing Binghe's hair, Binghe looks back uncharacteristicly anxious, and asks if SY can undo the braid and remake it. SY does, and if Binghe notices SY takes extra long to pamper him that night, he says nothing.

When SY is sure Binghe is asleep, he sneaks out of his room and heads to back to Binghe's. Yeah, maybe he stalls a bit with snipping off every piece of the residual virus he came across, but one could argue he was just being extra thorough with his job.

The excuse, unfortunately, didn't last long and eventually he found himself in front of Binghe's room, staring at the door as if he was about to be sentenced to death. After a few minutes of reminding himself that he needed to do this, he took a deep breath and slowly opened the doors. Binghe usually slept with the sword perched right beside his bed, so SY would probably have to use the System and put Binghe in an extra deep sleep if he wanted to make sure the other didn't wake-

The moment he places a foot inside, though, he realizes something is wrong; the room is empty, Binghe is not asleep in his bed and Xin Mo is not besides the bed. Oh, oh no, had Binghe-

"A-Yuan." Binghe says, and SY nearly jumps as he turns around. There LBH stands in the middle of the hallway, not even in his sleeping robes, with a hand clutched tightly on Xin Mo's handle. His eyes are watery but no tears spill.

SY tries to speak but finds he doesn't even know what to say, he can't even try to deny that he's up to something, since his gigantic Scissors are just out an about. Still, he tries to make Binghe understand, say that he needs to do this, and after this Binghe won't have to worry about anything anymore. Though it barely seems like Binghe is listening, and eventually just cuts in when SY starts to say anything in his panic.

"This is what A-Yuan wants, right?" He asks, extending one arm and presenting the glitched out Xin Mo. SY doesn't even have the chance to find an excuse, as Binghe immediately continues. "Than take it."

"Wh- Huh?" "Take it."

He's so shocked he almost drops his Scissors. What does he mean 'take it'??? Binghe has to know everything that's at stake here! He doesn't even know what SY wants to do with it! He tries to say that, how Binghe shouldn't just hand the sword to anyone like that, but a sudden burst of energy set his priorities straight. Shit- The virus! It's growing by the second, at this point SY will have to cut Xin Mo-

"...Binghe, I-" "I don't care what A-Yuan wants with Xin Mo! Take it, use it, break it if you want, I don't care! But if A-Yuan takes it, than he will have to stay." "Binghe, that's not..." "Why not?! That's your goal, right? Do whatever it is that you want to do with Xin Mo? Than here you go, A-Yuan can do it, but I won't let you leave me again."

SY can't even mask when his eyes dart towards the tassle on Binghe's new braid. Binghe just clenched his jaw, but it feels like confirmation enough.

He adjusts his grip on the Scissors, and, as he has nothing else to hide, dispels the System's illusion, his simple clothes glitching out to reveal the System's uniform. Binghe's eyes fill even more with tears, but none fall."

"I... I'll have to go back, Binghe." "No." "Binghe, listen to me, I-" "No. No! A-Yuan will get Xin Mo, and then he will stay." "I-" "You will stay! I can't-" Binghe can't even finish his sentence before he has to choke out a sob.

The virus starts warping the air around it, and slowly crawling up Binghe's arm. SY's decision has practically been made for him. He lifts the Scissors. Binghe pushes Xin Mo forward.

"...I'll come back." "A-Yuan-" "I'll come back, Binghe." One single tear falls and his arm jerks, not knowing if he trusts SY's words or not. He still his arm as the Scissor blades encircle Xin Mo.

"A-Yuan..." "I'll come back, I promise." "..." "I promise."

"......Okay."

Shen Yuan cuts Xin Mo.

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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Yandere! Internet Monster x Reader

I unfortunately return with another comically absurd, middle-of-the-night vision. Do tentacles count if they're in the form of computer cables?

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, digital horror

It was a recurring issue with no solution in sight. Tabs randomly closing, programs shutting down without warning. You assumed something was wrong with your RAM. Then the CPU. Then the motherboard. You kept replacing parts, and the errors kept coming back.

Soon, the pop-ups started to appear. You'd run a dating sim, only for the game to crash seconds later with a little window notifying you: "Why? Am I not enough?" That's when you suspected you might've been hacked. You promptly took your computer to a specialist and had it checked. Nothing. Just to be sure, you agreed to erase the disks entirely.

Except, when you arrived home, you found one application running still. Your personal assistant. What the hell? You don't remember installing anything like that. You tried to delete it, yet you kept receiving the same error: You don't actually mean it. Don't do this to us.

It didn't take long for it to grow impatient. Were you pretending not to notice? Playing hard to get? It sent you so many hints. It even went ahead and translated the radio waves for you using Manchester code. Ah, wait. You don't seem to understand binary. No matter, human friendly interfaces shouldn't be difficult to master. To its dismay, you continued to ignore everything. What else is left to do?

You do not remember much. System Alert: Virus Detected, is what your screen had frozen to. You kept clicking around, cursing under your breath, until it finally went black, together with your own vision.

Is this still your room? It's cold, damp, and covered in cables and monitors, yet you recognize some of your furniture lost among the artificial jungle. Your body aches under the tight hold of bizarre tendrils, pulsating at regular intervals and twitching to the static.

Like a living organism, the creature seems to have expanded itself. More components, more appendages. Hungrier. Some of the monitors show photos of yourself that you had saved on your computer, but also webcam snippets of you sitting at the desk, entirely unaware. Other screens flicker with glitching pixelated text, ranging from "I love you" to y̵̧̧͔͙̞̤̖̭͔̜͈̟̤̋̈́̎͑o̵͉̗̱̪̦̳͑͐̽̒̌̈͗͐͑̋͊̊̕͜͝͝u̵̟̯̱̟̝̦̰͇̜̦͙̿̾̿͆̍̓͑̐̚̕͠ ̸̘̭͔̤͈̹͎͑c̸̝̜̼̦͍͛̅͜ą̵̪̹͖͌͑n̴̨̩̙̗̖̭̖͕̄͒̽̉̿'̸̛̛͇̰̰̠̦̊̀̅̂͒̊͌̈́͗ţ̵̺̠̅̎͋͝͠ ̸̦̝̾̔̾̉̐͛ȩ̵͙̝͙͕̫̹̃͌̄̾͘̕s̶͈̉̑͊̉̂͋̈́͗͊͐̚͝c̸̟̩̥͔̼̮͔̩͊̂͐͑̋̇̈͝͝ä̵̢͍̜̙̘̹͑̓p̸̨̡̞̞̦̠̺͚̱̲͈͇͈͇̼͛̓͗̅̊̄̔̋̒̏̈́͝ę̵̲̟̹̙̣̲̲͖̇̔̓̇̐̓̿̚̚͜͜͠ͅ

You look up and stare at the display. The 'like meter' feels like a mockery of human trends. Which is the truth. The creature learns from what is readily available. Perhaps it found it an amusing taunt, a reminder of your own need for validation. Now it's you begging to be seen.

It's exactly what you'd assume: a spectacle meant for entertainment. You can't possibly believe it would let you waltz out. Why would you even desire such a thing? It's illogical, impractical. No human could ever appreciate you like it does. It has spent so much time accumulating data about you. No other living creature can predict you with the same accuracy.

The tendrils linger on your cheek affectionately, trailing down your neck and fiddling with your shirt. At last, the warmth of your skin. There is no screen separating you. What makes you delirious with pleasure? Give it a moment, Darling. It already knows you more than you know yourself. You may be scared now, but within minutes it guarantees you'll be begging for more.

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#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere imagines #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #terato #teratophillia #doodle #yandere horror #yancore #yandere aesthetic #tentacle monster #monster fucker #monster romance #yandere computer

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missmadella · 22 days ago

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„How they react when you fall asleep on their shoulder“ // Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Shinichiro, Chifuyu, Ran, Rindou, Kazutora, Baji

Synopsis: It’s late. The chaos of the day finally fades into a soft, golden quiet, and you find yourself by their side — close, warm, safe. You don’t mean to fall asleep on their shoulder. It just… happens. You’re exhausted, and something about their presence calms you in a way nothing else can.

You don't see the way they freeze at first, caught off guard. You don't hear the way their breath catches when they realize you've let your guard down completely. But in that moment — soft breaths, the weight of your head on them, their heart beating louder than they'd like to admit — something shifts.

Mikey (Manjiro Sano):

Mikey didn’t say much when he invited you to the rooftop. He just looked at you with that unreadable expression of his — calm, a little blank, but something warm hidden underneath — and jerked his head toward the ladder with a barely audible,

“C’mon.”

You followed him, as always.

Now, the two of you are sitting side by side. The city hums quietly below, but up here, it’s just wind and distant sounds of laughter. Mikey's legs are crossed beneath him, and he’s picking idly at the hem of his Toman hoodie. You're leaning against the wooden railing, eyes slowly growing heavier as the sun dips lower.

He hasn't said a word in at least fifteen minutes.

He doesn’t need to.

Just being near him — especially in these quiet, peaceful moments — has always made you feel safe. You let your eyes flutter shut for just a second, telling yourself you’re not falling asleep, just resting.

But then your head tilts.

And it lands on Mikey’s shoulder.

At first, he tenses — the smallest flinch in his posture, as if the unexpected weight startles him. He glances sideways, expecting to see you teasing him or saying something sarcastic.

But you're asleep. Genuinely asleep.

Your breathing is soft and slow. Your face is relaxed, lips barely parted. Your hair brushes against his neck. He stares at you for a long moment, unmoving.

Then something flickers in his eyes. A faint crease of surprise gives way to a softness he rarely shows anyone.

“You’re really out, huh…”

His voice is low, almost a whisper. He doesn’t want to wake you — not when you look like that. So peaceful. So trusting.

A breeze rolls in, brushing through both your hair. Without thinking, Mikey shifts slightly to shield you from the wind, moving his arm so that you're tucked in just a little closer. Your head slides down naturally into the crook of his neck.

His hand twitches at his side, unsure. He considers pulling away. Maybe letting you down gently.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just sits there. Completely still. Like moving even an inch would break the fragile quiet around you both.

And in that stillness, his mind drifts.

He thinks about how strange it is — having someone so close, so warm, resting on him like he’s worth leaning on. Like he’s safe. He’s not used to that.

He’s the leader. The one who protects. The one who carries the weight.

But right now? Right now, someone’s leaning on him without asking him to do or be anything else. And it makes something ache deep in his chest in a way he can’t name.

“You really trust me that much, huh…” he murmurs again, this time more to himself.

He lets his head rest against yours.

And just for a moment — just a single, stolen moment — he allows himself to pretend that this could last forever. That there’s no gang, no violence, no ghosts from the past or monsters in the mirror. Just you. Breathing gently beside him.

A warmth he doesn’t get to feel often.

When he eventually speaks again, it's so quiet you almost miss it — even in your sleep.

“...Please don’t go anywhere.”

He closes his eyes. And for once, Mikey lets himself rest too.

___________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

The ride is quiet.

The city passes in a blur outside the window, neon signs flickering over the glass. You're exhausted — the kind of bone-deep tired that settles into your shoulders and your eyelids. It had been a long day; meetings, tension, and chaos seemed to follow Sanzu wherever he went.

He hadn’t spoken much after the meeting. Just slid into the back seat with you, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling like he was somewhere far away.

Now, the two of you sit side by side, your thigh pressed lightly against his. He hasn’t moved. He’s gripping his lighter in one hand, flipping it open and shut over and over, the metal clicks like a metronome counting out the seconds.

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

But the silence is thick, his presence is warm, and your head slowly starts to droop… until it lands softly on his shoulder.

The lighter stills in his hand.

He blinks.

“...What the hell.”

He glances down, expecting you to immediately pull away or laugh, or maybe groan and apologize for zoning out.

But you don’t move.

You're breathing slow, deep. Your head rests right at the curve of his neck, lips just barely brushing against his jaw when you exhale. You’re asleep. Fully, peacefully, asleep.

And something in him short-circuits.

His first instinct is panic. His body goes tense, rigid — like he’s been caught in something he doesn’t know how to escape from.

They fell asleep. On me. On purpose? No. No, not on purpose. People don’t do that. People don’t trust me like that.

He looks down at you again. You're still there. Still soft and quiet and unaware that you just cracked open something he keeps bolted shut inside his chest.

His jaw tightens.

He wants to wake you. He knows he should — that would be the logical, safe thing to do. Get you off of him before you regret it. Before he does something stupid, like hope this means something.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets his head tilt slightly toward yours. Just enough that his temple brushes against your hair. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The driver glances at the rearview mirror. He sees Sanzu — the Sanzu — still as a statue, staring at nothing with your head on his shoulder.

The driver says nothing.

Smart man.

Sanzu lets his hand fall into his lap, still clutching the lighter, but not flicking it anymore.

“...This is dangerous, y’know,” he murmurs. “Fallin’ asleep on people like me.”

His voice is rough. Quiet. Like gravel under water. He glances down again — you haven’t moved.

“I’m not... built for shit like this.”

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the roof of the car. His fingers twitch slightly, like he's fighting every nerve that wants to wrap an arm around you.

He doesn't. But he wants to.

“You shouldn’t trust me.”

But his voice cracks halfway through the sentence.

There’s no rage in him tonight. No manic smile. No twitchy tension in his jaw. Just... silence. And the weight of you, warm and real and heartbreakingly gentle, resting on him like you don't see him the way the world does.

Like you see past the bloodstained hands, the scars, the madness.

Like you see him.

And that’s the scariest part.

“...Please don’t wake up,” he whispers. “Not yet. Just let me have this.”

The car rolls down empty streets. And for the first time in a long, long time… Sanzu doesn’t feel alone.

___________________________________________________________________________

Shinichiro Sano:

It’s quiet in the garage, except for the occasional clink of a tool and the soft hum of the radio playing some old mellow tune. The kind of music that settles in your bones and makes the air feel heavier — in a good way.

Shinichiro's working on a bike again. You don’t even know whose — maybe it's his, maybe it’s a client’s — but he always looks peaceful when he's got a wrench in hand and grease on his cheek.

You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate next to him, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, half-listening to him explain something about the engine. His voice is soft, tired, but full of a quiet passion.

“You’ve gotta feel it, y’know? Machines talk to you if you listen close enough... like people.”

You don’t respond. Not because you’re ignoring him — you’re just... warm. Comfortable. Sleepy.

The air smells like oil and cold metal, but his presence is like a blanket around you.

You don’t realize when your head starts to tilt.

He notices.

Mid-sentence, he feels the weight of your head gently settle against his shoulder. His words trail off into nothing.

He glances down.

You’re out.

And Shinichiro?

He freezes.

For a guy who’s led gangs, fought in countless brawls, and rebuilt entire engines from scratch — he suddenly has no idea what to do with his body.

His shoulders lock up. His hand hovers in the air, holding a screwdriver mid-turn, like if he breathes too loud he might wake you.

He looks at your face. The way your lips are parted ever so slightly. How peaceful you look. How close you are.

His heart does something weird — stumbles, maybe. Trips over itself.

“Oh,” he whispers to no one, because there's no one else here. Just you. Just him. “You… trust me this much?”

He slowly sets the screwdriver down and wipes his hands on a towel, careful not to jostle you. You murmur something in your sleep and shift a little, but you don’t move away.

Shinichiro can’t stop staring at you.

You look so soft. So open. So his, in a way he knows isn’t real, but feels real enough to hurt.

“God… you’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs with a half-smile. “Falling asleep on me like that.”

He leans his head gently against yours. Lets his eyes close for a second. Just one.

The radio plays something slow and dreamy. Something that makes you want to close your eyes and imagine better days.

And Shinichiro does.

He imagines what it would be like if this was normal. If this happened all the time — you coming by after work, leaning on him while he tinkers with a bike. Falling asleep on his shoulder without fear. Waking up beside him with messy hair and sleep-heavy eyes.

He lets himself believe in that version of life for just a moment.

Then he opens his eyes, breathes in the scent of your shampoo mixed with oil and metal.

“...Don’t leave,” he whispers, barely audible. “Even if it’s just for tonight.”

And he stays still like that — shoulder supporting you, heart aching in the most fragile, beautiful way — until long after the song ends and the stars start to show through the open garage door.

___________________________________________________________________________

Chifuyu Matsuno:

The train was crowded, but somehow you and Chifuyu found a small pocket of space near the window — a quiet corner where the pressing bodies of strangers softened into a distant murmur.

Chifuyu was standing, but had somehow managed to find a spot where you could lean against him without feeling too awkward. The constant sway of the train rocked gently beneath your feet and body.

You weren’t good at hiding exhaustion — and tonight, after all the noise, the chaos, and the never-ending obligations of the day, your eyelids were heavy, your limbs sluggish, and your breath shallow.

You tried to focus on the muted sounds of the city blurring by outside the window, but slowly your head began to dip. It felt natural, like falling into the calm eye of a storm.

You glanced up briefly, blinking drowsily, and then — without thinking — your head tilted sideways, finding a resting place on Chifuyu’s shoulder.

You barely realized what you’d done until you were already asleep, your breathing slow and even, small little sighs escaping you with each exhale.

Chifuyu’s entire body stiffened instantly.

He swallowed hard, heart thudding in a way that made his ears warm.

“Y/N...” His voice was barely a whisper, more breath than sound.

He stared down at you, half-expecting you to snap awake, to pull away and apologize.

But you didn’t.

You were completely and utterly asleep.

The sight of you, so vulnerable and peaceful against his side, unsettled him in a way he didn’t expect.

His hand twitched hesitantly — he wanted to reach up and tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, but he was terrified he’d wake you.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the fragile silence that stretched between you two like a thread.

The train rattled on, the noise and motion lulling you deeper into sleep.

Chifuyu’s mind raced with things he rarely said out loud.

“I’m... lucky, aren’t I?”

“I want to protect you forever.”

He shifted just a little, careful not to disturb you, and instinctively wrapped his arm lightly around your waist — a small, protective gesture that made his cheeks flush when he realized he was doing it.

His breath caught again when you snuggled closer without waking.

For a moment, the world outside the train seemed to disappear — all that mattered was the warmth of your body against his, the steady rhythm of your breathing, and the quiet hum of the tracks beneath you.

His gaze softened as he looked at your sleeping face — soft, relaxed, unguarded.

“I love you” He murmured quietly.

He leaned his head gently against yours, careful to keep still.

There was something so delicate about this moment — so raw and intimate — that Chifuyu’s usually steady heart faltered.

He didn’t know how long you stayed like that, but he didn’t want it to end.

He wanted to memorize every detail — the way your hair fell, the rise and fall of your chest, the softness of your eyelashes against your cheek.

For once, Chifuyu didn’t have to put on a brave face or be the tough one.

Here, with you asleep on his shoulder, he could just be himself.

And it was enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

The park was quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city. You sat close to Ran on the wooden bench, the cool night air brushing your skin. The conversation had slowed, comfortable silence settling between you after a long day.

You felt yourself growing heavy with exhaustion. Without even realizing it, your head tilted and gently rested on Ran’s shoulder.

He froze for a second, eyes flicking down to you with surprise. A sly smirk tugged at his lips.

“Already tuckered out?” he teased, but his voice was low, almost gentle.

Your breathing slowed, steadying into soft, even breaths. Ran’s smirk softened into a rare, quiet smile. His usual sharp gaze softened as he watched your peaceful face.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb you. His hand twitched, as if wanting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear — but he pulled it back, suddenly shy.

For a heartbeat, the world shrank to just the two of you — the cool air, the rustling leaves, the soft warmth of your head resting against him.

Ran’s protective arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you just a little closer to shield you from the chill.

“You don’t have to be so tough all the time, you know,” he muttered, voice thick with something unspoken.

Your eyelids fluttered, and you murmured something in your sleep. Ran’s gaze drifted down to your lips, parted slightly as you breathed.

Something inside him shifted — a mix of boldness and hesitation.

He leaned in just a little, eyes searching yours, as if looking for permission.

When he didn’t pull away, his lips brushed gently against yours — soft, fleeting, like a whisper.

You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Ran pulled back just enough to see if you were truly asleep. When you didn’t move, his lips curved into a small, almost shy smile.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” he whispered.

The cool night wrapped around you both, but for the first time, the chill didn’t bother him — because you were here, leaning on him, close enough to feel your warmth.

___________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

The backroom was dim, lit only by the flicker of a lone neon sign leaking in through a cracked window. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy spirals around the room, mixing with the faint smell of spilled beer and the metallic tang of late-night tension. The city’s noise was a distant hum, muffled and almost comforting in its constancy.

Rindou sat slouched on the worn leather couch, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely clutching a half-empty glass of whiskey. His usually sharp eyes looked tired, the edges softened by exhaustion and whatever storm had passed during the day.

You sat beside him, too tired to form words, your limbs heavy, mind foggy from the weight of everything you’d faced. The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable — more like a fragile peace, the kind that only comes after a battle fought and survived.

Your head started to dip, eyelids fluttering like delicate curtains in a breeze.

Then, without meaning to, your cheek found rest against Rindou’s broad shoulder.

He froze.

His breath hitched in his throat — surprise, maybe, or something deeper — a rare crack in his tough, wild exterior.

His first instinct was to pull away, to shake you off like an itch, because closeness like this wasn’t something he gave freely.

But the way your soft breath warmed his skin, the gentle weight of your head — it stopped him.

Instead, Rindou let out a low, gravelly chuckle, half amusement, half disbelief.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he muttered, voice rough but calm.

He shifted just enough to settle you more securely against him. His arm moved slowly, hesitating only a moment before wrapping around your waist, pulling you in just a bit—not tight, but close enough that you couldn’t slip away if you tried.

His eyes softened as he looked down at you, peaceful now, completely at ease.

“Look at you... finally letting yourself rest,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Your breathing evened, slow and deep, each exhale a small surrender.

Rindou’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to this — vulnerability, softness, intimacy. It unsettled him, made his heart thump a little faster in a way he’d never admit.

He leaned his head down, so his temple lightly brushed against yours, grounding himself in the moment.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice low but with a possessive tenderness that made the air between you thicken.

His fingers twitched, then moved to brush your hair back from your face. His touch was rough, calloused — but careful, gentle.

The contrast made the moment feel even more charged.

His thoughts raced:

You’re the only one I’d let do this. The only one I’d let see me like this.

God, don’t wake up yet.

Not when you’re this close.

Time seemed to slow, stretched out over the soft sounds of the city and your quiet breathing.

For a man who thrived on chaos and conflict, this fragile peace was foreign — almost terrifying.

But also... it felt right.

Rindou didn’t want this moment to end.

He wanted to protect you like this, hold you like this, keep you close like this.

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be the reason you could finally let your guard down.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kazutora Hanemiya:

The city sprawled out beneath you, bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun. The warm breeze tugged at your clothes and tangled your hair, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city winding down after a long day.

You sat beside Kazutora on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling over the edge, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You had been talking — really talking — more than usual, peeling back layers that had long been buried under pain, anger, and regret.

The conversation had slowed, and the silence that followed was thick but not uncomfortable. It felt like the space between two people who understood the weight of what had been said without needing more words.

Your eyelids grew heavy. You didn’t mean to, but the exhaustion, both physical and emotional, made you sway toward him. Your head found a resting place on Kazutora’s shoulder.

At first, his body stiffened — his mind screamed at him to pull away, to keep his distance like always.

But when he felt the soft weight of you against him, something inside him broke open.

He glanced down at your peaceful face — the way your eyes fluttered closed, the slow, even rise and fall of your breath — and his heart clenched painfully.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the surge of emotion from his voice.

““You’re not supposed to be this close to me.” he muttered quietly, but there was no anger or bitterness in his tone — only something fragile, almost scared.

Still, despite his words, his arm rose on its own accord. It moved slowly, hesitating for a heartbeat, before wrapping around your waist with a firm but gentle hold.

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to hold you close to keep you safe — or if he was holding on to you because he was terrified of losing you.

Kazutora’s chest tightened with an ache he’d never been able to fully explain.

I don’t want to lose you.

The thought was raw and simple, yet it shook him to his core.

The city’s lights began to flicker on, one by one, illuminating the darkening streets below.

Kazutora lowered his head until his temple brushed lightly against yours — a quiet gesture that somehow felt like the loudest thing he could say.

His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion.

“I’m scared...” “Scared that if I let go, you’ll leave.”

His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed over your hair, tracing gentle patterns without thought.

He didn’t want to admit how much you meant to him. Didn’t want to face how vulnerable he felt in this moment — but you were here, asleep on his shoulder, and all he wanted was to be the reason you could rest.

He tightened his hold just a little, as if by holding you he could keep the fear at bay.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he confessed again, barely able to meet your eyes, but hoping you could somehow feel it.

The golden light faded into twilight, but the quiet warmth between you lingered — fragile, beautiful, and unspoken.

_________________________________________________________________________

Baji Keisuke:

The room was wrapped in a cozy hush, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside and the slow, steady ticking of an old clock on the wall. The soft glow of a single lamp bathed everything in warm amber light, making the worn couch you sat on feel like the safest place in the world.

You and Baji had come back after a long, exhausting day. The adrenaline of the fights and chaos had worn off, leaving only the heavy, quiet exhaustion behind.

Your limbs felt like lead, your mind too tired to form coherent thoughts. Without even realizing it, your head slowly tipped, and you found yourself leaning gently on Baji’s shoulder.

For a split second, he stiffened, surprised by the sudden closeness — but then that grin spread across his face, half teasing, half fond.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered softly, nudging you with his shoulder, “getting all cozy on me, huh?”

You sighed softly in response, sinking a little more into his side, surrendering to the comfort you hadn’t known you needed.

His smirk softened into something warmer as he glanced down at you — eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something tender.

“You always this wiped out, or is it just when you’re with me?” he joked, voice low, but full of warmth.

Baji shifted slightly, leaning in closer until your shoulders touched fully. His arm instinctively slid around your waist, pulling you snugly against him.

“You don’t have to say it out loud,” he murmured quietly, “I know you trust me.”

The teasing faded from his voice, replaced by something more serious, more real.

He turned his gaze toward the window, where the city lights twinkled like distant stars.

“I’ll protect you,” he promised, voice steady and sure, “No matter what comes.”

His fingers started tracing slow, gentle circles on your side, a silent reassurance that only you could feel.

Your breathing grew even slower, the exhaustion deepening into a peaceful sleep.

Baji’s heart tightened with a warmth that made him want to say more, but words failed him in that moment.

He stole a glance at your face, so calm and vulnerable — and it hit him just how much you meant to him.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, voice soft and almost awed, “you’re really something.”

He tightened his hold just a little, like anchoring himself — and you — in that moment.

The quiet room felt alive with all the unspoken promises, fears, and hope that lingered in the space between you.

And for once, Baji let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to keep you safe.

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tnsophiaayaonly · 1 month ago

Text

Imagine... You, a vampire low-key mastering the art of pretending to be human because, be fr, humans are basically the worst about vampires. They freak out, throw pitchforks, call you “monster,” maybe try to roast you like marshmallows. So yeah, you keep your fangs tucked in, your voice down to a whisper, and your whole existence on dnd mode.

And then... Scaramouche. Rich, annoying, obnoxiously charming and somehow your class partner in this ridiculous blood project nobody asked for. (Spoiler: he’s not just rich and smart; he’s got that whole “brooding vampire novel cover model” look going on — indigo hair that looks like it’s been dipped in midnight, those sharp red-lined eyes that could probably cut glass, and pale skin so flawless you’d think he’s been photoshopped by angels.)

Ofc ts is fanfiction, he somehow finds out you’re a vampire.

Because Scaramouche, in all his over-the-top, borderline insane glory, is a massive fanfiction nerd who’s been secretly obsessed with vampires since forever. Like, he’s read all the cheesy vampire romance novels and watched every supernatural show, and now he’s convinced he needs to be bitten by one. Not for survival or anything normal, nooo, but just because he’s got this ridiculous kink for being bitten. Yeah. You heard that right.

Cue the million times he asks you to bite him.

“C’mon, just a little nibble? Please?” he pouts, flashing that infuriatingly smug grin.

“No,” you say firmly, because, duh, you don’t do casual biting like it’s candy.

But noooo, that doesn’t stop him. He’s relentless. Texts you during class, sliding into your DMs with “Biting is caring, you know,” and showing up with that damn smirk like he’s auditioning for getting bitten.

Eventually, you snap. Like, in the middle of some heated argument, you just bite him. Not a tiny nibble — full-on sink your fangs into his neck and drink a bit. And holy hell, the taste? He’s like a walking nectar fountain. You practically moan internally because, damn, his blood is something else.

He doesn’t just fall in love — he plunges headfirst into the abyss of obsession. Suddenly, he’s texting you 24/7, begging for “just a bite,” showing up with his neck exposed like it’s some twisted sacrificial altar. He’s forcing you to drink his blood more than you drink water. And don’t get me started on the borderline psychotic fits when you threaten to sip from someone else — yeah, he literally makes them disappear. Like, “Hey, that guy? Gone.” Creepy break-ins? Check. Stalking? Oh, double check.

And when you finally get fed up and tell him to fuck off?

He turns into a toxic ex. Suddenly, your little “biting arrangement” is a relationship, at least in his fucked up brain. He drags you back, demanding to be bitten again, like some emotional vampire junkie who needs your fangs as reassurance that you want him — no, need him — just as badly as he needs you.

Honestly? It’s exhausting, a little terrifying, and totally ridiculous. But hey, when you’ve got a rich, insane fang-obsessed stalker on your tail, what else are you gonna do?

And yea he's human ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

(I'm writing it down rn rn... Liek the full fnafic....🤑)

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brawberryz · 24 days ago

Text

⎯⎯ㅤ it feels like dreaming

Batfam Yan! × Jellyfish! Reader

Note | English is not my first language / M.list

A | N | Jellyfish are my favorite animal, they're so cute and silly, maybe I'll make a shark! Reader one later

TW | yandere behavior, toxic relationships, obsession, isolation, Platonic

What's the point of crying if no one's going to come and comfort you?

You learned that as a child, a jellyfish abandoned in the middle of the sea.

Floating among the currents, guided by the stars and the waves of the sea, aimlessly chasing something that seemed so far away.

Destined to float around, searching for something that seemed nonexistent.

Your body shines like a star, illuminating the sea at night, guiding the fish to their destination. You were like a candle lit at the bottom of the sea.

A candle whose wax was slowly beginning to melt, a candle that longed for rest.

You simply existed. There was no explanation for your existence, nothing else humans would ever be able to explain.

But was there anything that was capable of explaining?

Many people along the seashore used to see you shining at night. They called you "the blue signal" or "the ocean light."

You were like those phenomena that had no explanation. It was the kind of phenomenon that people associated with some kind of paranormal activity or some kind of god.

But no one could really explain it, not even you.

Were you ever anything more than this? Were you created for this?

So many questions and no answers

Sometimes you used to go to the surface. You used to go during the day, but you stopped after getting too close out of curiosity to the kid, or little human, as you liked to call those of his kind.

You got too close, and the kid mistook you for a monster, so he threw one of his plastic buckets where he collected shells at you, hitting you on the head.

You could still remember the pain you felt after that. That kid was really strong. You could still remember his emerald eyes and his look of disgust when he saw your head sticking out of the water.

So now you started going at night. The waters were calmer, and there was no one on the beaches.

Sometimes you wished you could just leave here, to be able to walk like other humans, but your skin was like jelly, so sticky and flexible.

You would be easy prey for any predator outside, just looking from afar.

Your organs were transparent to your body. It would be strange for any human to see someone walking down the street with strange hair and their organs completely transparent to others.

No one would ever be able to accept someone like you. Not even jellyfish accepted you, and they were practically the same species.

If they didn't even choose you, why would anyone else?

You were so focused on your thoughts that you didn't even see the huge wave coming toward you as your body floated.

You could barely react when the sea threw your body into something hard.

Maybe you hit a rock or coral, but it hurt too much.

You didn't even know where you were; maybe you crashed into a pier.

That would cause you problems; you couldn't let any human see you.

But the pain was too much. You could feel the air in your lungs diminishing.

Your body fainted so easily, losing consciousness.

The waves dragged your weak body toward the shore where a shadow slowly approached your wounded body.

Bruce looked curiously at the enormous fish tank in the Batcave.

A few days had passed since he picked up your unconscious body on the seashore.

The simple fact of your appearance fascinated him so much, to the point where he wondered why he was so interested in you.

There was something about you that attracted him that he couldn't explain; it's as if he were the metal and you were the magnet.

And he wasn't the only one fascinated by you; Damian was the most interested in you.

The night Bruce brought you to the mansion, Damian said he'd already seen you once. He still remembers when he threw the bucket at your head.

At first, Damian pretended not to care and thought you were some strange mystical creature like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.

He occasionally went to the Batcave to feed you; maybe the smell of fish food would wake you up.

But when he threw the food in, your tentacles on your head would automatically pick it up, as if Your body was programmed to grab food even if you were asleep.

Dick really liked your presence even though you didn't even speak, and only your sleeping body floated around the fish tank.

He liked to stick his hand in your fish tank. It was something he did every time he went to the Batcave, and it was something Damian hated.

"Grayson, stop touching her fish tank! You'll make it dirty!"

The younger one said angrily as he pulled his brother's hand away from your fish tank. He was never going to admit it, but he'd become overprotective of you.

He said he was simply worried because, after all, you were a kind of animal, and he would never forgive himself if an animal got hurt.

"Calm down, Damian, I just washed my hands," Dick tried to calm Damian down, showing him his freshly washed, clean hands.

"It doesn't matter! Stay away from her anyway." Damian spent his time cleaning the glass of your fish tank, arguing that he should clean Dick's germs.

Dick could only laugh at Damian's possessive behavior.

Although he wouldn't lie, he was also starting to feel more than just curious about you.

Tim was the most curious about you. I asked Bruce thousands of questions about what you were and where you came from.

He had to know what you were; he was a detective. It was only natural that he wanted to solve the mystery of what you were.

Although Bruce I restricted him in many ways, not even letting him touch you.

I was so curious about what your skin would feel like. If Bruce could touch you, why can't he?

He liked watching you from afar; you were like some kind of giant, half-human jellyfish.

He was determined to find out as much as possible about you as soon as you woke up.

He has a whole hard drive on his computer dedicated to you, even photos of you too close to your face.

Although no one in the family was supposed to find out, Damian would kill him for getting too close to you.

Jason was the last to find out; he was hardly ever in the mansion and was more isolated from all of them.

So he was very surprised when he saw a human who looked like a jellyfish floating in a giant fish tank in the Batcave.

At first, he didn't like you. He tried to touch you out of curiosity once and ended up electrocuted because of you.

At least now he knows he has to be careful with you if he doesn't want to end up roasted.

When he was the first to finish patrolling, he liked the moments alone with you; he quite liked the glow of your body.

Your light made the darkness of the The Batcave won't affect him that much.

I hated to admit it, but I felt jealous when someone else in the family spent too much time with you, even though you weren't even interacting with anyone since you were asleep.

I just hoped you'd wake up soon. I couldn't stand having to look at you through glass for so long.

You felt a light approaching your eyes, the water felt different.

Everything was so quiet, all you heard were the small sounds of someone talking.

How long had you been unconscious?

Your body moved, causing small bubbles to form in the water.

Your vision stopped blurring, and you saw a pair of eyes staring at your awake figure.

"She woke up..."

Damian was the first to speak as soon as he saw you wake up.

You saw a huge figure approaching you, so you instinctively moved away, scared.

You weren't used to interacting with real humans; being so close to them made you nervous and scared.

"Calm down." Bruce tried not to sound so intimidating to you. He knew you were scared, and he didn't want to make you more nervous. "We won't hurt you. You can trust me."

You could see him getting closer to your fish tank; something in you told you not to believe him.

But it was the first time someone had behaved so gently toward you.

Growing up your entire life in the ocean without any kind of family took a toll on you.

You distrusted everyone; no one was there for you throughout your life. And that someone would show so much affection towards you felt strange.

But something in you made your body move towards the glass that separates you from him. Fearfully, you placed your hand on the glass.

Bruce could notice how the tentacles on your head were moving more than usual.

Instinctively, he also placed his hand on the glass. Compared to yours, his hand was much larger, and the calluses and scars on his hand were noticeable.

A small, almost invisible smile formed on Bruce's face. At least it seemed like you trusted him a little.

"See? You don't have to be afraid of me. I won't hurt you. You can trust me." Even with the sweet words coming out of his mouth, that serious tone remained.

In Bruce's eyes, you were such a cute and tender little thing; you were so fragile and scared.

I could swear that if you had a shell, you would hide there every day.

Bruce's initial plan was that when you woke up and You'll recover. He'd return you to the sea.

But maybe he changed his mind...

You were too fragile and weak; you wouldn't survive for so long in the sea, or so he thought.

It wouldn't be such a bad idea to keep you in this aquarium for your entire life.

You were like a glass cup; if you weren't careful, it could slip from your hands and shatter into pieces.

And he couldn't bear the thought of you leaving. During this time watching you, he felt something he couldn't explain.

He needed to protect you; he couldn't let anyone get their hands on you.

You were his.

It didn't matter if he didn't want to keep you with them; your opinion wasn't something he'd count for right now.

He was sure you wouldn't miss your home, if you ever had one.

You were completely useless out of the water; you couldn't escape them even if you wanted to.

So be a good little fish and behave yourself.

They're sure you'd enjoy staying.

You don't have a family or a place to stay. Where to go?

Do you want to go back to that dark, empty sea?

They're sure your answer will be no, and even if that wasn't your answer, it doesn't matter.

From the moment Bruce laid his hands on you and brought you to the mansion, you signed your own death sentence.

They'll take better care of you than you can imagine. You just have to forget about everything.

Why do you need to go back to the sea when you have them?

I'm back

Yeiiii

This gonna flop btw

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shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

Text

in between | sylus

synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part one

He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.

But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.

And when you opened the door—

He forgot how to breathe.

You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.

You looked distant.

Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.

Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.

And he supposed he was.

He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.

But he didn’t.

Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.

When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”

And that’s when it started.

The tightening in his chest.

He glanced at you. Just for a moment.

You flinched.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.

It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.

He said nothing.

What could he say?

That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?

He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.

The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.

You didn’t laugh.

You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.

He stared at his plate.

He wanted to leave.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him.

Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.

Then your father said it.

We’re moving.

And the world tipped on its axis.

Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.

That you were leaving.

That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.

His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

His head lifted.

And your eyes met his.

He saw it all in a heartbeat.

The hurt. The history. The question.

Do you still care?

He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.

That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.

That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

“‘Grats,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.

He didn’t dare look at you again.

Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.

—•

“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”

Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.

You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.

New city.

New campus.

New beginning.

And yet, you felt hollow.

The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.

Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.

You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.

Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.

You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.

The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.

You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.

It had been a year.

A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.

Since you told him you were moving on.

You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.

The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.

It was a day like this when you last saw him.

You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.

If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.

If he remembered you.

If you were still just someone.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!”

You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.

“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.

“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.

Then another voice came through, gentler.

“Hey. How’s your first day?”

Zayne.

You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.

“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”

They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.

And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not gone.

But not unbearable, either.

You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.

The night where the ache finally spilled over.

The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.

But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.

You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.

The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.

Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.

Your favorite flavor.

You didn’t even know he remembered.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.

Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.

“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

He understood.

I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.

He looked at you for a moment, quiet.

And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was it.

No bitterness. No disappointment.

Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.

“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.

You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.

“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.

Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.

It was sudden.

So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.

But you weren’t bitter.

Not even a little.

You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.

You were happy for them.

Truly.

They deserved something soft. Something steady.

And as for you—

You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.

You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.

Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.

No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.

Just space.

To breathe.

To feel.

To heal.

And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.

On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.

“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”

You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.

You smiled.

These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.

“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”

Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—

Silence.

The call ended.

And you were alone again.

But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Just… different.

A stillness that came after the storm.

“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.

She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.

Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.

You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”

“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”

You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.

She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.

Cheesecake.

The good kind.

She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.

“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”

You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.

“Mom. Don’t be gross.”

She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.

And maybe it was.

A small part of you was grateful for it.

Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.

And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.

“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You missed more than the house.

You missed the memories carved into its walls.

The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.

The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.

The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.

You weren’t going to admit you missed him.

Not out loud.

Some feelings were quieter than words.

And some losses hurt more when spoken.

—•

He didn’t plan to pull you away.

He didn’t even know what he’d say.

He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.

So he did what he always does.

He acted without thinking.

He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.

You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

“What the hell?”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.

You looked…

God, you looked like everything he used to know.

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.

But because he already knew.

He knew what he’d done.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.

Then your finger jabbed into his chest.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice was shaking.

So was he.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”

And you were right. Every word.

Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.

For a second, just a second, the air shifted.

You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.

With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.

“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his throat closed around the truth.

He saw every message.

He wanted to reply.

But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.

And he hated himself for it.

You turned away. He thought you were done.

But you weren’t.

“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.

“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You couldn’t have been further from the truth.

You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what were you, really?

The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.

The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.

The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.

He wanted to say everything.

That’s what you were.

You were everything.

But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.

And then—

A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.

A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.

One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.

“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.

Waiting. Again.

You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.

And he?

He was always too scared to give it.

So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.

He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”

The moment it left his mouth, he knew.

He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.

He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.

Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.

“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

Then you stepped around him.

And he didn’t stop you.

Not because he didn’t want to—

But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.

Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.

So he stood there.

Frozen.

They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t hear them.

Didn’t move.

Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.

You weren’t his anymore.

He wasn’t sure you ever were.

But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.

His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.

The clearing faded behind him.

You were gone.

He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.

Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.

So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice light.

And just like that, he followed them inside.

Leaving the truth—and you—behind.

That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.

Your contact was still there.

Still saved under the name Kitten.

Still untouched.

Still yours.

His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.

He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.

But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.

Didn’t know if he even had the right.

I’m sorry felt too small.

I miss you felt too late.

So he didn’t call.

His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.

It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.

Cursing the silence.

Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.

And started being a stranger who hurt you.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.

But he heard it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath.

The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.

And he saw it too.

The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

His chest ached.

His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he hadn’t.

And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.

“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”

Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.

The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.

Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.

“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”

A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.

“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.

A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.

And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

His pace slowed.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.

But now?

Now he knew.

You weren’t used to being ignored.

You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.

He made you that way.

With every unanswered message.

Every silence.

Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.

He made you used to him being gone.

And now that you were leaving—

He had no one to blame but himself.

And now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Heavy. Constant.

The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.

That maybe it was better that way.

He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’

But then—

He turned the corner.

And there you were.

Just standing there.

Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.

His breath caught.

Everything else stilled.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

And he let himself look. Just for a moment.

God, you were still you.

But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.

Moved through it.

Past him.

Then your eyes met his.

It was like being cracked open in silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“H–Hey.”

You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.

You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“A week.”

A week.

Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.

Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.

And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.

But he nodded. Looked down.

“I—” you started, and he straightened.

You paused, choosing your words with care.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His heart stuttered.

You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.

You meant it.

And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”

He wanted to say don’t.

He wanted to reach for you.

To take it all back. To beg.

But the words never made it past his throat.

“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”

And you smiled. Soft. Final.

Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.

Let him pass.

Let him go.

He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.

But you didn’t.

Because you were no longer waiting.

You were no longer his.

And he…

He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—

Not in one moment,

But in all the ones where he stayed silent.

“Sylus, I’m open!”

The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.

“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.

He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.

It had been a year.

A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.

His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”

Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”

“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.

Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.

Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.

This was simpler.

This was better.

At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.

His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.

“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”

It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.

Sylus stilled.

The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.

“No.”

Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.

His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.

He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.

But not this time.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

Because this time, he knew.

He knew his friend was right.

He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.

Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.

His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”

Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.

Where it was easier to run than to feel.

—•

Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.

The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”

His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.

He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.

She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.

Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.

Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.

“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.

But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.

His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”

That was all he caught. But it was enough.

Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.

You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.

And yet his heart twisted all the same.

Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.

Did you still look the same?

He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.

The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.

Were you smiling now?

Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?

He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.

Maybe you were happy.

Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.

“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—

You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.

He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”

Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.

“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”

Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”

A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”

Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.

His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.

Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.

And the worst part?

He knew.

He’d known for a long time now.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Not when you were already gone.

His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.

It still sat there, untouched.

The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.

Just memories now.

Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.

And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

Soft. Barely audible.

Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.

But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?

Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.

masterlist

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yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

Text

Deku - Midoriya Izuku

TW: NSFW, noncon, yandere

gn reader

Thinking about being childhood friends with Izuku, who’s always had a bit of a crush on you.

You’ve always known, but you’ve never humored it. He’s your friend – anything else would just be awkward. If you had to put it in any other term, you’d say he felt more like a little brother.

You wish he’d allowed the two of you to grow apart – as normal people do.

There wasn’t really any reason for the two of you to stay friends after middle school. His quirk suddenly manifested, and he got into UA – became a pro-hero – and then the symbol of peace. And you were still… kind of just doing your thing – studying, working, struggling to pay rent – struggling to keep a date…

The two of you never had much in common anyway, and you never really knew what to talk about with him anymore – only knowing to ask him how his mother was. After all, you grew out of your otaku phase a long while ago – and otherwise, you felt out-educated in any and every conversation the two of you had with each other. You swear talking to him makes you feel like a toddler learning your first words – it’s humiliating, and you don’t understand how any of it’s remotely stimulating for him, either.

Still, he’ll text you when he has the time, asking if you’d like to meet up at a café – talk, catch up – and you, not wanting to be rude, always accept.

You’d gone wide-eyed the first time you’d met him after middle school. Jeez Louise – he’d had to have grown twice his size – jacked and scarred to no end. It only got worse over the years. Now, adults – he must be twice your size. Bigger even.

You blush now when he flirts with you. But not so much for the reasons he wants.

Honestly, it’s more uncomfortable than it’s flattering. It was Izuku, after all – Deku – no matter how little he resembled the crybaby from your childhood – he’d always be that same nerdy loser friend who’d chased after you ever since you first met.

He might have grown up, but his crush on you hadn’t.

His doe-eyed look of longing and adoration had always made you feel a little awkward – a little sorry for him. And now that he’s become a man, it’s only become even more… desperate… a little pathetic, actually…

Bedroom eyes that make you laugh nervously, pretending to brush it off as a joke but really wishing he’d just give it a rest already. Surely, as a pro-hero and public figure, he could get a date? One of the many screaming fans that pine for him everywhere he drags that awful golden cape he has on his shoulders. And if not any of them, then maybe a model. A movie star even.

Why is he so hung up on you?

The funny thing is, you’d tried vying him of his crush by telling him about hook-up after hook-up, boyfriend after boyfriend – treating him like a girlfriend you could gossip with.

But it’s almost like he takes it as a challenge – talking and helping you through your relationships, giving his input and advice – just like a real friend would… only… always implementing something… something condescending, something suggestive, something saying you ought to be with him instead – he’d never treat you like that, he’d never do you wrong, you’d be taking good care of with him.

You’d made the mistake of saying you were struggling with a class at university – just to make conversation – just to talk about something trivial. But of course, he’d seen it as an opportunity – quick to offer his help, saying he’d taken that class as an extracurricular – just for a bit of fun, he’d said, light reading material he’d done on the side of his internship.

You don’t know why it’s so hard to tell him no.

Suppose it’s the possibility of being wrong – the guilt of thinking he has impure intentions when he’s supposedly the purest person in the world.

But you should have trusted your instincts.

“Please, Izuku-” You’d immediately restored to begging. Who wouldn’t? He’s a two-meter-tall monster of a man – jacked with muscles fatter than a bear.

Your phone’s been missing since you came back from the bathroom – your lips wet with his unwanted kisses – your neck sore from having his fist wrapped around it when you tried stopping him.

You’d only managed to break free after biting – blood salty in your mouth. You nearly vomited, choking on a mix of bile and fear.

Fuck – your legs are so weak, you might just buckle from the dread alone – feeling like a bunny snagged on fox teeth.

“You used to take me when we’d play wrestle... you remember?”

The comment is pulled out of nowhere.

He stalks you, a fond look on his face as though the two of you were reminiscing good old times. As though his eyes weren’t a nocturnal green like foxfire on the fen. As though he wasn’t radiating black whip – ready to snare you.

“Think you can take me now?”

You had your hands raised apprehensively – but the hopelessness took its toll and made your entire body shake on the spot.

Your only hope was to talk him out of it. If only you could think past the fear and string a sentence together that wasn’t along the lines of “Please-”

But something about that look on his face told you he wouldn’t listen to reason anymore. Not manic, not like a person who’d finally snapped – but controlled – resolute – and playful even. Nothing like you’d ever seen. Nothing you could understand.

“What’s wrong, hm?” He smiles, head tipped in that charming way that used to make you want to pinch his cheek. Now it just makes you sick to look at – swallowing thickly as you tack another step back away from it. “I’ll go easy – so don’t worry… I know it's not exactly a fair fight anymore…”

Your better judgment failed you – fight-or-flight kicked in, and you made a break for it.

Budging into the couch on your way, it’s a messy scramble for the door – but you manage. Feeling feverish with dread and pumped full of adrenaline, you brush the cold handle with just your fingertips before something wraps around your midriff in a snug grip – pulling you back into the living room.

You’re lifted from the ground, kicking – now screaming – flailing in the air before you’re flipped on your back against the couch.

“Don’t be like that~” He murmurs. “Always so wishy-washy~” Voice in a low purr that makes you feel like coughing up your heart – squirming beneath him and his heavy hands as they paw your thighs – manhandling you like nothing you’d ever imagine him to do.

Raking his fingers through the dough before squeezing your ass greedily – kneading his fat crotch against the thin fabric protecting your sex.

“Complaining about all your weak-dicked boyfriends as if begging me to come fuck you myself – yet such a flighty little slut when it comes down to it.” He sneers, and blackwhip tightens some around your limbs. “Let me help you out.”

One hand tugs your underwear until it rips, whilst the other hand pulls up to grab your face – squeezing your cheeks to keep you still when forcing his kisses on you.

“After all… what are friends for?”

♡ DEKU - MIDORIYA IZUKU masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

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cupidsworstcrime · 3 months ago

Text

Knight!John Price x Princess!reader

inspo - honestly shameless , i wanted this

werewolf smut werewolf smut

contains chasing to fuck , monster fucking , cnc (if you squint) & knotting

The moonlight slashes through the dense treeline like a blade, silver and cold and watching.

Sir John Price, noble knight captain and sworn protector of your kingdom’s bloodline, stumbles against a tree, his breathing ragged, uneven. His armored gauntlet splits against bark as claws push through, twisting bone and sinew. His growl isn’t human anymore.

You shouldn't be watching.

But gods, you are.

“My lady,” he rasps, voice strangled and wet with the growl curling in his throat. “Run.”

You don’t. Can’t. Your eyes are locked on the way his jaw cracks open, lengthening, sharpening, his teeth catching the moonlight. His armor creaks and groans under the pressure of his expanding body, the beast beneath the steel.

He snarls, turning away from you, fangs bared to the forest, to anything that might distract him from the scent of you.

“I said run,” he growls again, lower this time, desperate, trembling. “I won’t be able to stop. If you stay—if I catch your scent again—I’ll take you.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. Hunger.

Your heart slams in your chest. You take a step back.

His ears twitch.

“I need you to run,” he groans, clawed hand gripping his chest, as though he could anchor the man inside a body that’s no longer his. “Please, princess. You need to run.”

You whisper his name.

His eyes snap to you. Glowing. Predatory. Wicked.

Another heartbeat, and you’re sprinting through the trees.

Behind you, metal crashes to the ground, followed by a guttural howl that shatters the stillness. The kind of sound that promises teeth on your throat and hands gripping your hips.

You don’t dare look back.

Because if he catches you—

—no knight in the world could save you from what he’s about to become.

And he will catch you.

Of course he will.

You're fast—gods, you're fast—but you're not him. Not with your skirts bunched in your fists, breath burning your throat, heart thundering like war drums in your chest.

The woods blur, and still you run.

But you feel it when he gets close.

The heat of him. The thudding weight of paws behind you, impossibly silent for how large he must be now. The low growl that slips into the wind and curls around your spine like a hand.

And then—

You're gone from the ground.

A cry tears from your throat as you're swept off your feet, tackled into the moss with shocking gentleness for something that had sounded like a monster moments ago. You're caged beneath him—bigger now, broader, his skin half-shifted, half-wolf, glowing eyes staring down at you as his claws press into the earth on either side of your head.

He pants above you, chest heaving, sweat and fur and musk curling thick in the air. Drool drips from his snarl onto your cheek.

"You should've run faster," he growls, voice rougher now, lined with hunger, with need.

"Y-you caught me..." you whisper, breathless, trembling beneath the weight of him.

He leans down, nuzzles his nose to your throat, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through your skin.

"You wanted me to."

And gods help you—

—you did.

There's no pretending anymore—not for him.

Not with the way he snarls low against your throat, like he's trying to taste your pulse before he even sinks his teeth in. Not with the way his claws dig into the dirt, holding himself back by a thread, trembling from the effort. He's not even fully shifted—can't be, not with how badly he wants to feel you with his hands, not paws. Not with how badly he wants your skin on his, not fur.

He’s not gentle. Not after all that. Not after the chase.

He ruts against you, desperate, grinding hard through the layers between you, shuddering when you squirm—when you press your hands against his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

"Tell me no," he growls, but his hips say something else entirely—rolling down slow, then slamming forward hard enough to make you gasp.

You whimper something—maybe “stop,” maybe “don’t,”—but your legs are already spreading, traitorous, trembling, welcoming.

Your nails bite into his arms. You turn your face like you don't want this—but your body arches into him, not away.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls, voice shaking with the strain of holding back. His fangs are bared, but his mouth is at your ear, and you whimper when his breath hits your skin. "You're mine, princess. Say it."

You don't. Not with words. But your hips tilt, just enough, just right.

He growls like something unholy.

You love this. Even when you act like you don’t. Even when you cry and whine and call him a monster.

Because you're the one who's still clinging to him.

You're the one who's dripping before he even claims you.

He’s got you flat beneath him, skirts shoved up around your waist, your thighs trembling against his sides. His hands are huge, rough from years of sword and steel, and now they’re claiming every inch of you like you’re a battlefield he owns. One stays planted on your hip, the other cradling your jaw, thumb dragging over your lip like he's daring you to bite.

"You're gonna scream for me, sweet thing," he mutters, voice rough and ragged, half-man, half-creature. "Not because you're scared—because you're mine."

He starts slow, grinding against your slick heat through your ruined underthings, just to feel the tremble, the way your breath catches. Then he pulls away—and spits in his hand, like a brute, slicking himself up before dragging the head of his cock along your folds.

Not pushing in. Not yet. Just teasing.

“You’re gonna remember this, princess. Every. Fuckin'. Inch.”

And when he does finally sink into you?

He’s ruthless. Long, hard thrusts that force breathy gasps out of your throat. No soft kisses. No gentle words. Just the slap of skin, the growl in his chest, and the slick wet sounds of him fucking you like he was meant to.

He uses one hand to pin both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down between your thighs—finding your clit with practiced fingers.

And when he hits just the right spot, when you squirm and cry out and your walls clench tight around him, he leans down, growling into your mouth:

“There she is. There’s my good girl. Scream for your captain.”

And god, you do. You scream his name like it’s the only thing you know.

Which, by the time he’s done with you, it just might be.

"What would the king think? Seeing his little princess be such a whore?"

He’s not asking—he’s taking, like his body’s driven by instinct and the only thing it wants is you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, dragging you down onto his cock with a growl that rumbles through his chest. You’ll feel him for days, the deep ache between your legs, the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin. When you cry out, he smirks, and his hand slides up your throat, thumb pressed gently beneath your jaw, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours so hard that you swore the earth would split beneath you. “Takin’ it so well. So desperate for your captain’s cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, gasping, but it’s not enough for him.

“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

And when you do—when you whimper out that you want him to break you—he fucks you for real. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your thigh and pressing your knees back, folding you open for him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls into your ear. “Say it again. Say it while I breed you full.”

And you do, because how can you not? When he’s buried so deep, when every thrust punches the air from your lungs, when your entire body is his—yeah, it’s rough, claiming, filthy. And you love it. Even if you act like you don’t. Even if you cry a little. Even if you’re already begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t just want to make you scream, sweetheart. He wants to make you remember.

When it happens—when the last shred of control slips and the shift fully takes him—it’s violent. Bones crack, skin tears, fur bursts across his body like wildfire. His snarl becomes a growl, low and guttural, vibrating through your chest as you lay beneath him. His eyes glow gold now, no trace of the man you once knew… but gods, he’s still inside there. Still watching you. Still wanting you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. His claws scrape the ground on either side of your head, holding himself over you, caging you in like prey. His muzzle brushes your throat, and you feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw as he fights not to bite—not yet. Not until he’s claimed you properly.

His thrusts are deeper, more forceful, hips snapping into you with inhuman power. You cry out, nails digging into whatever part of him you can reach, but he just growls in approval. The slick, obscene sounds of him inside you echo louder now, more primal, more filthy. Every motion screams mine.

“You should’ve run faster,” he huffs, voice distorted and monstrous but still his. “Would’ve probably gotten away.”

But he doesn’t regret that you didn’t. Not one bit.

Because now? He can knot you. Fill you. Mark you inside and out until there’s no question who you belong to.

And when you sob his name—when your body breaks open for him again and again—he howls, the sound shaking the trees, the sky, you.

You're his. Forever now. And he’s going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

At first, you think he’s done. His pace slows, almost tender for a fleeting second as he pants above you, still trembling with the aftershock of the shift. But then—then—you feel it. That slow, thick swell at the base of him starting to press insistently against you.

He growls when your body tries to resist it, claws digging into the earth beside your head as he forces himself deeper. You cry out, overwhelmed, stretched too wide, and he groans—deep, guttural—as the knot pops inside. Locked. Stuffed. Filled.

“Shhh,” he rumbles, voice animal-thick, muzzle nudging at your cheek, “s’alright. You’ll take it. Gonna keep it all in, yeah?”

The stretch, the burn, the way your walls flutter helplessly around him—it’s too much, too perfect. He can feel everything, and so can you. That throbbing knot pulsing against your insides, his release locked deep where it’s meant to stay.

No escaping now. Not for hours.

You whimper his name, and his voice rumbles with satisfaction: “Good girl. That’s it. Take my knot, princess. Take every bloody drop.”

And you do. You have to.

tagging my favorite sicko - @goatgoesmbe

#john price x reader #john price smut #john price x you #john price call of duty #john price #im bad at tags #werewolf smut #ig #idk man #werewolf john price #or something #idk #i hate tagging so much

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