#i need to practice lighting more this is so fun

[kikidoul]

── BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND.

໒꒰ྀི ^ ⸝⸝ ^ ꒱ྀིა박성훈 x fem! reader content established relationship non-idol au older brother's best friend trope reader is jay's younger sister ᥫ᭡ warning explicit sexual content unprotected sex (stay safe!) petnames used kissing pussy eating fingering begging squirting overstimulation sunghoon being a tease and wear glasses (important trust) jay cockblocking (not sorry). . .!? 1111— mlist.

note. another reupload from yours truly. currently writing part two so it will be posted soon, hopefully...

You have met your older brother’s friends a couple of times, having known them since you were young. They were a loud and chaotic group, if one were to ask for your opinion on them. But among them, there was someone who piqued your interest. Sunghoon isn't as talkative as the others. He mostly keeps to himself but you have seen him cracking jokes or making fun of your brother; Jay, resulting in the two bickering back and forth. It’s a common sight to hear them argue about the smallest things, much to everyone’s amusement. 

You knew it was wrong to have feelings for your brother’s friend but you couldn’t help it. Not when Sunghoon was nothing but kind and caring towards you. His features were simply another plus point and everything about him simply makes you swoon. You had to walk around your brother, hiding your relationship with Sunghoon from him. You know how overprotective Jay can be when it comes to you. The last thing you want is to end Sunghoon and Jay’s friendship. You knew how the two are practically glued to the hips, always coming as a pair.

“Ngh, Hoonie, fuck, hah, m-more,” you whined, your back arching off the bed. 

Your legs were slung over your boyfriend’s broad shoulders. Your left hand was covering your mouth; a feeble attempt of muffling your moans while the other gripped onto his abyssal-like hair. You couldn’t help but bucked your hips forward, craving more. It was a miracle you had survived this long before meeting Sunghoon and you came to learn that he was amazing with his mouth and fingers. 

Your boyfriend hums, moving his long, thick fingers in a scissor-like movement, opening and preparing you for what’s to come. Your eyes rolled up at a harsh suck of your clit, his tongue delving deeper. In the span of what felt like years when it was actually an hour, he had managed to make you cum a total of two times. The first was done by his fingers while the second was done by his tongue. Currently, he was pushing you over your comfort zone, hoping you could cum a third time. 

As they always say, third times the charm, right?

You squirmed about on the drenched sheets, gripping onto the pillow for dear life. Breathy moans flowed from your lips, like water falling from a water tap. 

“Fuck!” 

You gasped, thighs buckling as Sunghoon swirls the overly stimulated bud with his tongue. You felt it, the fire in your abdomen and how heat was spreading under your skin. Throwing all caution out of the window with the only thing in your mind was chasing your impending climax, you frantically jerked your hips forward. Your boyfriend got the hint, allowing you to fuck his tongue and it didn’t took you long to reach your climax. 

As compared to the orgasms you had before, this was more powerful and it took a deep toll on your body. You weren’t sure what happened as you laid on the bed, loosening your grip on Sunghoon’s hair, eyes closing to take a much-needed breather. 

“Woah, that was hot. I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

You opened your eyes, only to pause at the lewd scene before you. The frames of his glasses were coated in a thin layer of your juices. Some were dripping as it trailed down the frames, landing on the sheets. Your breath caught in your throat as Sunghoon licked his lips, his chin was glistening underneath the ceiling light. You wanted to apologize but he waved you off, knowing what you wanted to say. 

“You don’t have to apologize, princess,” he grins, moving closer until your noses graze against one another. “But I believe I should get a reward for making you squirt for the first time, right?” 

You light-heartedly rolled your eyes, choosing not to reply and kissed him instead. Sunghoon grinned into the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue, allowing you to taste yourself. He positioned himself in between your legs, one hand trailing down to fondle with your hardened peaks. You moaned into his mouth, the sound doing wonders to his body and mind. Wanting to hear more, Sunghoon broke the kiss. He aligned his cock to your needy, neglected and sensitive dripping entrance. 

“Look at you, I didn’t even have to use lube,” he breathed out, unable to tear his eyes away from the erotic sight of watching his cock disappearing inch by inch, getting swallowed by your greedy clit. 

“Oh god.. Hoonie,” you whined, throwing your head back, your gummy and velvety walls sucking him in, making him groan at the feeling. 

By the time he was buried deep in you, you felt like you were floating on a cloud. Sunghoon started thrusting, hips snapping against yours as he massaged your inner thighs—wanting you to relax and enjoy yourself. The bed moved along with your movements, the bedframe hitting the wall at equal intervals. At this rate, you’ve long forgotten that your brother had arrived home after a hectic day of back-to-back classes. Which was why none of you were prepared for the unexpected moment of Jay opening the door without knocking. 

“Hey sis, could you—Wait, what the fuck!?” He asks, raising his head from his phone, only for him to shriek at the top of his lungs. 

Both of you whirled your heads to his direction and your reactions were immediate. Sunghoon scrambled to move away from you while you pulled the sheets up, covering your body from your brother’s poor eyes. Jay had shielded his eyes with one hand, back facing the both of you. 

“Uh, it’s not what it looks like,” your boyfriend chirps in and you mentally face-palmed. 

“Not what it looks like? Pray tell me, then what does it look like because I can’t believe I saw my best friend fucking my sister. Oh my God, please God, help me,” Jay exclaimed. 

The two of you shared a look and you shrugged your shoulders, having gotten used to your brother’s dramatic antics. 

“Come down to the living room and we’re going to talk about this. And you better not be fucking or I will kill you with my bare hands, is that understood?” Jay directed the threat to his best friend, who nervously gulped. 

“Yes, sir.” 

When Jay left after closing the door along with him muttering about how he needs to bleach his eyes, you ran a hand through your hair. “Well, I guess we’re going to die under the hands of my brother.”

“...Please don’t say that. I’m actually scared of my life now.” 

[moonshinesonic-moonstarslight]

Paper Plane's verse

Shared looks between Airplane and OG Shang Qinghua:

Dark brown hair

Dark brown eyes (look black unless the light hits them)

height

same body shape really

Sword nowhere to be seen, daggers tucked in every place they can put them (and somewhere it seems illogical to have a weapon)

Differences between Airplane's and OG Shang Qinghua's looks:

Airplane: hair is always put up in tight braids and in a bun usually neat and tidy unless you catch him on in the middle of tax season chasing down Liu Qingge for paperwork.

dark smears under his eyes (doesn't take as much rest as he should/workaholic millennial)

Sleeves tied close to the wrists, practical clothes at all times, all masculine cuts and styles

only really wears earrings and occasionally a pretty pin for his guan.

light makeup usually a bit of concealer for his eye bags and some eyeliner

OG Shang Qinghua: hair in a half up half down style - to show off the sausage curls more than it being a popular hairstyle among Peak Lords. (Loves his curls. They're the big sausage curls commonly found with Villainess characters. He takes very good care of them in comparison to Airplane who mostly grumbles about his character design choices as he fights the tangles)

healthy complexion (actually sleeps and takes breaks)

loose sleeves, feminine cuts and styles mixed with some masculine styles here and there, elaborate robes that are easily adjusted to become practical if needed (but easy to hide those modifications) [More room for weapons/equipment!]

decorative hair ornaments, dangly earrings, necklaces, and occasionally a ring or some bracelets (tends to have a season theme to match the current time of year)

more makeup than Airplane but still tasteful for an androgynous look: eyeliner, concealer (if needed), face powder, lipstick (usually blood red), ect.

Besides that the two hold themselves differently, Airplane is cold and aloof. Distant and untouchable unless he is playing pathetic and clingy for Mobei Jun (who finds the dichotomy amusing and arousing). Or letting himself be a little bit freer while talking to Cucumber-bro.

Og Shang Qinghua is warmer and seemingly more open. (You're actually safer standing next to Airplane, OG gets a little stab happy.) Dotting and overbearing to his disciples and comes off as a distant uncle you can 'of course' trust to the rest of the sect. More seductive and vicious than Airplane. (Mobei Jun doesn't try getting this version into his bed unless he is positive that there won't be an assassination attempt or that it would be a 'one in done' type of deal. But he does find the mystery of where are the weapons and how will the fool be killed fun and arousing to think about.)

Might add more later. But that's what I got so far~. Going to have to see about making one for my 'in general' differences between the two and not just for a story.

[elysiaheaven2]

A poem to my childhood fort....(part 1) Ronin x G.n reader

Words:3000

Genre: Angst to fluff, Gift to @sincerelyyourslilly

(Reader is G.N)

Ronin x G.N Reader

All you ever wanted was to be a successful crime writer. Not the next best-seller, not a household name—just someone who could spin a story without that relentless, soul-crushing writer's block creeping in. Every time you opened a blank document, it stared back at you, mocking, empty. And every time, you closed it, frustration bubbling over.

Why was it so hard? You’ve written before. Sure, some of it was cringe fanfiction—okay, a lot of it was cringe fanfiction—but writing used to come so easily. Back then, the words practically bled onto the page. Now, they just... don’t.

You needed inspiration. Something visceral, raw, a spark that could ignite your creative inferno. It wouldn’t come from endless Google searches, that was for sure. Inspiration like that demanded you dig deeper—into the recesses of your heart, into shadows most people were too afraid to explore.

Surely, there was no harm in doing some light research, right? It’s not like you were going to end up on some FBI watchlist just for being curious about murder methods.

Right?

Being a news reporter gave you plenty of access to grim realities. You had an eye for the grotesque, the macabre. You couldn’t help but marvel at the artistry in the work of the city’s most infamous killer. The Butcher, as the media had branded them, was a twisted kind of genius. Their victims—if you could even call them that—were their canvas. Each one a masterpiece of gore and carnage. Fleshed out, literally, in a way that screamed passion and precision.

To the public, it was nauseating. To you?

It was inspiring.

You toyed with the idea of writing about them, a crowbar-wielding serial killer stalking the streets. The thing is...you didn’t know much about crowbars. Did they bash? Bludgeon? Crush? Did it take more than one hit? You needed details, and where better to get them than the internet?

T.com had a certain charm to it. The best (and worst) of humanity hung out there. You figured it was safer than delving into the dark web, so you posted your question there.

asking for a friend hey can anyone with experience killing a person with a crowbar dm me, it's really important thank you.

The post was short, straightforward, and definitely not suspicious. Nothing that would have people side-eyeing you...right? You weren’t that desperate to go digging into the deep web for inspiration. Yet.

You hit “post.”

And then you waited.

It didn’t take long for someone to slide into your DMs.

That DM changed everything.

You met him,

Your muse. Your inspiration. Your… childhood tragedy.

The sender’s username was cryptic, but the link they shared—“killrch8t_b00t.mango”—was even more so. Against your better judgment, you clicked it. What you found was...unexpected. A server. A private chatroom for people like you.

Only, they weren’t writers. They were killers.

At first, you didn’t know it was him. But looking back now, it all makes sense. So, dear writer, here’s what happened:

You were just a simple writer, but you somehow got invited to a serial killer server by a guy who apparently adores crowbars. It didn’t take long for you to realize that this guy? He was the Butcher.

So, naturally, you decided to play along. To “slay,” as they say.

At first, you didn’t realize who you were talking to. The Butcher. The Butcher. You thought you were chatting with some edgy wannabe, someone cosplaying as the city’s most notorious murderer. But as the conversation progressed, it became clear.

It was him.

He was surprisingly...charming. Flirty, even, in a deranged sort of way. The kind of guy who’d make you laugh one second and send shivers down your spine the next.

So, naturally, you decided to play along. To “slay,” as they say. You started by reacting to his roles he reacted with:

😇 Fun ❌ Crowbar 🔪 Sharp Objects 🩸 I love the thrill of the rush 😮 I have this thing called an ego

You figured that maybe if you showed him the right mix of enthusiasm, he’d notice you. The Devil himself would grant you his blessings—or maybe just the motivation you so desperately needed.

After all, all his crimes... they involve a crowbar.

It was almost too easy to talk to him. His messages were a mix of sarcasm, wit, and razor-sharp insight. But there was an edge to everything he said, a challenge beneath the surface. He asked questions that made your pulse quicken, like he was daring you to prove yourself. To impress him.

Then he upped the ante.

He wanted you to kill someone. Not just theoretically, but for real. To send a picture. Proof. He wanted you to baptize yourself in blood—or maybe he just wanted to see how far you’d go to entertain him.

You laughed it off at first. He had to be joking. Right?

But he wasn’t.

The scary part wasn’t that he asked. It was that you didn’t immediately say no.

The conversations grew darker, deeper. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just “The Butcher” and became a person to you. Someone sad. Lonely, even. Beneath the bravado and the bloodlust, there was something broken about him. And damn it if you weren’t the kind of person who thought you could fix people.

Strangely, you started to feel bad for him. He seemed... sad. Not in a pathetic way, but in a way that made you think: Hey, maybe this edgy maniac has layers. You weren’t dumb enough to think you could “fix” him, but maybe, just maybe, you could understand him.

But the thought still lingered.

You joked about plotting his murder. His reply? He blushed. He actually blushed. The idea of you thinking about him—obsessing over him—clearly thrilled him. It was hard to tell if he was serious or just toying with you. Either way, it felt like flirting.

Was it flirting? It was definitely something.

Everything was fine. Well, as fine as it could be when you were chatting with a notorious killer. He hadn’t turned on you. Not yet.

And then the channel appeared.

“artistic-license.”

The Butcher’s tone shifted the moment it opened. Gone was the playful banter, replaced with something cold and calculating. He knew who you were. Knew more than you’d ever shared.

“You can be my muse,” he said, voice dripping with menace. “As long as you’re willing to be my victim.”

Your blood ran cold.

It had been a game to him, all along. A hunt. And now, you weren’t sure if you were the predator or the prey.

Oh, shit.

Maybe it felt like you were in a chokehold, always watched, unable to escape, because your heart already beat only for the server. It wasn’t just obsession; it was survival. Once you left, it felt like your heart stopped altogether. That’s what kept you tethered, trapped in a conflict with yourself. Afraid of the nightmares. Afraid of him.

Was it the people? Or was it him? The Devil himself, Ronin.

Oh, but you didn’t leave, did you? You stayed. You stayed because every moment away from that server gnawed at you. And even when you closed your eyes, sleep wasn’t an escape. Not from him. Not from the Devil.

The dream was vivid. A whispered laughter danced through your mind, teasing and cold. A crowbar pressed against your neck, its chill seeping into your skin. The man in front of you had a Lucifer’s smile, a grin both wicked and divine. His eyes held a whisper of flame—bright, hot, dangerous. He wasn’t just playing at being the Devil; he embodied it. The Devil himself. Your Devil.

He leaned closer, and his breath was warm against your ear. “Why fight it, darling?” he murmured. “You came here for me. You stayed for me. And you’ll never leave… for me.” His voice was honeyed poison, sweet and lethal.

You tried to step back, but the crowbar pressed harder, pinning you in place. His laughter curled around you, low and dark, like smoke from a fire you couldn’t escape.

“Oh, you’re scared,” he said, and his grin widened. “Good. Fear looks so pretty on you.”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you, frozen under the weight of his gaze. He tilted his head, studying you with an almost tender curiosity, as if deciding whether to devour you whole or savor you bite by bite.

“You know what I love about you?” he whispered. “Your heart. It beats so fast, so loud, like it’s trying to call me closer. And you know what’s funny? It’s mine. Always has been. You just didn’t realize it yet.”

His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was soft, almost reverent, but it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Don’t look so frightened, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a velvet caress. “You wanted this. You wanted me.”

And then, just as quickly as it began, it ended. The crowbar disappeared. The Devil vanished. You woke with a start, gasping for air, your pulse hammering against your ribs. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, terrifying, beautiful dream.

You woke from a dream, if you could even call it that. A whispered laughter echoed in your ears, chilling and intimate, and the ghost of a crowbar lingered against your neck. The man in front of you—his grin sharp as a blade, his eyes alight with a flicker of Hell itself. He was Lucifer's shadow, Lucifer's whisper—no, not a shadow. The Devil incarnate. The Devil he had to be.

Except… you couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t. Not entirely.

You could write. Or you could log in and see what the server was doing. The decision was easy.

You logged in. The server was quiet. No one was online.

Except for him.

Mr. Devil himself.

A notification popped up: Incoming call.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the mouse. Then, with a resigned sigh, you clicked accept.

The screen flickered, and there he was. Ronin—sharp-eyed and grinning like he knew every secret you’d ever tried to bury. His voice was a low drawl, smooth and intoxicating.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning closer to the camera as if trying to bridge the digital gap between you.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice more breathless than you intended. “What are you doing up so late?”

His grin widened. “Same could be said for you, darlin’. What’s up? Stayin’ up late for that midnight inspiration?”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Why are you doing this?” you finally asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Ronin laughed, a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Fucking with writers is my specialty, what can I say?” His gaze pinned you in place, even through the screen. “I told you, darlin’. You come to me, and I give you whatever the fuck you want. Isn’t this your dream? I’m your wish, come true.”

His voice dipped lower, each word a dark caress. “And you’re fucked, ‘cause I know exactly who you are, Y/N.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Did I mention that I got your IP the second you logged onto the server? Yeah, yeah. Internet safety and all that shit. Don’t talk to strangers, right? ‘Cause you never know who you might come across.”

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. His grin turned sharper, almost predatory.

“Lost for words?” he teased, his voice laced with mock sympathy. “I know. I’m so fucking charming.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Listen up, sweetheart. I’ll be visiting you soon. Crowbar in hand. Unless…” His eyes gleamed with wicked delight. “Unless you find me first. Happy hunting, baby.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving you staring at your reflection in the now-black screen. Your mind raced, heart pounding in your chest.

You were in trouble.

Loving the Devil had been your first mistake. Thinking he might actually love you back was your second. And falling for his corruption, his twisted games—that was your third and most damning sin.

Ronin had known exactly what he was doing when he invited you to his server. He’d seen through your persona, found amusement in your attempts to remain aloof. To him, you were a game, a challenge—and he wanted to win. He always did.

Now, there was only one way out. He’d told you himself: you had to find him first. The question was, could you?

It was 14 February.

It was February 14th. Oh, shit. You had dreamt…

Of your first love.

Angelwood.

A place you wouldn’t mind setting ablaze, just for the hell of it.

It ruined your life. It scarred you. It made you feel worthless.

Angelwood—a repressed, self-righteous town drenched in hollow piety.

You wanted to die. Your family had discovered something about you, something that didn’t align with their narrow version of normal. Something unholy, they said.

They went to the Pastor. He declared you a changed person. No, worse. He called you a demon. Because you had dared to correct him.

Didn’t God love everyone? Didn’t He embrace whatever or whoever you were? You screamed those questions into the void of your mind, but no answers ever came. Only shame, only pain.

Standing on the bridge, it felt right. They said that if you died like this, you’d go to hell.

To hell with them, then.

But it didn’t happen.

Someone… someone stopped you. A bag was thrown over your head, and you were yanked back. Struggling, gasping, you felt their grip tighten. They didn’t remove the bag. They just… held you.

“Hah, it’s those bastards who should be dying,” a voice whispered, raw and jagged, like shattered glass on pavement. “Why you, darlin’?”

The words dripped like honeyed venom into your ear, muffled by the cloth that separated you. Their breath was warm, close. Too close.

Their hands… they were slick, coated with something thick and wet. Paint? No. You knew it wasn’t paint. A chill ran down your spine as their grip shifted to your throat, firm yet deliberate.

“If you’re willing to go to hell by dying, then live. Live to go to hell by committing the mistake they all cursed you for. Be the devil they see you as. That’s the word of your good ol’ Beaufort.”

Beaufort…?

You woke up with a start.

Ah.

Your cheeks burned. You had dreamt about them again—the person who had saved you.

It was because of them that you ran. You left Angelwood, the town that broke you, and you started over. They were right.

They had saved you.

And so, you lived.

Your first love....

After finishing all your daily activities, you logged into the server. Sure, Ronin might have doxxed you, and you might very well be on his victim list. But hey, you’re still alive! For now.

It was Valentine’s Day, after all. A day of love and romance—and apparently, the Devil himself had a touch of sentimentality when he wasn’t actively planning your demise. You logged in, partly to distract yourself and partly to see how Luca and Feli were celebrating. Those two were pure, unadulterated sweetness, even amidst the chaos that surrounded them.

And they didn’t disappoint. Their interactions were as heartwarming as ever. Feli teased Luca; Luca gushed over her, a lovesick puppy in human form. But then, Angel decided to stir the pot.

"How many serial killers are in love, and who’s in the singles’ awareness club?" she asked.

Luca and Feli, of course, remained adorably entangled in their own little world. But then Angel turned her sights on you.

"What about you, @Readerintocrowbars? Anything you’d like to share?"

Your heart stuttered. Angel’s knack for pushing buttons was unparalleled. You were about to type "single," keeping it simple, when a direct message popped up. It wasn’t from Luca or Feli.

It was from him.

"Go on," Ronin’s message read, "tell them you’re dancing with the Devil."

The audacity of this man. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your frustration bubbling into something like amusement. There was, after all, a certain poetic irony in loving a man who was actively planning your downfall.

Still, you couldn’t let him win so easily. Could you?

“I’m with the Devil,” you typed proudly.

Ronin’s response came almost instantly:

“Loud and proud! I like it!”

Your stomach flipped. Was that pride in his tone? Satisfaction? Maybe both? Before you could analyze it, Angel piped up again, suggesting everyone hop into a call since she’d been too busy with work to catch up properly.

The call was lively, as expected. Luca quoted a line from that infamous movie about talking cars, and the laughter that followed was infectious. Everything felt normal—or as normal as it could, given the company.

Until someone started teasing.

"You and Ronin, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Luca sing-songed, earning a round of snickers.

The laughter erupted again, and your face burned. Tragic? Maybe. A little amusing? Definitely. You couldn’t help but think that Beaufort didn’t save you all those years ago just for this moment—to be teased for flirting with death himself. And yet, here you were, tangled in a devilish game that only seemed to deepen with every passing day.

Narrative Version

The air was thick with tension as Ronin leaned back against the wall, his smirk sharp enough to cut through the silence. His gaze, dark and piercing, settled on his companion, waiting for the game to unfold. The words "Truth or Dare" hung in the air like a challenge.

He grinned, his voice dripping with a dark amusement. "Happy Valentine's, darling. How's your obsession with me going?"

A slow, teasing smile tugged at the corners of their lips as they replied, the words dripping with equal parts sarcasm and intrigue. "As good as good could be."

Ronin chuckled, his eyes glinting. "You're quite the character! But I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Truth or dare?"

They raised an eyebrow, feeling the familiar pull of their dynamic. "I thought I got to choose your truths."

"Whoops," Ronin muttered, feigning mock surprise. "Someone hasn't forgotten our little rule-change! You're smart. I'll let ya have at it. What've you got to say, baby?"

They took a breath, then spoke, their voice cool and composed, like they were issuing a challenge. "Truth. What's your tragedy?"

For a moment, Ronin's grin faltered, replaced by something darker—a flicker of something deep, something raw. He leaned in, his voice lowering as if the words were almost too heavy to bear. "Shit, you want me to do the full villain monologue? Fine, darlin'. We've got all day."

They gave a small, silent nod, knowing this would be something they weren’t going to forget. "So what's the devil got to say?"

Ronin's laugh was a low rumble, a sound that might have been bitter if it weren’t so wrapped in his chaos. "Dunno, whatever the fuck you want. I'm hell outta Angelwood. I stuck the pastor through his cross an' murdered a dozen more. Gone through the cities and danced devilry in 'em too."

Their lips pressed together, skepticism evident in their eyes. "I don't believe it."

His eyes burned with intensity, a mixture of fury and something more vulnerable. "All there is to me, that's all."

The silence that followed was sharp, and then they spoke again, their voice slightly softer. "That's a story, not a tragedy."

A sharp grin twisted his features, cruel and knowing. "Hoped you wouldn't notice."

Ronin straightened, his demeanor shifting, turning colder. "I had... someone... once. They were my... past. My childhood everything." His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "They hated to love me. Dying in it, their fuckin' tragic femininity, perfect girlhood bullshit. An' that was my dream come true. I made myself the devil to... save them."

They watched him closely, feeling the weight of his words settle between them. The pause hung thick in the air as they pressed on. "What happened?"

His voice dropped to a low rasp, like something venomous escaping his lips. "It's a shitty repressed Christ-loving town. What d'you think happened?"

They felt the words cut deeper than they'd intended. "They're gone. And I'm the devil becoming. Nothin' less, nothin' more."

A somber silence passed before they responded softly, "I'm sorry."

Ronin's eyes locked onto theirs, an almost mocking glint dancing in his stare. "Cause it's all your fault. Sure. Say it again and again and we'll save her together. Curse my name three times and rewind time. Clap your hands, call me a devil, let's Faustian bargain this shit out. That's how it fuckin' works."

His hands flexed as if he were toying with the very air around him, the symbols on his body all too real to him. "Oh, my Satanic symbols mean nothin' to ya?"

They tilted their head slightly, unbothered. "Eh, just means you're edgy."

Ronin’s lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "I chose it."

Their voice softened, almost pleading, as if they were trying to reach him beyond the facade he wore. "You don't have to... do this."

The air shifted again, and Ronin stood taller, his presence dominating the room. "Pretend you're larger-than-life. Like you're... the devil you are."

"And that's the rub," he muttered, a dark edge creeping into his words. "The devil I am. An' you can't deny it, can ya? That's who I am."

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "What d'you think, darling? Is it tragic enough for you?" His tone was an almost mockingly sweet whisper as if daring them to say otherwise.

RONIN leaned back, his smirk fading into something softer, something almost vulnerable. "So," he drawled, breaking the silence, "what do you think? Tragic enough for ya?"

You hesitated, your gaze fixed on him. "It’s true," you finally admitted, your voice quieter now. "It’s… tragic."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you hung heavy, thick with shared secrets and the weight of things unsaid. Finally, you broke the silence. "What if I told you," you began cautiously, "that I’ve had my own sad experiences with Angelwood?"

RONIN’s eyes snapped to yours, surprise flickering across his face. "Angelwood? You… you’re from there too?" His expression was a mixture of shock and curiosity, like he was piecing together a puzzle he didn’t know existed. "What, did the town call you a devil too?"

A bitter laugh escaped you. "Something like that," you admitted. "I… didn’t realize you were from the same shitty town. That explains a lot." You paused, glancing down as memories threatened to resurface. "That’s why I’ve always hated Christmas," you added, almost as an afterthought.

At that, RONIN looked away, his jaw tightening. His fingers drummed against his knee, a restless rhythm betraying his discomfort. The vulnerability from earlier was back, tugging at the edges of his devil-may-care facade.

You studied him for a moment before speaking again. "From the looks of it," you said carefully, "you must’ve had… someone. A past lover, maybe? That’s who… Ther… that person was, wasn’t it?"

His reaction was immediate and telling—a sharp intake of breath, a brief clench of his fists. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either. Instead, he looked away, refusing to meet your eyes.

Something stirred in the back of your mind, a fragment of a memory that had been buried for years. "Now that I think about it," you murmured, almost to yourself, "it sounds familiar. I might’ve noticed them once."

RONIN’s head turned slightly at that, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but the words never came. And just like that, the fragile thread connecting you both was severed, the silence between you growing heavier with every passing second.

Neither of you said anything after that. Maybe it was better this way, leaving the past untouched, the wounds unspoken.

You paused, your gaze flickering down to your hands, fingers tapping restlessly against the cold surface. The moment felt strange, like the silence between you and Ronin was both too heavy and too light, like it was waiting for something deeper to unfold.

You took a deep breath before speaking again, voice softer now, a tremor beneath your words. "My past... it's true. There was a pastor—someone my family trusted completely. They didn’t see me for what I was. Instead, they took me to him, believing I was... possessed. That something inside me made me broken, that I wasn’t just going through problems. They thought a demon caught me."

Your laugh was bitter, hollow. "They didn’t get that I wasn’t crazy. But the pastor? He told them I was. That I was the devil himself. And my family—my own flesh and blood—they believed him. They stopped seeing me as , their child. They saw a demon. They called me that, said I didn’t deserve to live. That I was better off dead."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and raw. You swallowed hard, shaking your head as if trying to shake off the memories. "So, I thought about it. Thought about ending it before... before they could."

You sat back, the weight of your own past pressing down on you as you began to speak, your voice raw but steady. "It's true," you said softly, looking away for a moment as the memories started to unravel. "The pastor, the one my family trusted... he took me there. Instead of getting me the help I needed, he... he decided I was possessed. That I was some demon, not a person who just had problems."

A bitter laugh escaped you, but it quickly died in the air. "They believed him, you know? My own family... They didn’t see me. They saw what he said, believed every word of it. 'The devil's child,' they called me." You paused, feeling the heaviness of it all. "They told me I didn’t deserve to live. And in the end, I almost believed them."

RONIN’s eyes narrowed, studying you closely, but he didn’t interrupt. There was something in his gaze, something that almost looked like recognition.

You closed your eyes, gathering your thoughts. "Before I could do it—before I could end it all... someone saved me. They didn’t show themselves, just a shadow. Covered in blood, but they didn’t hurt me. They... they spoke to me, offered advice. Told me that I wasn’t broken. That there was something more. Something that could keep me going."

The memory felt like a whisper in your mind, fading in and out, but the core of it remained. "That’s what I am now. That’s why I’m always so... adamant. Sticking to this point, this dynamic. I’m not the devil they wanted me to be. I’m someone else."

You turned your gaze back to Ronin, your voice taking on a different edge, almost teasing. "And that’s what I see between us. You’re always saying things like, 'Die for me, kill me like a loverboy would, carve out your aorta and serve it on a silver platter.' It’s your trademark. Your little game. But I’ve got something else in mind."

The air shifted as you leaned in slightly, eyes locking with his, your voice lowering. "What if I said, 'Live for me, thrive in this hellscape with me. May death do us part.'"

For a moment, it felt like you were the one pulling the strings, the roles shifting. You grinned, watching Ronin’s expression flicker with something... amused, almost intrigued. "We play our little game, don’t we? Witty banter, dangerous charm, back and forth, like some twisted dance. But, maybe… maybe this time, we dance a different tune."

You chuckled softly, leaning back, your smile lingering. "It’s cute, isn’t it? The way we both cling to these dynamics, testing each other. How cute you and I are together... this twisted little connection we’ve built. You're someone who finds death hot. I find living hot."

You could feel Ronin’s eyes on you, the tension between you both shifting again, but now with a certain understanding—a kind of recognition of the game that was always being played, the layers of darkness you both wore like masks.

"So you should totally let me live." You said with a wink.

"Haha, No Darling, Sorry."

"It was..worth a shot you know.."

RONIN chuckled darkly, the sound rich with mockery. "Live for me, thrive in this hellscape," he mimicked, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he leaned forward. "Oh, how cute. You really think you’re the opposite of me? You think that makes you better? That somehow, you can survive all this... this mess we’re in and I can't?"

His eyes glinted with amusement as he continued, the taunt hanging in the air, sharp and biting. "Well, sweetheart, keep thinking that. But the truth is," his smile stretched wider, almost too wide, as if savoring the irony. "We're both just as fucked up. And you know it."

He leaned back, eyes narrowing with that familiar calculating gaze. "Anyway," he muttered, almost to himself, before focusing back on you, "Truth or dare, darling?"

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if you were ready for another one of his mind games. "Truth."

He didn’t hesitate, his eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Alright then," he began, voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "What’s the name of the person who made you want to live? Who saved you from... yourself?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation. You stared at him for a beat, the answer already clear in your mind, but somehow, saying it out loud felt different.

"Beaufort," you replied softly, the name slipping from your lips like it had always belonged there.

RONIN’s eyes widened, a flicker of something dark crossing his features—surprise, recognition, maybe even a twinge of jealousy. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cool indifference he always wore.

He remained silent for a moment, studying you like he was trying to figure out something about you he hadn’t seen before. The tension was palpable, the space between you both electric with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, a slow, almost predatory smile spread across his face. "So," he said, voice low, dangerous, "you already know the answer, don’t you? You already know."

Your eyes narrowed, confused but intrigued. "What do you mean?" you asked, leaning forward just a little, trying to read him. "What answer?"

He didn’t respond immediately, instead just smiling like he held some private victory. The silence stretched, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was toying with you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. "Truth," you said again, a playful edge to your voice despite the growing tension. "I want to hear your name."

RONIN’s grin grew wider, sharper, and he leaned closer to the screen. His gaze was now fixed on you, a glint of something dangerous dancing in his eyes. "You want my name, huh?" he asked softly, voice almost too smooth. "You’ll hear it. In your dreams, darling."

He paused, letting the words sink in, watching you carefully. "I’ll whisper it to you, if you really want to know. But... I think you’ll hear it soon enough. You’ll dream about it already, won’t you?"

Before you could respond, he cut the call abruptly, leaving the silence hanging in the air, thick with unanswered questions and the promise of something far darker.

You quickly reconnect the call, the screen flickering before Ronin’s face fills the frame again, his expression a mix of amusement and that ever-present darkness in his eyes. He leans back, his tongue lazily brushing over his lips as he smirks.

"Back again?" he drawls, voice dripping with mock curiosity. "What is it, darling? Got something more to say? What’s left to talk about?"

You meet his gaze, steady and unwavering. "I understand what you meant earlier," you say, your voice a little more serious this time, though there’s still a playful edge to it. "You won’t tell me your name. I have to figure it out myself, right?"

RONIN’s smirk widens, his tongue poking out as he nods slowly. "Exactly, babe. That’s the fun of it. You gotta solve the puzzle. Don’t expect me to make it easy for you."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "I get it," you say, then pause for a beat, leaning a little closer to the camera. "But, I have a request. Will the devil hear it?"

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued, yet a bit amused. "A request, huh? What do you want, darling? Ask away."

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking. "I’ve always celebrated with my crush... whoever it may be. And honestly, whether I die tomorrow or not, I want to spend the time I have left with someone I like. I’ve chosen you, Ronin. Even if you want to kill me... I want to live with you. So, what do you say?"

You pause for a moment, watching him, then slowly extend your hand toward the camera, your fingers trembling just slightly. "Will you be my date? My love... until our time comes? Even before you kill me?"

RONIN’s eyes flicker with something—surprise? Maybe a little satisfaction? His lips twitch as he watches you, and for a second, you can’t tell if he’s going to laugh or sneer.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and dark, yet there's a genuine edge to it that almost sounds like... admiration. "You’re something else, aren’t you?" he mutters, his gaze flicking away from the camera for a moment, his fingers twitching as if he’s considering something.

"You really think a little thing like death is gonna stop us?" he asks, his voice almost contemplative now, his usual bravado slipping just slightly. "You’re not scared of me, are you?"

You don't flinch, keeping your hand out, your voice steady despite the tension. "No. I’m not scared. I want to be with you."

There’s a long silence, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. But then, his eyes meet yours again, and his grin spreads slowly, like a snake ready to strike.

"Fine," he says, his voice quieter, almost sincere, though still laced with that dangerous edge. "Yes. I’ll be your date... until the time comes. It’s cute, really, how you keep pushing me. But let’s see how long that lasts."

He looks away briefly, his lips curling into something dangerously close to a smile, though his eyes remain distant, almost lost in thought.

"Guess I kinda wanted to say yes, anyway," he mutters under his breath, but you hear it. You catch the shift in his tone—just enough to know that maybe, just maybe, he’s not as indifferent as he lets on.

With that...You spent your last love-day they say, With the man who wants to kill you and carve out your aorta.

So pretty.

this is just part 1! ill do part 2 soon!

[lexicorp]

Transformers Earthspark: Another Place, Another Prison

[screenshot edit thats a bit silly--the maltos are actually generally rather chill even with star being a bit of a lil shit lmao]

This chapter really shoves Starscream into a social gathering with all da peeps for a series of goofy games. Which he roasts the shit out of the majority of the time. He's more into it at the start and gets progressively more drained from it all. It's not as fun if you don't plow the competition after all--XD

just a chap with fun family shenanigans and definitely nothing sus

Previous Chapter: Bee's Good Guy Crash Course

First Chapter: The Need For Read

Next Chapter: Make or Break

Chapter 11: Family Feud

The “Malto Family Game Night”. An intriguing premise. One Bumblebee thought he should drag Starscream into, it seemed, despite the title clearly only set to invite those who are real members of their collective. It even seemed a stretch that the humans and Terrans considered Bumblebee an “honorary” member to begin with. The Terrans, as Earthen cybernetic children, theoretically shared some level of kinship with humans to an extent. As well as apparently being bonded to them on a deeper level. But both he and Bumblebee had no such connection, why should they be roped into human nonsense? 

Why would they allow them to encroach on their little tradition? Perhaps this was some sort of test pertaining to the practice the bug had wanted Starscream to get, after his little lecture. A challenge to see how well Starscream could interact with them. 

Well, for whatever goal the bug had, he certainly could stand a bit of competition. A chance to destroy them at their own ridiculous games? Irresistible. The anticipation of victory, especially one he could lord over the scout later, might just make the growing chaos around him bearable. 

There were too many conversations about too many things being discussed in one room. He’d tried to track a few, but quickly found his audials begin to mute the chatter with a light ringing. If it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from calling them all into order himself.

Finally, Hashtag got everyone’s attention and pointed to the whiteboard that now held doodles of all their faceplates, separated into groups. “Alright fam! The teams we’ve decided on are: Me, J.B, and Nightshade with our name NightTagBreaker! Mom and Dad as Purple. Thrash and Mo as Mash–”

“‘Cause we’re gonna MASH the competition!” Thrash cheered as he smacked servos with his human partner.

Hashtag didn’t even seem fazed by the interruption, and scoffed without a hint of disdain. “We’ll see about that! There’s also Robbie and Twitch–”

“Their team’s name is Twobbie.” Mo said with the most dastardly smirk toward her brother, and a mocking tone to the name.

Robbie and Twitch both stood with crossed arms, the human retorting first with an air of superiority. “Uh no. Our name is Twin Blades!” 

Twitch plucked her swords from her back and twirled them as an example with a proud grin. “We’ve got the blades, and we’re basically twins. And way cooler than Mash.” 

Thrash gasped melodramatically with a servo to his chassis, “How dare you!”

“We’ll see who has the cooler name when we beat you!” Mo shot back with a throw of a digit in their direction. Threats so early in the competition? Bold.

Hashtag edited the name on the board discreetly, then turned to ask, “What’d you guys decide on for your name Bee? I was thinking it could be StarBee or Beam for the combo style like ours–” She gestured to her two partners– “Or BugBird, because y’know, Bee is bug coded and Starscream can fly. OR you could be Primary! Because together you have yellow, red, and blue!”

Starscream took his servo from under his faceplate to tip it at the crowd, straightening his posture with a slight tilt of his helm as he offered confidently, “Why not simply call us The Victors?” He wasn’t exactly thrilled that they had just decided that he was paired with the bug, but that wouldn’t change his plans of total domination over this strange event.

Many of them rolled their optics at Starscream’s proclamation, but Hashtag actually had to stop herself from laughing. Not entirely the correct response. Still, at least she was amused, rather than angered by his insinuation.

Bumblebee shook his helm in a way that Starscream couldn’t tell if he actually disapproved or not. “StarBee is fine, Hashtag.” He determined, then mumbled, “Even if it would be nice if my name was first…”

“Well, you always were more of just the backup, rather than a leader, scout.” Starscream pointed out haughtily. “Obviously my piece of the title would come first.” 

Bumblebee glared at him, “I am not your backup! We’re partners and this is friendly competition! And please try to remember what I was telling you yesterday…” He sounded exasperated. 

Starscream dropped his smirk and crossed his arms to align himself with a more professional posture. “Are you going to disclose the rubric, or will your little test be void of any comprehensible scale like all of your Autobot riddles?”

Bumblebee was about to respond, but the Malto matriarch, Dorothy, interrupted. “No tests. We are not making game night about work again. Right Bee?” The bug nodded, looking rather guilty. “We’re here to have fun.”

“Yeah!” Twitch flew up to meet Starscream’s faceplate, “So don’t you ruin it! Family time is sacred!” 

Starscream leaned slightly toward her, thoroughly unamused. “Yes, how dare I encroach on your ridiculous expression of familial bonding.”

“Okay guys!” Hashtag interjected, “This isn’t exactly supposed to be the mood of this scene. Can we rein it in please?” She looked more at Starscream than her sibling, with a pleading look to her optics. Twitch backed down, as did he. 

“Wonderful!” Nightshade collected a set of cards that seemed to be sized for Cybertronians. “The first game Hashtag and I decided upon from the list of requests, is Uno! Three teams will be in one group, and two in another.”

“Then we shuffle it until every team has had a chance to go against each other!” Hashtag added while shuffling the cards and splitting the deck into two stacks. “First group will be NightTagBreaker, Twin Blades, and Mash; then Purple and StarBee.”

“Would it not make more sense to put the team of three into the group with just two teams?” Starscream asked not as much for some level of fairness, but more in the hopes that he could avoid interacting with Megatron’s little spy. He’d much rather attempt their card game with Hashtag and Nightshade. 

“I mean, maybe, but we’ll get there eventually.” Hashtag gave him an awkward smile, then quickly moved on. Scrap. 

They all took to their tables and dealt the cards. Starscream attempted to read the rules from the little box that was cast aside, but Dorothy’s human conjunx told him that it was apparently quite simple. Same color, same number or action, and you could play your card on your turn. The wild card and plus four were clearly above all the other pathetic actions in the roster. Although the skip option was satisfyingly petty. Starscream managed to skip Bumblebee three times in a row, in fact, which he found hilarious. 

The bug however, was less amused, “We’re supposed to be on the same team! Could you maybe not sabotage me and actually try and collaborate?!”

“Only one of us needs to win to get the credit. I don’t need your help to claim victory over these humans at this silly game.”

“I don’t know about that.” Dorothy tauntingly raised her singular card. “Uno.”

“WHAT?” Starscream’s wings flared and he looked over at the bug’s absurdly large set of cards, then slammed a servo on the table to get his attention. “Unleash a counterattack you fool! You must have something in that embarrassing stack in your servos!”

“Oh look who came crawling back for my help.” The scout hoarded his cards with juvenile snark. 

Starscream stuttered and his optic twitched as he growled through gritted dentas. “Excuse me, but if you don’t we both lose you bit-brained idiot!”

“How about not calling your partner names, and actually asking nicely? Or just working with me instead of acting like I’m still your enemy?”

The bug was a stubborn fool. Ask nicely? Did they expect him to phrase orders as optionary as the Prime did? That’s ridiculous! And of course the bug was still his enemy! How stupid was this mech? Bumblebee had been the first to point a blaster at Starscream in the Titan. Just because the Autobots were acting as if something had changed, didn’t mean anything. This was all just another assignment for the scout. 

Wait…who said that Starscream couldn’t simply take the bug’s cards and do it himself? If they were on the same team, then what did it matter who carried out the move? He didn’t know what stupid arrangement of words they wanted from him. It’d be far easier to–

Starscream forcefully snatched the cards from Bumblebee’s servos in a crimson flash, and slapped down a plus two to destroy the Malto’s hope of victory. He made sure to keep his own remaining two cards safe from getting lost amidst his stolen pile. The bug complained and tossed his servos around before attempting to steal his cards back, as Starscream pushed against his faceplate to hold him off.

Then, Dorothy cleared her throat before crossing her arms. “I win.”

“Wha–HOW?!” Starscream shoved the bug aside before pointing a digit at the human. “You lost your turn and were supposed to gain additional cards as the action dictates! You couldn't have possibly won!” 

Oh, so this fleshling aimed to lecture him now? And since when could actions be placed upon one another as a means of canceling the other out? That made no sense with the rest of the rules! Sure, if you were not at the receiving end and were simply the player that is being skipped towards–but mid-action?? That was ridiculous, she made that up!

Her optical ridge rose and she tapped the card plainly placed upon the one he’d taken from Bumblebee. “My last card was a plus two, and I can stack it on yours. Maybe, you should have actually talked it out with your partner.”

Lightning flickered between his wings. He didn’t lose. She’d only crafted some absurd reason to disguise the fact that she was clearly only attempting to prove some point, and make Starscream look like an idiot. That’s what it was. But he couldn’t do anything about it. The human was Megatron’s little agent. Starscream would be scrapped if he did anything against her. 

Starscream’s optics were burning as he wished again that he could set those blasted cards ablaze with only his processor. This game was just another tool for them to mock him. His vents were the same.

“Chill, it’s not like losing one game is the end of the world. Even if I am definitely blaming this loss, on you. I was just the card draw scrapyard–” Bumblebee was attempting to retrieve the scattered cards, and Starscream reflexively grabbed his wrist and pulled the scout up as he rose to his peds. 

“This IS your fault!” Starscream said dangerously, even as the scout transformed out his blaster with his other servo. But as a deafening silence strangled the cavern, and Starscream stared into the bug's startled yet defiant optics…he hated it. He was doing it again. 

His anger attempted to subside, replaced by something else as his grip loosened on the bug. But the curse didn’t seem to approve of that, and it instead tried to channel its power into the servo which mistakenly held Bumblebee. Starscream’s optics widened and he wrenched his servo away. Then yelped as he found Wheeljack’s little device had sent an equal pulse up his ped in some pathetic counterattack to the power. Instead of neutralizing the surge at his servo, all it did was make him fly back clumsily, and hit his helm on the ground. All while the power still felt as if his arm was being ripped apart by scraplets.

“Uh, you guys okay over there??” Twitch called from their own game.

“Ugh…Peachy.” Bumblebee commented dryly as he picked himself up after having apparently fallen back as well. “Someone is just a sore loser.”

Starscream only sat up to grip his violently shaking servo as he glared at it. He wasn’t like Megatron. “Perhaps…It was an overreaction.” He couldn’t apologize. He was too distracted. But he could acknowledge the bug’s point. Maybe that would be enough. 

Bumblebee watched him a moment before a ridiculous grin came to his faceplate. “No kidding.” 

The scout offered Starscream a servo, and he stared at it hesitantly as the lightning slowly died from his frame. He didn’t smack it away, but he didn’t take it either. Instead, he forced his annoyingly numb right ped to cooperate as he pulled himself up. “Besides, with the human’s knack for simply realigning the rules to her whim, how could either of us be at fault? Megatron clearly taught her well.”

“Excuse me?” Dorothy put her servos on her hips. Apparently his comment was somehow offensive. Even the buckethead’s agent detested being compared to him. How poetic.

Starscream paced to give himself enough distance from bot and human alike, before tipping a servo and his hip out in unbridled sass with an innocent vocalizer, “Oh but I’d never blame you for such a thing. In fact, I might have pulled such a stunt myself if we were more acquainted. Although that was a bit of a clumsy rule you constructed in your haste. Perhaps I could give you some advice for–”

Dorothy put her servo up to silence him. “No. I didn’t make it up. Well, not right at that moment–it’s just a common house rule for the game. It makes things a bit more interesting, and can lead to crazy close calls like that.”

“Yes we would never cheat! Especially Dottie!” Her conjunx attested with a protective servo around her shoulder, which she patted with hers. Disgusting.

Starscream’s faceplate scrunched at their show of affection, but willed himself to put on a smile. “I meant no disrespect, truly.” He gave her a half-afted bow, then began assisting the bug in collecting the cards that had fallen to the floor. “So I assume we shall be shuffling the groups now then?”

Not a moment later, there was an obnoxious uproar from the kids as the Twin Blades team celebrated their victory. They had their own argument about how it was achieved, yet it seemed more out of curiosity for their strategy. Of which they happily went into dramatized detail. They all laughed and congratulated them, with playful counters at how close it had been. No one was angry, or accusatory. The only touch they shared was gentle. Starscream stared at them, transfixed. 

Sure, it was not as if he had always fought with his trinemates over such silly things. But still, there had typically been some sort of transition into a wrestling match to settle the true victor. Anything close to that here was meager at best. He wasn’t surprised…only, afflicted with a strange sense of yearning. Which was ridiculous.

“Sounds like it.” Bumblebee remarked as he placed the now reforged stack of cards on their table, then added teasingly, “Are you actually going to be my teammate this time, fly boy?”

“Yes, it seems that might be necessary.” Starscream avoided the bug’s optics as he took his seat again. 

Team NightTagBreaker switched places with Purple. He didn’t quite care for the dinobot, but the other two terrans could be rather pleasant. Although it did seem that “J.B.” was far more focused on the game than attempting to bite his peds this time. 

Starscream and Hashtag shared a glance, and he was the first to break the silence between them, “Do not expect us to go easy on you.” Mimicking her siblings’ manner of playful banter.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” She responded with a theatrical tone and servo to her chassis. 

“If anyone should be going easy, it is us!” Nightshade added, to which the dinobot seemed to finish the thought.

“Yeah! Because–we are three bots, and you are not.”

“Don’t think that numbers are everything kids.” Bumblebee warned as he fanned out his new selection of cards in his servos. 

This time, Starscream collaborated with the bug as they discreetly disclosed which cards they possessed, and plotted how to best use them. He used his skips to instead protect his unlikely ally from unwanted card draw, until he could change the color again. As well as parrying reverses, or waiting until the other also had a plus two, as to avoid friendly fire. Perhaps that strange rule could be rather useful, when he actually knew to utilize it. Then, he also did not see why they could not stack other actions in such a way as well…

When the scout had called Uno, the dinobot attempted to skip him to postpone their victory. Unbeknownst to them, Bumblebee also had a skip card, but the bug did not place it down. A pause for dramatic effect?

Starscream cast aside his own useless cards and smacked the bug’s shoulder plating. “Reveal your card already you–eh, just what are you waiting for? We won. Cancel their action with yours!”

Bumblebee looked baffled as he stared at his card then back at Starscream. “What?? Jawbreaker skipped me, I can’t cancel that. It’s your turn. Why don’t you use that reverse card you had?”

Starscream’s wings pulled back and he ripped his cards back off the table to hit them with his other servo. “This scrap will do nothing to change it to the correct color! Why on Cybertron can you not just do as that human did before?! Countering an action of equal title mid-attack is perfectly legal in your stupid house rules! We’ve even done it multiple times this round, how is this any different?”

“Stacking only works with the plus two’s and four’s,” Nightshade attempted to explain their absurd standards, “It is not as if you can add onto one skip with another.”

“Uh-huh, you can’t do that Starscream, that’d be cheating.” J.B. insisted like a foolish child. “Right? Because, that’s definitely against the rules.”

Lightning jumped across Starscream’s frame again.

How was he the one cheating? Their “mom” had come up with it first! Noone had cared when she did it. How did it make any less sense to use the skip card in such a way than the other one? Of course the skips could be added onto one another! All they’d need to do is make it a double skip so that–if he and the scout didn’t already win–it’d send the next turn over to Hashtag. How was that concept so hard for them to understand? This game was stupid. 

Bumblebee nudged him, “Hey, we haven’t lost yet!” Starscream didn’t look at him, nor say anything for a long stint of time. “C’moooon, what cards ya got huh?”

Starscream’s optics flickered red and he took in an extended vent, then hiked his wings up with a strained grin and peak to his vocalizer. “Fine, yes, of course! Let's look at what cards I have. Numbers and a single useless reverse action? That will surely lead us to victory. Especially, when as soon as I place something down, those three will no doubt begin a chain of plus two actions of which you would be defenseless against. Or a plus four. Or they could start a reverse chain between one another. Or lock us in a color neither of us have in a plot to instigate the idiotic notion of infinite card draw!”

“You don’t know what cards we have,” Hashtag seemed to be getting frustrated with him, “And besides, it’s just a game. If we outplay you, we win, it’s not that deep!”

“Well, Uno does contain a higher percentage of RNG than skill, but that is a fair point regardless.” Nightshade nodded.

“Um, so, can we just…finish the game now?” J.B asked meekly.

Starscream’s wings swiveled up and down as he forced the stupid power back into the corner of his spark. “Sure.” He could play nice for Hashtag’s sake.

The game proceeded just about as insufferably as he anticipated. He and the bug ended with far too many cards, and Nightshade claimed the win for their team. That was fine. He didn’t care.

Every other match of that accursed Uno left Starscream and Bumblebee once again so close, only for it to be ripped away time and time again. Every instance, more inane than the last. How could they have not even won once?! The last time was entirely the bug’s fault, when he’d blatantly ignored Starscream’s order. He made sure to tell the scout just how stupid that had been, but then the others only seemed to get mad at Starscream for it instead! 

The next game that was chosen attempted to usurp the last in stupidity. The “tic-tac-toe” was near impossible to not end in a tie. It had to be replayed repetitively until a victor was concluded. It was boring, exceedingly plain, and the only viable strategy was far too easily thwarted. In fact, when Starscream was in the midst of cornering their opponent, they instead reversed it back onto him! Bumblebee had obviously ruined the whole thing with his insistence on starting in the middle when it was clearly best to start at a corner. Even when they finally did manage to succeed in one matchup, it was anticlimactic as slag. 

The next was a quite straightforward game titled “Spot-it”. All that needed to be done was match an icon on your own card with the one in the discard. And finally, Starscream was able to dominate. Every single match, he rapidly pinpointed the correct image and practically blazed through his entire stack with only minute lapses in his speed. No one stood in his way! No one even got a chance! It was glorious! 

Starscream laughed maniacally as he gained yet another point without the pathetic aid of the bug. “HAHAH you all are not even TRYING! This game is far too easy. Or perhaps you simply have a slow processor for such things, eh, Bumblebee?” He flicked the bug’s helm and fluttered his wings. Elated that he at long last obtained even a fleeting moment of triumph amongst them. “Good thing you have me to carry your constant lag.”

Bumblebee glared at him, then rolled his optics, “Riiiight. You’re taking this whole thing way too seriously.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Starscream stated in a more dismissive than questioning manner with a slight tip of his helm and a shrug. “What’s next then?”

“Pictionary!” Hashtag held up the box with far more excitement than she’d had previously. “Nightshade and I even made more little figurines and an extended board for all of us to play together!” She and her sibling began the setup, while J.B. distributed the items required for each team. “The person who draws whatever it is rotates, then the others on your team need to guess what the person is trying to show them! The color on the board determines what subject it is, and you kinda get a bit of a clue on what it is from that too.”

Simple enough, if the bug could draw a straight line. Starscream claimed the marker first, as he was far more confident in his own artistic ability. The first object he got was a “basketball”. He didn’t know what that was, but he did know how to depict a basket and a ball separately. Surely the scout could comprehend an icon based word puzzle as simple as that. Which he did. But the words only got stranger from there, and that is where their downfall began. 

The worst of it was when there had been the perfect opportunity to draw himself throwing Megatron into the Pit–for the action topic of course–and the blasted timer ran out before he could finish! Apparently there needed to be some sort of middle ground in which to prioritize what details were necessary. He could make sacrifices for the sake of their victory, sure, yet it was still disappointing. How was he to find any sort of satisfaction in this game, if he could not at the bare minimum depict the buckethead getting tossed into a scrapheap?

Items like “Taylor Swift”, “Swan”, or “Cell Phone”, were ridiculous. Was he supposed to have done research before this blasted thing? They had to redraw cards in an attempt to acquire a usable item multiple times. Yet even then, there were many moments where the bug had far too much confidence in his ability to depict whatever it was he’d gotten. His illustrative skill was predictively lacking, and he was lucky Starscream had been able to make out any of it at all. At the very least, Bumblebee was adequate at determining what Starscream was forced to illustrate. 

Although he would admit that this game certainly seemed the most balanced, those with their ridiculous bonds and understanding of one another, inevitably gained some sort of advantage. Which got annoying fast. Every little moment longer the scout took to guess what the item was, or the next incoherent blob he depicted, made the tapping of Starscream’s ped quicken. 

Starscream growled and his wings flicked back, “NOW what is it?” He squinted as the crude image began to take some sort of shape. “The Autobots?” The bug shook his helm and gestured for it to be more general. “Cybertronians?” A gesture for him to elaborate. “What other word is there!?–” His optics flashed red, with a brief moment of his spark feeling as though it were being wrenched out of his intake, as the word came to him–“Transformers.” A disgustingly rudimentary title. Of course that was all that they were reduced to in this human game under the subject of pop culture. 

He was correct. But he still felt distant from the bug’s excitement toward their apparent close call. Starscream hit a servo against his own helm in an effort to knock out whatever had possessed him. This reflex was evidently questionable, but he was easily able to brush it off. He couldn’t have his processor glitching in the midst of this event. It would not only be quite discomfiting, but would also bring more petty disruption to something the Terrans seemed to have put a great deal of effort into. He had to keep it under control.

By the end of it, he and the bug only managed to cross half of the spaces needed to win. Infuriating. Starscream despised losing. They weren’t even able to claim second best. Pathetic. 

By the next game, Starscream was decidedly over it. 

This “Charades” only served to make one dance around like a fool in some absurd hope at expressing the word on their slip of flimsy scrap. It was near identical to the concept of the last, but regressed into something far less tolerable. Perhaps it could be more amusing if it was less about imitating Earth creatures and instead aimed toward mimicking someone else in their group. That had been a favorite amongst his trinemates back in the more tolerable cycles amidst the Decepticons.

Bumblebee flapped his arms around stupidly as he attempted to display what he’d plucked from the pile. He looked utterly ridiculous. Starscream would never catch himself offline doing such a thing. What was the bug even supposed to be? He was acting as though he were attempting to fly, similar to how Nightshade seems to need to operate their alt mode. Clearly some form of Earthen avian, but how was he supposed to know which classification was required?

“Ugh,” Starscream rubbed his optics, “what do you call those tiny avian creatures on this planet?” 

“Birds!” Twitch chirped in an oddly endearing manner.

“Right. That is what he is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, basically.” Bumblebee halted mid motion to shrug, then whirled his arms around before finding his balance again. “Think we can count that one Alex?”

“Mmm…” Dorothy’s conjunx, Alex, squeaked his uncertainty at the notion. Obviously unsatisfied with such a vague answer.

Dorothy smacked his shoulder, although it looked like it barely connected. “I think we can give it to ‘em. Starscream hasn’t exactly gotten as acquainted with what all our little guys here are called yet.”

“I don’t need your pity points, human.” Starscream muttered in a visceral hiss. When would he have had the time to study such things? Why should he care what all these birds were labeled on this insufferable planet? He had far better things to do! Starscream had a million other exceedingly more important matters that required his brilliant processor, than reverting back to cataloging miscellaneous fauna on some backwater rock!

 “Oh, I suppose it’s alright.” Alex relented, none the wiser to Starscream’s bitter comment. “Why don’t you try another one, Bee?”

Bumblebee chuckled as the timer ran out, “Sorry pal, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until next time to witness my famously flawless acting skills. How about you and Dot go next? Gotta show me your moves too!”

Starscream watched the rest of them play out what remained of the game with blank optics. The images he processed paced in a choppy framerate, and the clarity distorted to a lower quality. A moment's glance at the scoreboard told him that there was absolutely no way they would win in the larger scheme of things. It meant nothing. He couldn’t even attempt to sabotage the competition, or challenge the validity of his competitors' victories. He’d surely get caught, and only gain pointless drama that’d get him into trouble. Which he did not need more of.

Had he even passed that scout’s stupid test? Even if Starscream didn’t claim the more favorable glory he sought, it’d be worse if the failure was calculated against whatever new standard Megatron sought from him. Starscream was actually surprised his ever looming Lord hadn’t made further appearance by now. He was sure something was bound to happen soon. Perhaps this was all some sort of means to get him to let his guard down. Or to determine what could be used to force him in line. Megatron might be getting a byte more creative in his time as a traitor. Even if he was attempting some type of psychological approach, surely he’d revel in any excuse to beat the slag out of Starscream for any reason he could pull out his exhaust pipe.

This whole ordeal seemed too calm. Too casual. They all had many moments of clear annoyance towards him, yet constantly held themselves back but only a few meager remarks. It was not as if he held any particular power in this situation to warrant them to fear standing against him. They only seemed unsure, or dismissive. Even occasionally acting as if their apprehension was entirely absent. They were clearly hiding something. 

Starscream had been lost in his own thoughts for so long, that he’d just about missed their little awards ceremony to conclude the night. That was until there was a crack and pop that sent a far too familiar shock through his muddled audials. He flinched and stumbled backwards away from the noise. Nearly trampling one of the Terrans but unable to utter an apology as he barely processed their presence. 

It was only a device to distribute colorful material over the crowd. Their laughter was mocking him. Their celebration over their stupid series of trials that they rigged towards their own success, was disorienting. 

Starscream was done. He’d played their games. He was not about to attempt to decode what they wanted next. 

He stealthily retreated back into his corner of the cavern. It hadn’t been all horrible, he supposed…Regardless, he was tired. They were all too loud in the wrong way. 

The curse flared with thoughts echoing some stupid impulse that’d use its power to blast them into oblivion. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about any of it. Then their threat would be neutralized.

But that wasn’t right.

Lightning flickered and stabbed across his frame as he now sat with his wings to those soaring seekers on the wall. He just wanted to leave. To fly away to a Cybertron where they were waiting for him. Where he too could enjoy such festivities. Where they’d cheer his name for his achievements. Where he could revel in their praise–perhaps even…alongside his trinemates, untainted by his mistakes.

Where…it would all feel real.

[coyotecrumb]

i just remembered that i had a tokyo ghoul au fic i was writing and it was kakuja!gojo x human!reader but there was a big focus on gojo's backstory and how he started cannibalizing other ghouls

basically reader winds up finding out about the ghouls at anteiku but you don't report them bc you have a vivid memory of being saved from a binge-eating ghoul by a second ghoul wearing a mask that looked like a white wolf. you never thanked them for getting you home safe that night so it's something that's always in the back of your mind.

the one thing that you find a little odd is that one of the residents of anteiku is a human child. megumi's sweet, if a little skittish, and you're curious about how he ended up being raised by a group of ghouls. that's where gojo comes in.

(way more material under the cut)

he tells you "oh yea i killed his dad and then i found megumi in his apartment so i just brought him here lol" and you're like ??!?!?!? but he explains more later once you've grown closer.

in the past, there was a ghoul named getou who was gojo's closest friend. getou was really passionate about humans and ghouls coexisting, but gojo never particularly cared about the topic. after an encounter with megumi's father, both of them were left traumatized and getou crashed out, started insisting that humans all needed to die, etc. the two of them fought.

“I had a best friend. But we fought.”  You count the stars in the sky, the few you can see; the rest blotted out by light pollution from the city’s lights. Gojo wants you to ask, so you ask. “What happened?”  He is silent for several moments. When you look over at him, he’s staring back, wearing that flat, impassive expression that he wears when the jokester’s mask falls. Except—you’re not so sure if it is impassiveness, anymore. There’s something else there, something you can only see now that you’ve known him for all these months. It might be something close to sadness.  Electric blue, his eyes burn brighter than anything in the night sky above you. His words come out calm, even, as if practiced and committed to memory.  “I killed him,” Gojo says. “And then I ate him.” 

so basically the two of them had a tacit understanding that the only way either of them would concede to die was through being devoured by the other. which is cute and fun. ummmmm and gojo's mask was modeled after a raven. and getou's was modeled after a white wolf !

here are some more snippets from the archives:

what would have been the opening scene.

There’s a strange sort of shroud that hangs around you, these days: a blurring of the senses, putting distance between you and yourself and the world, erasing the boundaries between flesh and earth until you don’t know where you end and dirt begins.  You are half-real. Mostly wanting. You spend your hours saying things to people that you can’t recall ten minutes later. It is not the worst way to live. And then—in some moments—you reenter your body all at once, the world crystallizing into furious, brilliant color. You become something real: another speck in the teeming anthill that is Tokyo, visible yet invisible to passersby. You can feel your own breath.  Your therapist gives you words for these things. Dissociation. Anxiety. When you experience a traumatic event, your mind and body can get stuck there even if you’re not in danger anymore.  Inertia. You walked out of that night—made it home—and with you came the memory of a silvery voice, clinging to your clothes, tinging your dreams.  You don’t fear it. The voice is something that pulls you towards it like it has you on the end of a string: coaxing, kind. But there’s no way to explain that to your doctors, who believe, like everyone else, that pure luck was what saved you from death’s jaws those few years ago.  Luck, you think now, taking the stench of blood into your lungs. It’s always luck. Gray skies stretch out overhead. The wind, on the cusp of autumn, carries the slightest chill. The alleyway behind your workplace might have been clean, once, but now it’s riddled with piles of trash that sully the air with their odor. You smell nothing but filth. Filth—and blood. The ghoul, hunched over and gasping, keels into a row of trash cans. An explosion of crashes hits your eardrums, loud enough to remind you that— Ah, right. You blink, your vision sharpening. This is real. More clatters. What little you can see of the ghoul's face is taut with stress, but undeniably young: the look of someone forced to grow up too fast. He can’t be any older than you. Blonde hair caked with gore falls across his forehead, nearly obscuring the black sclera of his eyes.  A young ghoul, kakugan activated in broad daylight, without any hint of a mask to hide his face. This, you realize, something twisting in your gut, is the look of prey, hunted. In his agony, he has not noticed you. Heart heavy like a sinking stone in your chest, you press against the brick wall behind you, nails digging into your palms. Blood continues to fall. Most of it comes from his shoulder, which— You bite back a gag. His arm is nearly entirely severed, dangling at an odd angle, bone and torn sinew visible where his wound meets rank air.  His kagune wraps around his other arm, spiraling into a shape reminiscent of a conch shell, colored an iridescent ocean blue. It glints in what little sunlight reaches it, keen like the blade of a dagger. Deadly; designed to kill. But it’s beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache, pain shooting through it like you’ve jarred an old wound.  You haven’t seen a kagune up close since— Yellow light, blotting out the stars. Asphalt against your palms.  A white mask. “You’re going to be alright. I promise.” 

shoko's the one to bring you to anteiku after you save nanami.

“Yaga,” Shoko says breezily, “I found them!”  The man glances up, then back down. Does a double take. “What—“  “I caught them up on Nanami and everything.” Shoko slips behind the counter, humming cheerily. “They're cool.”  He splutters. “What—you—Nanami? Shoko, when I tell you to look into someone, that doesn’t mean to tell them things and bring them here!”  “Ehh? But they helped Nanami, so I figured it was fine…” Shoko goes for a sip of his coffee—“Ach, Yaga-san, this has sooo much blood in it!”  If the man’s hair was long enough to grab, he’d be tearing it out in clumps. “You—I can’t even—You know what? No more investigating for you. And no smoking indoors!” 

megumi's introduction.

A faint rustle sounds from the hallway. You barely register it, eyes snagged on the way the snowy-white of Gojo’s hair glows under the overhead lights—but Gojo locks in on the noise like a hawk, head snapping in the direction of the door. His shoulders draw up, his eyes widening in something like anticipation—then he’s darting out into the hallway before you can even think to ask what’s wrong, disappearing silently into the dark.  At first, there’s nothing. Just some rustling; quiet footsteps. But then there’s a thud, Gojo’s triumphant cry, and a child—a child?—is squalling in a high, plaintive voice, “No!”  Gojo tromps back in with the glowing smile of a cat presenting its owner with a dead mouse as a gift. Attached to his outstretched arm is his hand, which wraps around a diminutive ankle; attached to which is a little boy, arms dangling to the floor in defeat, scowl dark enough to rival a thundercloud. [hypothetical material] As soon as his feet touch the floor, the little boy is off. His socked feet patter across the room with determined speed; within seconds, he’s out the door and gone.  Gojo brandishes a hand in the direction of the empty doorway, and says in a proud, indulgent voice, “Megumi!” 

more megumi and gojo's initial explanation.

Megumi, the third child residing at Anteiku (Gojo promises you with what you hope is a genuine expression that he is not hoarding any more children to shock you with) is different from what you’re used to from Nanako and Mimiko.  Like them, he is shy—but even around those he knows, there is no furtive giggling, no brightly-colored toys, no games of tag or pretend. Megumi is a reclusive shadow, spends most of his time observing the patrons of Anteiku in such isolated corners that you have no idea where he is half the time. When he emerges into the light, it’s with great reluctance, face preemptively sullen like he just knows he’s not going to like what’s about to happen.  He does not speak except to answer questions wherein Yaga gives him no choice but to do so: to select one of two choices for dinner without pointing, to reveal to you the name of the little stuffed wolf he keeps with him at all hours of the day. And, of course, to protest Gojo’s affections, which he showers upon Megumi with the grandeur of a philanthropist giving meals to the starving and which Megumi rejects with the fervor of a cat trying to avoid a bath.  He’s tense, skittish, wary of adults with the sort of reactive viciousness that reminds you of a spitting feral kitten.  And he is human.  “I killed his dad,” Gojo tells you gaily, slurping up blood through a straw. He ignores your wheeze as you choke on your cake and the look of abject disdain that Shoko turns on him from where she works behind the counter. “He deserved to die, total asshole, but his kid lived with him, and I couldn’t really leave him there, so, like—“ He shrugs. “I brought him here.”  You recover enough to squint at him. “You kidnapped a toddler?”  “You’re catastrophizing,” Gojo says.

some nanako and mimiko.

In the spring, Megumi is enrolled in a nearby primary school. Mimiko and Nanako are not. What follows is mutiny.  “How come Megumi gets to go and we don’t?” Nanako howls, stomping her foot. “I want to go to school, too!”  Mimiko, standing behind her sister with her doll hugged to her chest, does not yell but does something much worse: lower lip jutting out, she stares up with her enormous brown eyes, glinting with tears that threaten to spill over.  Yaga has taken his sunglasses off and is massaging his temples, wilting with exhaustion. Shoko and Gojo watch from behind the counter, visibly brimming with delight and offering absolutely no help.  “It’s not safe for you,” Yaga says for the nth time, pleading. “Megumi is human. He won’t be hurt there. But you two are ghouls, and you’re too young to have total control over your kagune or kakugan yet. I don’t have to tell you what happens if people discover you’re a ghoul, right? It’s too great of a risk.”   Nanako’s face is red with rage. “But that’s not fair!”  “I know, and I wish you two could go with him, I do. But this is about your safety.” 

maybe i'll write out a full version of this idea someday, but it's been set aside for now. i'm still very fond of the idea of ghoul babies nanako/mimiko and human baby megumi all running around together though

[brainrot-stitch]

Aha ermmm I can't figure out how to put images in asks so 🔥

Anyways @captainzigo the silly took over my bad but heres ur pony I love yr art and characters they're so fire

[mazken]

brush test slash rendering practice with ayem

[slavhew]

orange

[sysig]

Promises promises (Patreon)

[nerdie-faerie]

Just when I think the day's going well, I crash a golf cart

[loverboybrightsideghost]

the will to practice leaving my soul after i get good jury comments

[unproduciblesmackdown]

laptop trackpad drawing ft. winston quantkid2 billions of course ☔

[mbat]

she hasnt smiled like that in a long time.

(background is a game screenshot, and this is a version of my OC koralei from when she was a child)

[olives-and-lilies]

Been playing with more Limited Palette and Fashion shots, so here is Calloway being a gremlin for your viewing pleasure.

[itspileofgoodthings]

in my coming to terms with things era

[reignpage]

Lying To Himself

Content: in which toji is left alone and how he deals with your temporary absence

You have to leave for two weeks, something about a mission in another city. Your boyfriend, Toji, swears it'll be okay, even insists that time will pass by in a blink of an eye. 

“‘m not a fucking child, ma. I’ll be fine. Just take care, yeah?”

And so, you peck him on his lips and wave goodbye before you get in the car. Then you’re disappearing in the distance. Toji shrugs, going back in feeling pretty excited to have the house to himself for two weeks — this has never happened before. As he sits on the couch, bottle of beer in one hand and tv remote on the other, he thinks about all the things he can do now.

The toilet seat can stay up, the bins will be full for longer, same goes for the dirty dishes in the sink, and he can watch whatever he wants; no more of those sappy romcoms with predictable plots and cheesy lines. 

“’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, a growing grin on his face. 

A couple days pass in relative silence, he stays out late, sleeps till noon and eats all the junk you’ve banned from the house. Toji cooks all the steak he wants and leaves the beer bottles to collect dust on the coffee table. And he accepts every invitation from his buddies to go out for drinks, watch basketball at the bar, and plays a couple games too.

He stays up all night, on the evenings he's not getting stupid drunk, playing videogames -- the violent ones you cringe at. During the day, he walks around the place in just his boxers, sometimes not even that, and it's liberating. All a man needs is to be free to be balls naked in their own kitchen.

"You're not missing her at all?" Shiu asks, smoke blowing in his face as they stand in the back alley, leaning against the wall of the bar.

Toji snorts. "What am I? Five years old? I can last a couple weeks without being sappy."

His friend gives him a look, half amused, half disbelieving and a hundred percent smug. None of them miss the death grip he has on his phone, the way his knee is bouncing, and how he isn't even looking at the hot chicks that sway their asses as they walk by.

It’s been great. Really fucking great. 

You haven’t been texting much. Sure, you check in here and there, letting him know you’re alright, you’re safe, and making sure he’s watered your plants. However, there are rarely any opportunities for phone calls longer than five minutes, no FaceTime either, and sometimes he goes to sleep without a ‘goodnight’ from you. 

It’s fine. 

At least, he can sleep at whatever time he wants without you whining about needing cuddles.

More days pass just like that. 

And now he’s rarely leaving the house, finding his drunk friends boring, obnoxiously loud. It’s like he's suddenly realised they’re kinda fucking stupid. He starts to get sick of all the steak and fried chicken and takeaway, and instead he’ll text you for the recipe of your lasagne or that smoothie you make him in the mornings that’s always greener than the last. 

His feet tap on the floor when you don’t reply straight away. And when his phone lights up, he practically dives for it and grips it tight in his palm, screen threatening to crack when it’s not from you. 

“God fucking dammit, Shiu. Don’t fucking talk to me if it’s not important.”

The movies he’s been dying to watch are pretty shit. There’s no depth, no proper pacing, and the dialogue’s cheesy as fuck. Usually, you’d throw popcorn at the screen and complain about all those things, but he finds that he has to mutter them to himself for white noise. Even smirks when he thinks he got it exactly right, guessing what you’d say as if you’re yapping right in his ear. 

“She’d totally find that shit stupid. And that blood looks fake as fuck. What was the fucking budget for this shit?”

Most of the phone calls on his history log are from him, more reds than greens. What the fuck have they got you doing over there anyways? 

When you do reply to his ‘g’night’ and ‘hey, sleep well?’, he’ll have a go at you for taking so damn long. It’s just fucking ridiculous that you’re clearly sleeping well when he has to hit the gym and tire himself out to even get an hour of shut eye nowadays. Sometimes, he can’t even get any and he just paces the length of the living room waiting for a notification from you to pop up. 

“Fucking come on! Y'r phone better be dead or something.”

Toji hates having dinner on the table; the seat opposite him is empty, the placemat bare and he feels a freaky fucking soreness in his chest. When that happens, he never finishes his dinner. Must be a symptom of early heart disease. Gotta talk to the doctors about that. 

Instead, he eats on the sofa or in his car.

Eventually, you find time to speak to him for an hour, recounting all the crazy things you’ve seen and had to do. He doesn’t interrupt, he just grunts here and there, not even really listening but he urges you to keep talking when there’s a pause, like you’re unsure if you’re talking too much. And when you try to turn the conversation on him, asking about his day, he gives one word answers and then throws you another question. 

“Yeah?” He grunts. “What else? Speak up, ma. Wanna hear ya. D’ya go to that shop? Yeah? Y’ buy anything? Send me a picture.”

He gets two nights of decent sleep after that.

But then…

The guys at work know better than to open their fat mouths around him when he turns up with an extra wrinkle and a ticking in his jaw. Toji is somehow even more sadistic and violent and eager for blood. Even finally accepts their invitation to go out for drinks and drowns himself in the extra strong shit. Assuming he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they don’t question his sour mood. 

But what they don’t know is that you texted, just a day before you’re set to come back, to let him know you’re staying another week. 

Fucking texted. 

Didn’t even get to hear it from your own voice. 

He buries himself in more work and stays at the gym for even longer, pushing his body so far, his mind quiets down and he don’t gotta think about the fact that he’s started sleeping on your side of the bed, that the house is losing your scent, and that divot on the couch where you always sat has flattened out. 

Everyone knows he’s losing his mind. They can tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he’s started snapping at women who are either flirting or just doing their jobs. And sometimes they even have to block his view of couples practising PDA. That’s the closest to hell they ever want to get around Toji. Suddenly, everyone’s hoping you throw the guy a bone and send a nude or something. Literally anything to rein him back in.

The day comes, though, when you’re finally returning home. 

“Y’ sure? Not gonna flake again? Be fucking sure, ma. Alright, get back safe.”

Toji throws all the rubbish out, washes the dishes and dries them, double checks that the toilet seat is down, and he’s followed your recipe for beef stew to the letter — it’s cooking in the oven, and it looks fucking great. Even exfoliated in the shower like you’ve been asking him to, almost took off an entire layer of skin. He doesn’t want to admit he feels pretty fucking fresh. 

The door handle rattles. 

He sits up. And then stands. Walks over to the front door, arms crossing and then uncrossing. 

You’re here. 

“Hey, Toji—“

Your greeting is smothered in his chest as he threatens to suffocate you with the hardest bear hug in the whole world. And though he’d never hurt you, if you weren’t a sorcerer, you’d have been in big trouble. 

“Y’ hungry? Or y’ wanna shower first?”

His hands are all over you, lifting your chin to search your face for any scratches, even squishes your cheeks to be sure, and he’s patting you down for bruises or just to make sure all your limbs are intact. There’s a frown on his lips and it’s pretty darn cute. 

“Aw, Toji, baby. Did you miss me?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not a child, blah blah blah.”

Walking past him to take your shoes off, hang your coat and roll your suitcase to the side, you’re inhaling the air and moaning about the delicious food in the oven. Oh, God. You’ve been craving homemade food for so long now. You might actually die if you don’t eat. 

“Come here.” Your eyes dart to him, still standing by the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching. Toji looks furious. You look closer. No, he looks…embarrassed? “Said come here, ma.”

“Why?” You ask, head titling in curiosity and slight suspicion. 

He grunts. “What? I gotta spell it out for ya?”

Laughing, you tap your foot on the ground and retort back, “Yeah, you might because you need to have a good reason from keeping me from both a good shower and a warm meal.”

Toji rolls his eyes and stalks over to you, yanking you back to his chest so he can wrap his arms around you and keep you still. It’s much softer than before, but you feel the same sense of passion, something that verges on desperation.

It’s almost like…

No. 

It can’t be. 

Oh, but when you feel his face bury itself in your neck and you hear that long inhale, followed by a deep groan vibrating through his chest, you’re absolutely sure. 

Toji missed you. 

An overwhelming feeling of love fills you, so does a sense of victory, and you just hug him back, inhaling deeply too. He smells like home, like reluctant cuddles, pats on the ass, and early morning sex. You thought you’d have the most trouble in the two weeks, which turned into three, but as it turns out, he didn’t fare much better. 

Though he’d never admit it with his own mouth, his body betrays him.

Toji doesn’t let you get very far without a hand on you somehow, whether that’s a hand on your thigh as you eat dinner side by side, instead of across from each other, or you sitting on his lap as you watch the movie you want to watch. He even waits on the toilet lid as you shower, though that only lasts a couple minutes before he’s stripping and joining you. 

“Y’r not washing y’r hair right,” he tuts. 

Getting into bed is even worse because he’s practically lying on top of you the whole night, still sniffing your neck, and with his hands exploring your body. Not really in a sexual way, which is odd for him, but as if he just wants to feel you. He wants to feel your warmth, your softness, and reassure himself you’re home. 

Soon, he’s out cold and you mumble a goodnight against his forehead.

He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, like a newborn, stretching and grinning about getting ready with the day, and frowns when you’re still fast asleep. Part of him wants to make sure you’re getting your rest, but that part doesn’t win for very long and the much bigger part is shaking you awake.

“Come on, ma. Fucking bored here. Wake up, yeah? Let’s get some breakfast. Wanna talk to ya.” 

And when you do wake up, grumbling at how loud he’s being, he ignores the glares you’re giving and the swatting of his hands. Toji gives you a rare, wide, toothy smile and he says, 

“There’s my gorgeous girl. Good morning, baby.”

Yeah, this man totally missed you.