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vampsired · 8 months ago

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Random things about JJK characters

cast ᯓ✦: gojo, geto, shoko, nanami, haibara, utahime. BOLD = favs

GOJO SATORU

1. Will interrupt you with the loudest ‘WHAT?’ if he couldn’t hear the start of whatever you were saying.

2. Chokes on food and drink too many times to count

3. Has a violent pollen and dust allergy but still loves flowers and is the first to go headfirst into old dusty places (twin)

4. His jokes almost always fail… horribly

5. Sun burns easily

6. Doesn’t know how sit like a normal human being and hates sitting still for too long; just asks to go to the bathroom to get a lil stroll in

7. Addicted to sweet stuff

8. Gets everyone sick when he’s sick, but always denies it

9. Hates silence, he’s mr yapper #1 - (haibara is #2)

10. Whenever he gets a crush or a slight interest in anyone, it’s everyone’s problem and everyone has to hear about it

11. Violently extroverted and the biggest hypocrite you have ever met

GETO SUGURU

1. Tackles people as a form of bonding and he loves poking people bc he knows it hurts

2. Laughs a little too hard at jokes Gojo makes which were not funny at all so he doesn’t feel bad

3. Smacks his hair into peoples faces whenever he goes to redo his bun

4. Thinks different hair textures and types are so cool

5. Owns an electric guitar (rockstar geto🥴)

6. Defo wants to own a motorcycle or alr has one

7. Obsessed with horror movies that it’s almost borderline worrying

8. Loves breakfast foods

9. Can sleep anywhere, no matter the surface or what going on around him

10. Gives the stankest side eye whenever someone comments on his bangs

11. Has a very good spice tolerance ~ puts hot sauce on everything

SHOKO IEIRI

1. Notorious for eye-rolling

2. Loves medical shows and cackles whenever someone (namely gojo) gets disgusted by the portrayal of organs

3. Hates cooking

4. Complains about having a dry throat worried she might’ve contracted a cold while smoking right infront you

5. Can’t nap unless she’s extremely tired, like she can’t nap until her body is borderline shutting down (same)

6. Always says she’s going to stop smoking, stop eating junk food, stop having energy drinks, stop ordering out - but never sticks to it

7. Trips over stuff constantly and stubbed her toe alot

8. Has a obsession with minture stuff

9. If she wears makeup, she always removes it off her mole and quite likes even tho she was told to remove it when she got older (she never did <3)

10. Yells at the TV whenever something she’s watching annoys her

11. Giggles at the nude medical diagrams in textbooks

NANAMI KENTO

1. Absolutely loves the smell of books

2. Has prescribed glasses for reading and writing but doesn’t wear them unless he’s by himself

3. Knows cool random facts

4. Hates when people touch his face

5. Doesn’t particularly like hugs unless it’s from someone he likes

6. Loves cats

7. Very peculiar about shoes

8. Enjoys poetry and horror mangas (exchanges mangas with suguru)

9. Very talented at drawing, haibara always asks him for help to draw little stuff on cards or to show him how draw small things on his book in class when it’s boring

10. Absolutely hates liars. When people drag on jokes with lies for a little longer than needed; he hates that too

11. Hums sometimes and gets v embarrassed when he’s caught + he tells no one his music taste, haibara probs noticed it tho

HAIBARA YU

1. Very passionate about Spider-Man (me too bro) - loves Miles

2. Cuddles with a stuffy or pillow whenever sleeping/napping

3. Hates long car rides because he feels cramped

4. Day dreams with his eyes wideee open

5. Whenever he wears socks on wooden floors he’ll slip atleast once

6. His eyebrows furrow whenever he’s thinking

7. He’s such a bad liar, it’s acc so funny bc he can’t contain smirking

8. Accidentally wears mismatched socks and some teachers sanctioned him for it

9. Quotes well known saying wrong

10. Always is dropping his pens trying to spin them in his fingers like nanami can, but can’t rlly get the hang of it

11. Loves juice, his favourite is mango and apple juice. He doesn’t really care for orange juice.

UTAHIME IORI

1. Plays with the ends of her hair a lot of the time

2. Always cold

3. The worst person to send notes to because she makes it so obvious

4. Has beautiful handwriting

5. Is very bad at understanding sarcasm and also gets very mad when sarcasm is used to point out a stupid question

6. Scared of dogs IRL but loves watching cute dog videos

7. Violently dances to girly songs

8. Loves hugging her girl friends for a long time, find it awkward to hug guy friends in general but doesn’t mind it

9. Jumps up and down and air punches when describing a situation which annoyed her. (realll)

10. Dress to Impress fiend alongside Gojo and Haibara, (Suguru helps Gojo, and Nanami helps Haibara ~ however they both dont like the game but have good opinions)

11. Is the type to get irrationally mad at that one friend who purposely gets them mad (Gojo)

🔗 divider link (credits) masterlist send requests ᡣ𐭩

reblogs are heavily appreciated ᡣ𐭩

AN: the support I’ve been getting recently has actually surprised me, thankyou so much everyone <3

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anakinstwinklebunny · 3 months ago

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new hayden fan nonnie again, i am ready to officially join the fam (if you’ll have me)! may i be 🐮 anon?

also i have a fic request! would you be open to writing one where nerdy!anakin meeting his favorite book author who happens to be reader? or anakin could be the book author and the reader is the fan? either sounds cute to me, have fun with it!

thank you, bunny!!

- 🐮

PAIRING: writer!nerd!anakin x f!reader/ nerd!anakin x f!writer!reader

Author's note: OFC YOU CAN POOKIE!! and that's such a cute emoji 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ (couldn't help myself and made two scenarios you mentioned)

𝓕𝓛𝓤𝓕𝓕 ❦

You weren’t nervous.

Nope. Not at all.

Just because you were about to meet the ANAKIN SKYWALKER, the actual author of your favorite book series—the one whose words had ruined you, rebuilt you, and left you obsessing over every single character, every emotion described on the paper—did not mean you had to freak out.

Except, you were totally freaking out.

Fingers clutched his book against your chest as if it may shield you from crushing your nerves adrenaline, while you stood in line, shifting on your feet, trying not to think about the fact that in a few minutes, you’d be face-to-face with him.

And then suddenly— way too soon—it was your turn.

You stepped forward, heart pounding. Hands sweating

He looked up.

Oh.

You were not prepared for how pretty he was in real life.

The grainy black-and-white author photo in the book didn’t do him justice—those messy curls framed his face in a way that made your stomach flip, glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, and his sweater sleeves were pushed up, exposing lean forearms dusted with veins running up his body

God really took his time creating him.

He blinked at you, pushing his glasses up with two fingers. “Hi.”

His voice was soft, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t really used to this—like he didn’t know the power, the impact he had.

You swallowed, barely keeping your composure. “H-Hi,” you managed, setting his, well..yours, book down in front of him. “I—um—I love your books. A lot. Like, I might have reread them too many times.”

A soft flush crept up his neck. He ducked his head, scribbling something in the book. “That’s—uh—thank you. That means a lot. Really.”

Your heart clenched. He was adorable.

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have to know—how did you come up with him?” You tapped the book cover, referring to the broody, tortured love interest that had single-handedly ruined your life. “Because I swear, he haunts my dreams.”

Anakin let out a breathy laugh, looking up at you with this disgustingly-twisting-gut eyes “Uh—he just… appeared, I guess.” He smiled sheepishly. “You’re actually, um, not the first person to say that.”

You grinned. “Well, he’s perfect. And kind of my biggest crush.”

His pen froze mid-signature.

Oh my gosh..what have you done?

He cleared his throat, fumbling slightly as he handed the book back to you. “That’s—uh—good to know.”

You peeked at what he’d written, expecting just a simple signature. But beneath his name, a small note made your breath hitch and your lips to crack in a small, nervous smile:

«To the girl with excellent taste—if you ever want to discuss my characters over coffee, let me know.»

Your head snapped up. He was already looking at you, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Your stomach flipped.

ANAKIN SKYWALKER had planned this day for weeks. Checked the bookstore’s event schedule at least a dozen times. He had to make sure he was on the right time, the right day, wore the right clothes for this occasion. For weeks he had practiced what he’d say in the mirror, only to stammer like an idiot each time. But now that he was here, standing in line, gripping a hardcover copy of your book so tightly his knuckles were white—he felt like he might pass out.

The line moved too quickly. One second, he was behind a group of fans, and the next—

“Next, please!”

His breath caught in his throat.

Sitting behind the table, a warm, inviting smile on your lips painted your face as you reached for his book. “Hi,” you greeted, voice soft, smooth, the same voice he’d listened to in countless interviews. “What’s your name?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

God.

You were even prettier in real life.

“I—uh, it’s Anakin,” he managed, adjusting his glasses like it would somehow fix the fact that he was a mess. “I—wow, okay, sorry, I just—uh, I love your books. Like, a lot.”

A soft laugh left you, and his heart nearly stopped, did a flip, hit his insides and went back to its place.

“That’s really sweet. Thank you, Anakin.” You took the book from his shaking hands and flipped to the title page. Gosh, you said his name in the most sweetest way possible. Was it how heaven felt like? “Do you want me to write anything specific?”

“Uh, um—” He cursed himself for being so awkward, so nervous. He was a grown man for Force’s sake. “I—your characters. The way you write them. It’s like they’re real.” He pushed his glasses up again, desperate to say something intelligent but it made no sense in the sudden conversation. “I feel like I know them. Like they’ve… changed me.”

Your pen stilled. Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet his.

For a second, he panicked—had he said too much? Sounded too intense? Was it too weird? But then, your expression softened

“That’s probably the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Anakin swore his heart exploded.

You smiled, scribbling something inside his book before sliding it back to him. “I’m really glad my stories meant something to you, Anakin.”

He stared at the book, at your signature, but what was the most important was the small note beneath it:

«To Anakin—thank you for feeling my words the way they were meant to be felt.»

His throat went dry.

Before he could even think, the words slipped out. “Would you—” He swallowed hard. “Would you ever want to talk about writing? Over coffee? Or tea—if you like tea, that’s totally fine, I—”

Your lips twitched. “Are you asking me out?”

His face burned. “I—uh—”

But then you grinned.

Oh.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty

Maybe at the end of the day this was a story worth writing, too.

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penvisions · 6 days ago

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black hole sun {prologue}

Pairing: Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Joel Miller is the sun incarnate and he's going to bloom beauty and rage ruin over you, you know it in your very soul.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: burning feelings, descriptions of harsh summer days, all-consuming feelings, lot of visceral imagery, but honestly- nothing else tangible lol

A/N: this doesn't feel like much (to me personally, but i'm fighting imposter syndrome something fierce lately) but it's the start to the series i teased so long ago. i hope it lives up the to the long wait i put y'all through.

ao3 || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

His presence is like a summer day.

Simmering heat, little distortions of air off of each and every object, flaring in the middle of the open road. The mirage of a cool puddle of water that promises to soothe and abate you. But it would make you all the more parched, to realize the relief was an illusion. Just like the soft smiles that blind you don’t really help to quell the quick staccato of your heart when aimed your way. It’s not a softness being shown to you but a damnation in the form of that tricky mirage.

That little shiver you feel from time to time despite the staunch press of heat on every inch of exposed skin, the almost burning sensation that would swallow you whole if given the chance.

The scent of dust and desert, the faded stone and dehydrated, dry, bleaches feeling of your synapses under the direct sunlight of his full-fledged attention.

He encapsulates every sensation so easily, so naturally. Those sparkling brown eyes and luscious smile searing into your soul and making you see the overexposed remnants on the inside of your eyelids, bright and blinding even after you’ve looked away.

Lungs fill with stale air, the dust you can taste on the back of your tongue. The sting of it burns your nose and makes you feel like you can’t catch a breath despite nearly sucking the relief of it down, the damage it does far outweighs the benefits. You cough, you choke, you force the air back out in a harsh exhale through your nose, but the sensation lingers. Just at the thought of his touch to you does so too. It would burn; it would sear into your skin like a brand. Fingerprints and palms displayed as burns from the heat that blooms from his skin, it would render anyone else’s touch feeble.

He is the sun and he will devour you, it’s an event destined to happen- just as the sun swallows everything whole, he’ll be the one to devour you.

He is the sun and he will burn you out. Even if his intentions were to stir vitality and life in the very vessels of your blood. He burns too hot, too pure, too close and you know it’s a losing battle.

But to be devoured by him would be such a lovely way to die- all sweet, searing desire that would flow through everything you are until that last second before combustion.

The temptation haunts your dreams, the urge to give into the silly little crush that feels like life or death on the man you can practically feel approaching the front door. His truck is in the parking lot, his daughter is situated in a booth. But he’ still on the other side of the glass, a small relief from the haunting presence of him much like the lightyears of space that separate the earth from the sun.

But he burns through it all the same, just as the unforgiving rays of the sun. The bell above the door jingles happily, signaling a day of inescapable humidity in the form of one Joel Miller. His captivating eyes catch yours and you feel like you’re alive and dying all at once.

Your breath leaves you in an embarrassing whoosh as the sole of your foot catches on the curled corner of tile. Your gaze breaks away from his, those brown eyes searing into you even without the direct contact. You feel the weight of them, not oppressive but firm.

Your foot drags for only a moment before you continue on your way down the main thoroughfare of the diner, right past the source of all your longing- as if you were a teenager once again and fantasizing about someone in another clique that you happen to have shared moments with in the same class. A quick pass by him as if you are both in a crowded hallway between classes- even if the diner is only occupied by the staff and two tables at opposite ends.

He smells like sweat and the lingering fumes of paint, of exhaust. But you catch only a whiff before you’re setting fully laden plates down in front of a group of men that visit every other day. They work at one of the offices across the street, your diner tucked in between a flower shop and a large bookstore that evens out the downtown block of Austin. Commercial and office mingling in a way that can only be found in the expanse of the Midwest.

His boots mimic your thudding heart as he makes his way through the space, you feel it pulse in your neck even as you paint on a smile for the group that gets rowdy as you as them if they need anything else.

“For the table, y’all.” You reprimand lightly, they’re all harmless. Not like the all-consuming man who simmers beneath your skin even despite miles of separation once the day is over and you’re both in your respective spaces. Him with his daughter that spends her time here after school. And you, in a small apartment that doesn’t quite feel like your own despite occupying it for years now. Like it too is a mirage that will disappear should the hint of a threat close in on you.

“We’re just teasin’, we know you ain’t gonna give us more’n you do when you’re clocked in,” One of the men flashes you a smile, his teeth catching the light. But it’s dull, despite his thinking that it’s bright and dazzling. It’s artificial, like the fluorescents that dot the ceiling.

“You got that right,” You take note of the dwindling drinks and float through gathering pitchers to fill with sweet tea and coke, dropping them off with the men before you gulp down a thick breath and approach the other occupants.

Joel studies the menu, despite being here more than a few times. Sarah is looking up from her textbook, math and equations spinning in her dazed eyes. She’s got a glass of water and the foamy, dripping mess of a leftover milkshake beside her. Something Joel glances at before looking up at you out of the corner of his eye. His lips quirk and you know he won’t lament the treat even if it amps her up and fills her stomach before they share a meal.

It’s not like you give her one every time she’s here. Okay, maybe almost every time. This is just one of the instances when you hadn’t snatched the condemning glass away before the rumble of Joel’s truck saunters down the street and quiets in the parking lot.

His eyes catch the light in that small glimpse, amber fire crackling and catching in your lungs- all across your skin. Like a moth, you rush toward it and linger. His gaze is a balm, serenading you in its destructing pull. The pen in your hand clatters onto the formica, a ruse to disguise the way you cradle his voice in your hands even if it scorches.

He’s reaching for it with thick fingers, turning it to read the kitchy words etched into the plastic there.

Another pass around the sun.

“Birthday?” He asks in that deep drawl, resonating in his chest and through the thick column of his throat to assault you just as his gaze does.

Sarah perks up at that, her hands reaching for the pen and noticing how new it looks compared to the ones you use until the ink is but a ghost of impression on the pads you use to keep orders.

“It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you say anything!” Excitement rises in her, she’s only spent the last few months in your company three days a week since the beginning of school. It’s a safe space here with you in the booths, a place to tuck into while she waits for her dad to finish up at a job site just a few blocks down. A compromise made between them for her to avoid the neighbors that gush and preen over her and for Joel to know where she is, can scoop her up on the way home.

The city isn’t the safest for a teenager on their own, but your watchful and kind eyes are a relief for his parental mind. Tommy recommended the place, somewhere he frequents after his own shifts but later in the evenings. Less hectic and boisterous than bars the bars that people crowd. The body heat and noise of rowdiness too much for him. Too similar to the places the younger brother has described to you in quiet conversations and still affect him.

His brother doesn’t know, the extend of which Tommy has confided in you about his life. The things he’s seen and done, that he carries with him. That he’s worried about resorting back to should triggers surround him and flick that little switch he knows is faulty inside of his mind. You think you’re friends, you hope you’re friends. But it’s hard to feel like more than the waitress.

“It’s just another day,” You shrug, trying to play it off like you don’t particularly care. Even if in the back of your mind, you held onto that small flame of hope that someone would notice, would say something. An innate way of knowing despite you not voicing it, expectation leads to disappointment. But you feel it all the same, that little part of your humanity showing in such a desperate way.

And the truth is, it really is just another day in the late season of spring. Another shift docked onto a paycheck, another day in the same pair of jeans that probably need washing and an apron littered with grease spots and stains from wiped hands over your hips.

“Don’t celebrate?” Joel’s voice doesn’t feel prodding, but the question hurts all the same.

“Don’t have anyone to celebrate with.” You admit in a moment of full transparency, only brought out by the realness you’ve seen of the two looking up at you from their seats. The little huffs of annoyance and the press of kisses to temples, the insistence of water over a refill of soda, exhaustion from forced memorization of subjects that aren’t appealing and from a physically demanding day of work. The softness and love that underlies it all, that bonds them and gives them life. You feel a little jealous of it, but you know it’s not from a source of hatred and longing for your own family to be better.

Just another glimpse of your humanity that will both soothe and damage you as it has done before.

Sarah’s expression falters but she tries to hide it. Looking down at her notes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world, while Joel turns to face you head on.

“How about…we do somethin’ for you this weekend? Supposed to be good weather and we were gonna grill out. We can turn it into somethin’ to celebrate with you?”

“Oh, you really don’t-“ You take the pen he’s offering you back, tucking it into the front of your apron even if all you want to do is click the thing open and closed a million times to rid yourself of the humiliation of being offered something that doesn’t feel real. That feels like a taunt just as much as mirage on the horizon. “I’m just the girl that waits on y’all, it’s not, it’s okay really.”

“You’re literally my friend.” Sarah deadpans, though her eyes hold a fire that she no doubt inherited from her father. Like a comet that can’t be contained. “I hang out with you more than the people at school, unless they’re on the soccer team.”

“Tommy will back her up, you’re his friend too.”

“And dad can be your friend too!” Joel’s expression glitches at his daughter’s words, but he nods along and gives you a polite smile. It feels like a cloud has descended over him, shielding his light and true form from you as you try not to read too much into the polite sociality.

“It’s settled then,” He raps his knuckles on the table before picking the menu back up. “Okay, so for me…”

Their meal is shared in a natural progression, the books and notes put away in favor of teasing banter and genuine conversation between them. You give them their space, feeling like you’re smoldering from the inside out, hollow like a log that’s been burned through but still structurally sound for a few moments more. Your heart is aching at the way they included you, but you do worry for the seriousness behind their words.

There’s a thin line between jovial invitations and genuine ones that allow for the breach of working with the public to bloom into genuine connection beyond fulfilled orders and the sharing of a table for a moment in time before it’s wiped clean for another.

As Sarah bounds out the door with a wide smile and a wave of her little hand, you make your way over to clear the plates from their table. Joel is standing beside it, stacking them up for you already. The bill is in his hands, cash and a card gripped securely.

“Was gonna leave my card for ya, cell number is on the back. Probably shoulda given it to you already with how you look after Sarah more’n the neightbors now but, hindsight.” He chuckles, holding it out for you. His fingers brush yours as you take it and his warmth seeps into you. You hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps that erupt all along your arms. It’s the first time he’s touched you.

“I really don’t want to impose on family time, it’s okay if you-“ You want to give him a way out if the offer, if it really was just part of a conversation with no weight.

“Even if she didn’t push the matter, I would’ve asked you. Sooner or later.” He rubs at the back of his head as he interrupts you, the soft expression of nerves and the casual display of his bicep flexing something that endears you to him further. “Even if my goal is to be a little bit more than friends.”

Your answering smile lights up the same heat in him as he does in you. You see it, the smoldering cable of electric current that finally connects. You two are no longer orbiting, the contact was imminent. The destined destruction that will claim you both in time set into motion with such a simple assurance.

But oh, how lovely it will feel up as it lends a guiding force through things you’ve yet to experience until it snuffs you both out.

“Okay, I’ll um, I’ll text you?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

next -> chapter one

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graphics: photos from pinterest. banners and dividers -> @/saradika-graphics and @/cafekitsune

#dev writes #fic: black hole sun #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller series #joel miller fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fic #ppcu #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #pre-outbreak joel miller #younger joel miller #lots of imagery

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hazbinshusk · 6 months ago

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day twenty-one of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: voyuerism/dry humping (huskerdust x reader)

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

The club music pounds loudly enough for you to feel it in your bones, in your blood, and the scent of booze and sex and artificial smoke teases at your senses. Husk wraps an arm around your waist, your back cradled against the curve of his wing. His fur is warm and soft against your bare skin, and you shiver as he buries his face in the curve of your neck with a low, even chuckle.

“You gotta work on your poker face, sweetness.” he rumbles in your ear, and you feel the sharp points of his teeth graze the curve of your collarbone. “People are gonna think you’ve got a crush.”

“He’s just so pretty,” you reply with a grin, eyes still fixed on the stage. Angel is in his element, a burlesque dream of feathers and beads, the blissed-out smile on his face for once purely due to the chance to perform like this. Husk had taken no convincing at all to tag along tonight, and a bottle of whiskey deep he was loose and relaxed in a way he rarely is outside of one of your rooms at the hotel. “Look at him.”

“I am,” Husk assures you, bumping his nose against the edge of your jaw. Your shoulder rises automatically as it tickles, your hand finding and squeezing his thigh under the table. Husk tosses back the last of his drink, and on your nod, finishes yours as well. He scowls at the too-sweet taste, tongue sticking out distastefully, and you giggle.

He lets his hand slip lower over the curve of your hip as Angel makes a wide, arching swing around the pole at centre stage, and you feel his lips brush against your jaw, your cheek. You stare in wonder at Angel a moment longer before you turn your face towards Husk, humming happily as he catches your lips with his.

Husk kisses you warmly, his tongue teasing against your bottom lip before sliding into your mouth. Your hand tightens its grip on his thigh and you feel his wing tuck tighter around you, urging you closer to his side. You lean into him, your hand leaving his thigh to skim over his stomach and up to card your fingers through the soft fluff of his chest. He groans into your kiss, barely audible over the music and Angel’s fans, and Husk lets his lips travel over your cheek and back to your jaw, the tiny barbs of his tongue making you shudder as it lingers just below your ear.

His attention there urges you to turn your head and brings your eyes back to Angel on stage, and despite your position at one of the more secluded booths, the spider’s lips turn in a knowing smirk, and he throws you a wink before he moves into the next steps, two hands coming up artfully behind him to unfasten the strings of beads draped over his torso.

“C’mere,” Husk mutters into your neck, kissing you again before urging you to sit on his lap. Your back is cradled against his chest, and you shiver as his claws come up to brush hair away from your ear so he can kiss the column of your throat. “Watch him.”

You train your eyes on Angel Dust obediently, breath catching in your throat as Husk takes hold of your hips and nips lightly at your collarbone just as Angel drops to his knees, whips his hair out of his eyes and bends down, sliding his chest slowly across the stage with his ass high in the air. The move is so sensual, one so reminiscent of the way you’ve seen him grind back against Husk… and Angel meets your eye again.

Husk groans, low and rough, as he thrusts into Angel in a slow, deep rhythm, bottoming out and lingering with each push forward of his hips before withdrawing again. Angel’s back is arched in a way that’s almost poetic, his chest pressed into the sheets. His upper hands reach up to grip at your calves as you sit and watch them, your back against the headboard. Husk is watching you hungrily, eyes drinking in every shift in your expression. There’s a vibrator tucked in your panties, the remote tucked into one of Angel’s fists. The spider meets your eye for a moment before his eyes roll back, a bead of drool staining the fur of his chin as is jaw hangs slack.

You feel yourself flush.

The bartender notices even in the pulsing lights of the club, snickering against your skin as his tongue tickles at the nape of your neck. His paws tighten on your hips and press forward, pull back, guiding you into a slow grind over his lap. He presses his thigh up between your legs, continuing the gentle assault of the side of your throat with his lips and tongue.

“Don’t he look good, baby?” Husk purrs, smoothing his hands down to your thighs. He kneads his grip into the plush muscle, still guiding you to roll your hips over his lap. You can feel hardening beneath you, and you angle your hips to grind your cunt along the length of him. Husk groans, claws tightening on your thighs reflexively. “That’s it, doll…”

You aren’t the only sinners in the room charged up by Angel’s performance, and the low hint of moans and heavy breathing around you adds to the eroticism of the moment. Husk’s wings curve around your shoulders, hiding you from private eyes possessively, in turn making the two of you a private show just for the star on stage. Angel’s eyes keep flickering back to the two of you, and he does nothing to hide the lust burning in his eyes. The smile that plays over his features is one you’ve seen so many times before – at the bar, or during group activities. One that promises so much fun once he gets the two of you alone.

Angel rocks his hips roughly over Husk’s, grinding his ass down over the bartender’s erection. His cock fills him with each push of his hips, and the spider moans in a broken pitch at the feeling of it. Husk groans up into your cunt, his arms wrapped possessively around your thighs to keep in you place over his face. His tongue curls against your clit before dipping into your dripping pussy, and your moan sounds in tandem with Angel’s.

The spider touches your cheek, brushing hair behind your ear and fisting his hand in it. He drags you into a kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth so you can feel the way he moans when Husk thrusts up into him.

“Can’t wait to get the two o’ you home,” Husk groans, claws skimming up under your skirt as you continue to ride his lap. He lets his forehead fall against your shoulder, bumps his nose against your shoulder blade. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby…”

“Why… why wait?” you ask, turning your head to press a kiss between his ears. Husk tilts his head back, catches your lips with his. “D’you think Angel has a private dressing room back there?”

“Fuck, doll…”

#huskerdust fic #salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober #kinktober 2024 #huskerdust #husk x reader #angel dust x reader #my fic #huskerdust x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin husk x reader #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin angel dust #angel dust #husk hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfic

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tonycries · 17 days ago

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They warned him about temptation.

Not just the kind with horns and ruin, but the kind that smiles. That laughs when she shouldn’t. That walks through the gates of heaven like she belongs—when she doesn’t. When she shouldn’t.

Gojo Satoru saw you before you ever saw him.

One moment you were just a mortal girl in a temple garden, your fingers dusted with crushed rose petals, humming some half-forgotten hymn to the sky. And the next?

He was gone.

He was supposed to be above this. Above desire. Above longing.

But gods have weaknesses, and Gojo’s had always been curiosity. He watched you for days. Weeks. Every time you knelt in prayer, every time you whispered into the breeze, asking the heavens for signs, for guidance, for something real—

He wanted to be the one to answer.

So he did.

He came down in secret. Took form in shadow. Let his wings dim just enough to pass for a dream.

You still knew it was him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, wide-eyed, not moving an inch.

“Neither are you,” he replied, gaze dragging over you like a sin. “Not in my dreams, anyway.”

Your breath caught.

And just like that, Gojo fell a little further.

⸻

He wasn’t supposed to touch you.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Just watch. Just talk. Just feed his curiosity until the hunger dulled and he could go back to being divine.

But you? You made hunger look holy.

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It was a claim. His hands tangled in your hair, your back slammed against the temple wall, lips bruising and wet. He kissed like he was starving—like he’d never tasted anything real until now.

And you let him.

Hell, you kissed him back harder. Bit his lip. Moaned against his tongue. Whispered his name like a secret you’d waited lifetimes to tell.

“Satoru,” you breathed, breathless as he lifted you effortlessly, pressing you against cold marble. “This is blasphemy.”

“Then worship me,” he growled, mouth dragging down your throat. “Or better yet—let me worship you.”

Clothes disappeared like mist. His hands—god, his hands—everywhere, reverent and greedy. He knelt between your legs like a supplicant, eyes flickering with leftover grace.

“You smell like temptation,” he said, voice wrecked. “Like prophecy. Like I was meant to fall for you.”

You trembled. “And if I fall too?”

He looked up at you like he’d never believed in anything until that moment.

“Then heaven’s fucked.”

And then he was tasting you—like salvation, like hunger, like heaven had never offered him anything half as good. His tongue moved with divine precision, and when your hips bucked, your cry echoed off stone and star alike.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

Because in that moment—he wasn’t a god. Not a weapon. Not a warning.

He was yours.

And he’d fall again and again if it meant hearing you say his name like that—hoarse, desperate, sacred.

⸻

They came for him not long after.

Wings torn, light shattered. He didn’t resist.

Only smiled—bloodied and grinning—when they dragged him back to the gates.

Because you had marked him. Claimed him in a way even the heavens couldn’t erase.

And somewhere, miles below the stars, you woke up alone in the garden.

But the roses bloomed brighter.

And the wind whispered his name.

He was falling still.

But now, he knew where he’d land.

In you.

XO,

🔖

MY HEARTTTTT 💔💔 OHHH TORU- YOU ☝🏽 HOW DARE YOU USE YOUR BEAUTIFUL GORGEOUS SPLENDED WORDS THIS WAY ☝🏽 COME BACK AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY ☝🏽

#🔖#tysmmm for sharing omg you're so talented lovely #smooching you softly #this is so madam gohoe coded hehe #tonytalks

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sv3t1ana · 2 months ago

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⋮ masterlist ⋮ next chapter ⇝ ➤ a multi-chapter fic in which Satoru and Suguru are your childhood best friends. Reuniting as adults, you realize you're in love with them both. Will they make you choose? S. Gojo x fem reader x S. Geto

WARNINGS ᯓ underage drinking, underage smoking

WORD COUNT ᯓ 1.0k

Chapter 1. Genesis High school was like a slow-burn dream. One of those dreams where all of the events blurred together when you woke up, you couldn’t tell where the edges were, you couldn’t stitch them together if you tried. It was full of the usual youth mischief and the resulting consequences. You met Satoru Gojo first, or, actually, Suguru Geto, well, it didn’t matter anyways. They always made up two halves of the same whole, two peas in a pod.

It started with a shared class, something you didn’t care about like history or math, where the air smelled like cheap cologne and old textbooks, where the windows were littered with dust, a boring pattern in the linoleum. Suguru sat next to you, he was the only boy in your class with long hair, his limbs draped over his chair, hair tied up carelessly. You always thought he looked way older than he actually was. He had an annoying habit of spinning his pen between his fingers absentmindedly. It was through him that Satoru found you, sitting at your lunch table and fitting right in.

“You’re fun, right?”

From then on, it was always the three of you. Sneaking out for gas station slushies, sharing homework answers, half-hearted promises to do better next time. Stealing your parents’ cigarettes just to crouch behind the school gym and pretend you had any idea of what you were doing. None of you actually liked them. It was never about the taste, the nicotine high, the burn in your lungs, it was the thrill of teenage devilry, the adrenaline that came with rebellion when you pressed your fingers against the corners of the world to see how far you could bend it before it snapped.

“How do you light this thing?” Satoru squinted at the Camel Crush Menthol between his thumb and pointer finger, turning it over like it held the mysteries of the world.

“Give it here,” Suguru said, palm open. Satoru passed it over you to him.

The lighter clicked one, twice, the tiny flame flickering like the secrets shared between the three of you. Wide-eyed, you all looked over your shoulders, nerves jangling like bells on Christmas with the excitement of doing something you absolutely weren’t supposed to.

“Ew, this is fucking disgusting,” you coughed, the smoke penetrating your lungs like regret. You shoved it toward Satoru like it had personally wronged you.

When Satoru took a drag his dramatic inhale backfired, sputtering just as quickly and hacking like he just swallowed fire.

It had barely even burned down before Suguru stomped his heel on it. The ash on the floor evidence of build-up to be snuffed out in an instant, just to do this again next week.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Suguru and Satoru were such a close duo, Satoru being the loud and arrogant kind, pushing boundaries and buttons just to push, where Suguru was quieter in defiance, always quick to quip sass when needed, and there you sat somewhere between them, orbiting in their atmosphere and being caught in their gravity, sandwiched between their existence.

“Suguru!” Satoru’s voice cut through the stale silence of detention, a loud whisper that was anything but discreet. It wasn’t rare for the three of you to find yourselves here, it was just another afternoon spent wasting time under fluorescent lights, air thick with chalk.

“Look!” he grinned, balancing two pencils on the bridge of his nose like some circus act. His defiance barely lasted a few seconds before the teacher caught him, stress lines only deepening on their face.

Suguru the strategist took his chance. An eraser, thrown with perfect precision bounced off the back of Satoru’s head. The teacher only saw Satoru move.

“Gojo.”

Another scolding, another thirty minutes tacked onto his sentence.

Suguru leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, feigning innocence except for the quiet satisfied grin tugging his lips when his eyes met yours. You saw everything.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The party was like every other house party, someone in your class organizing it while their parents were away, arranging for an older sibling to grab shitty alcohol. It was summer between your third and fourth year of high school, a celebratory gathering to toast your final year.

The night melted into sensation the moment alcohol graced your tongue. It was vile, burning, bitter, an assault of flavors that had no business being mixed together. You winced, grimaced, convinced someone had taken every bottle within reach and concocted something truly heinous.

Satoru only laughed, reckless and bright, before pulling you deeper into the chaos, his grip firm around your wrist. Suguru followed, as he always did.

The house reeked of cheap bear, something burning in the ashtray, the thick haze of bodies packed too close. Music thumped through the walls, bass rattling your rib cage, a heartbeat that wasn’t yours. Someone had already broken a chair. A cabinet door hung too loose, barely clinging to its hinges. There was a hole punched clean through drywall, the telltale sign of drunken teenage shenanigans.

But laughter still spilled over the rim of your cup anyway, bubbling, lively, and untamed. The warmth of the liquor spread in your stomach, licked up your spine, numbing the edges of everything you saw as sharp.

It was on the balcony when it happened, the city stretching out below in a sprawl of flickering lights. Neon signs blinked out of focus in your tipsy eyes. The wind stirred lazily, threading through Satoru’s white hair, softening him in a way that felt unnatural. He wasn’t supposed to look so fragile.

The world buzzed distantly, a symphony of intoxicated laughter and passing cars, of smog and overindulgence. Up here, it was quiet. Satoru leaned against the railing, fingers curled loosely around his cup, condensation dripping down his wrist. He hadn’t said much since he brought you here, which was strange. The Satoru Gojo you knew was never silent.

“You know,” he began, voice low like if he spoke too loud the moment would splinter apart. His fingers flexed around his cup. “I think I-”

But then the door to the balcony swung open and Suguru was there, laughter in his throat, another drink in hand, and whatever Satoru was about to say dissolved like the sun did, lost between the space of secret sobriety and drunken honesty.

You never asked him to finish.

tags: @fortunatelyfurrygiver

#jjk fic #geto x reader #suguru geto x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x fem reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fic

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yanyandam · 23 days ago

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Watermint-colored dress -Mitsuya Takashi x fem!reader

Mitsuya falling in love with a girl too drowned in her own dreams

DISCLAIMER: angst, mitsuya's crush is one sided lmao, reader wants to become an actress

She was wearing makeup like a movie star. A girl from the theater club, just next door to the sewing room at their high school. Funny how things worked out: drama and fashion, two worlds stitched side by side.

They helped each other out sometimes. The theater kids needed costumes, and the fashion club needed models who could bring fabric to life. Mitsuya had seen her a few times. She always had lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, and this laugh that made her head tilt all the way back. He thought it was ridiculous. He also thought it was kinda beautiful.

Mitsuya Takashi. Oh he wasn’t like the rest of the gang. He wasn’t in it for the fights. Not always. He was in it for something else. Call it art. Call it vision. Call it therapy, if you wanted to get real. He’d punch someone in the face at lunch, and then sketch a runway collection before sunset. That was Mitsuya.

But really, do we need to explain Mitsuya Takashi? You either knew him, or you didn’t. You either got it, or you never would.

Sometimes, she’d just lean against the fake jukebox in the club hallway. It didn’t even work. It had been there since the ‘80s, part of some forgotten school renovation plan, collecting dust and stickers from generations of bored students. But she made it look like a prop on a movie set.

She’d lean there in her uniform, one leg crossed over the other, her head tilted. And in her head, Mitsuya could tell, she wasn’t in some aging high school. In her mind, she was waiting for a screen test at Century Fox. The first time Mitsuya saw her there, he had a spool of golden thread in his pocket and a rolled-up sketchpad under his arm. He didn’t even mean to stop. But something about her, the posture, the subtle curve of her lips, the way she looked at the world like it owed her a spotlight, made his feet halt. “You know that thing doesn’t work, right?” he asked, nodding at the jukebox.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just kept chewing her gum like she was in a scene he hadn’t been cast in. “I like the way it looks,” she said eventually, eyes still fixed ahead.

Mitsuya leaned beside her, careful to keep some space. He wasn’t pushy. Just present. He had this soft confidence about him, like he knew he belonged there, even if the rest of the world disagreed. “You act like someone who’s been in a movie before,” he said, glancing sideways.

That earned him a look. Eyes rimmed in perfect black liner, lashes curled to perfection. “Maybe I will be.”

He smiled, the kind that crept up one side of his face. “Yeah? What kind of movie?”

She shrugged, the leather strap of her schoolbag slipping from her shoulder. “Anything where I don’t have to play the good girl. I’m tired of that script.” Ah, the rebellious act girls liked to have in high school. Mitsuya liked that. He got tired of scripts too.

They didn’t talk every day, but they shared something wordless over the weeks. A nod here, a glance there. She’d be in the theater club. He’d be in the sewing room, hunched over fabric, stitching dreams into seams. One day, he found her leaning against that jukebox again, but this time, she was quiet. No gum. No attitude. Just her, folded into herself like she’d lost the lead role.

Mitsuya approached, hands in his pockets. “Rough rehearsal?”

She glanced at him. No eye roll this time. Just a small sigh. “I want a dress.”

“A dress?” he echoed.

She looked away, almost embarrassed. “A mint-green one. Like… soft mint. Almost like water, you know?”

“Color of ‘menthe à l’eau,’” he said, nodding slowly. “That kind of shade?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You speak French now?”

He smirked. “Enough to understand good taste.”

A pause. Then, she smiled, barely, but it was there. And Mitsuya felt something click in his chest.

“You gonna make it for me or what?” she asked, pretending to be bored, but her voice had a lilt to it. He leaned forward just a little, enough for her to feel the warmth in his tone. “You really want it?”

“Of course I want it. I want to feel like Audrey Hepburn if she’d grown up in Kabukicho.”

He laughed, really laughed. Not the polite kind, not the usual smirk. It came from somewhere real. “You’re a strange girl,” he said.

“And you’re a strange delinquent,” she shot back.

That night, Mitsuya went home and sketched for hours. Not just a dress, but her dress. Something that would catch the light when she moved, that would flow like smoke and memory and that mint-green haze she always talked about. He wasn’t just designing fabric, he was tailoring a dream. And he didn’t know it yet, but he was already falling.

Not because she was “different.” Not because she was better. But because she made him want to create, not destroy. Because when she said she wanted a mint-green dress, he didn’t think “why”—he thought how soon can I get it done?

That’s how Mitsuya Takashi, gang member and future stylist, began to fall. Not in slow motion. Not in dramatic fireworks. But in a hallway, beside a broken jukebox, because a girl with movie star eyeliner said she wanted to wear a dream.

–

She was always doing the most.

The girl who wanted a mint-green dress, like something from an old French film. She talked like she was in a perpetual audition, shoulders tilted, eyes cast just slightly to the side like a spotlight might fall from the ceiling any second. Always looking up, searching for some kind of divine projector to validate her performance. And Mitsuya couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t even know what “it” was.

Theatrical girls never surprised him. He’d seen dozens, he grew up around noise, fake tears, loud laughter that never reached the chest. But this one? She wasn’t pretending to be the center of the world. She believed she was.

She wasn’t just eccentric. She was deluded, wrapped in her own fantasy like a silk robe, floating above reality while the rest of them stumbled through their days on tired feet. And he was always watching her from the side, sketching out ideas in his head, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending she didn’t make his pulse hitch when she walked past the sewing room with her perfume lingering

Today was worse than usual. She was back at it again, leaning against the fake jukebox in the hallway like it was some sacred prop from a 60s movie set. The machine didn’t work. It hadn’t worked since before he joined the school. But she leaned against it like she was waiting for Dean Martin to come kiss her hand. She didn’t see anyone. Not really. Not the other kids. Not the hallway. Not the rusted lockers or the posters curling at the edges. Not even him.

And Mitsuya felt something stir deep in his gut. An ache. Not anger. Not infatuation. Something uglier. Something in between.

He kept his distance at first. She didn’t talk much in groups, but she always found a way to make the air shift when she entered a room. Like she changed the temperature just by existing. She wasn’t loud. She was felt. And that scared the hell out of him. Because people like that got under your skin before you even noticed they were there. And then she said it. She said she wanted a dress.

God, she was so full of herself.

But here was the part that twisted him up inside: He believed her. He could see it. The way the fabric would fall off her shoulders, pool at her waist, catch the light when she turned on stage. He could already hear the applause. And that’s when he realized something that pissed him off more than anything. She wasn’t full of herself. She was full of need.

A deep, bottomless hunger for beauty, for fantasy, for a world that made sense the way cinema did. She wasn’t deluded, she was desperate. And it clawed at him. Because Mitsuya knew that feeling too well.

That ache to make something beautiful in a world that kept breaking everything you touched.

She was so lost in her own little show, her little orbit of glitter and projection, and he was the extra. He was never in her frame. He was just… too much for reality, and still not enough for her dream.

And yet… here he was. Still watching her lean against that stupid jukebox. Still sketching lines in his notebook, imagining how that mint green would look on her skin. Still wondering how someone so far gone could make him feel so seen. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she never would. But Mitsuya Takashi was already making her dress. And he hated himself for it.

–

It was one of those stolen hours between classes, when the school thinned out and the sun fell lazily through the smudged windows of the sewing room. Mitsuya waited for her there, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by spools of thread and sketches. He had cleared the room, just for her. Not that she asked. She never did. That was part of it. She floated through the world expecting it to rearrange itself around her, and somehow, for him, it always did.

When she walked in, she didn’t knock. Didn’t say hi. Just moved like she belonged there, like the world was her set and she was stepping back into a spotlight. She wore a pale cardigan over her uniform blouse, and her hair was pulled up, just messy enough to look effortless. In her hand, she clutched a cheap notebook covered in lipstick kisses and names of old films. Probably full of monologues. Probably full of dreams.

“You called for me, Monsieur ?”she teased, her voice lilting with amusement, faux French accent barely convincing but entirely charming.

Mitsuya rolled his eyes and stood up. “Don’t flatter yourself. I needed a body to work with.”

She put a hand over her chest dramatically. “How romantic.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re patient.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Instead, he motioned toward the stool in the center of the room. She stepped onto it gracefully, almost like she expected music to cue up. He draped the soft measuring tape around his neck like a scarf, and for a moment, he allowed himself to look at her: not the way a tailor studies a client, but the way an artist studies a painting that shouldn’t exist.

Her eyes sparkled even when she wasn’t looking at him. That was the thing. Her joy, her sorrow, her entire being was always directed toward something just beyond reality. She talked like every hallway was a red carpet.

But here she was quiet. And he was close. He leaned in to measure her waist, fingers brushing fabric. She didn’t flinch. Why would she? She trusted him. He was Mitsuya. The costume boy. The safe one.

“Thanks for doing this,” she murmured. He blinked. It was the first time her voice had dipped low like that. Sincere. Honest. Almost human. “No problem,” he muttered, looping the tape around her shoulders now.

“I know I’m a lot,” she said. “People say it.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to lie. Instead, he looked up at her. “Why mint green?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Then she smiled, soft and faraway. “Because it’s sad,” she said. “It’s the color of old love stories. It’s not pretty in a loud way, it’s pretty in a forgotten way.”

Mitsuya didn’t say anything. He just let the tape fall into his palm. And in that moment, he knew.

It wasn’t sudden, like a punch to the chest. It was soft. Painful. A realization like swallowing something sweet only to realize it was laced with bitterness.

He loved her.

Not because she saw him. Not because she returned anything. But because she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. She was in love with something too big for the world. A dream too delicate to touch. She didn’t belong to reality, and Mitsuya did. He always had. Thread, bruised knuckles, gang meetings, role of the oldest, poverty. He belonged to the silence between loud scenes, to the background. And if he even tried to pull her down from that Hollywood cloud she was perched on, he’d break her heart. Shatter something sacred. She needed to believe the world could be more. And he was a reminder that it wasn’t.

“You good?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice brought him back. “You stopped measuring.”

“Yeah,” he lied, clearing his throat and stepping back. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

She grinned. “You’re weird. But I like that.”

Then she hopped off the stool, twirled once, and said, “Tell me when it’s ready, alright? I want to wear it under the cherry blossoms in April. Like a real movie.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets. She waved over her shoulder and walked out, her perfume trailing behind her like the last scene of a black-and-white film. Mitsuya stood there for a long time after she left, staring at the stool. It wasn’t her fault. It was never her fault. She didn’t even know she was breaking him. And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because somehow, without trying, she’d stitched herself into the lining of his heart.

And now, no matter how perfectly he made that dress, she’d never wear it for him.

Today was Monday, and Mitsuya didn’t mean to find her. He had only come back to grab a sketch he forgot, a quick detour before heading home. The door to the small side room near the sewing club was cracked open, light spilling faintly into the hallway. And there she was.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crumpled paper and pencil shavings, hair messy and eyes glowing like she was mid-spell. Her lips moved silently as she read something from the notebook balanced on her knees, then stopped, crossed it out, and started again. There was a stack of scripts beside her, most of them printed, some still handwritten. She didn’t see him. Not even when he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and cleared his throat softly. She was too far gone. He could’ve knocked. Could’ve said something. But he didn’t.

Because something in him wanted to watch a little longer. Her voice echoed in the room, like she was auditioning for the heavens. She paused, frowning at the line, chewing on her pencil. He felt his chest tighten.

It wasn’t just a script. It was her. That was how she thought. How she processed the world. Through silver screens and dramatic lines, through monologues meant for audiences that didn’t exist. And in this dim-lit room, she wasn’t a student. She wasn’t just a girl from the next-door theater club. She was someone else entirely.

He stared at her like someone watching a ghost they used to know. Like maybe she had never really been here in the first place. Her fingers danced over her notebook as she scribbled again. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her lips as she re-read something, eyes bright with that dizzy joy she only got when she created.

He was still there. Visible. Physical. Just steps away. And completely invisible. That’s what hit the hardest. Not that she didn’t care, he didn’t believe that. But that, right now, her heart, her mind, her everything was tied to something untouchable. Some version of herself that lived years ahead in some glowing marquee, not in this worn-down classroom. Not in the present.

He wasn’t even competition to her dream.

He wasn’t even in it.

He took a quiet breath and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He could picture the scene, if someone else was writing it. The way he looks at her like she’s art. The way she doesn’t see him at all. It would be poetic, probably. Romantic, if it didn’t ache so much.

He felt like a costume someone forgot to wear.

–

One day, some guy walked in from God-knows-where, and just like that… The spell broke.

The room, which always seemed lit like a silent film set whenever she was around, turned harsh and fluorescent. The kind of light that made you notice how old the paint on the walls looked, how the jukebox wasn’t even real, just a plastic prop left from an abandoned school festival. Mitsuya was sitting by the back table, half-focused on sewing a new pattern for an assignment when the door creaked open. He didn’t even glance up at first. But then, he felt it.

A cold breeze without any wind.

A new presence in the room that didn’t belong to the softness of theatre girls or the quiet buzz of creativity. He looked up.

The guy was tall. Lean. Almost handsome, in that kind of mean, angular way. Dressed like he didn’t give a fuck but somehow still managed to look intimidating. He wasn’t from the theatre club. But it wasn’t just that. It was the eyes. Those eyes, jet black, deadpan, scanning the room like he was picking out weaknesses. They didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. They looked like Tokyo’s wet sidewalks after the rain. And she saw him.

The girl in the imaginary mint-green dress.

She was sitting right where she always sat, notebook open, eyes glittering with some made-up scene. She was halfway through a line, Mitsuya knew because her lips were moving. Whispering words only she heard. Living in her own movie. But then she saw him. And suddenly it was like someone yelled “cut.”

Her expression dropped, the light dimmed from her eyes. Her hand froze. She shut the notebook. Not slowly, not like she was finishing something. She snapped it shut like slamming a door on her own daydreams. Just like that, the fantasy was gone.

Her Hollywood vanished. Century Fox, the blinking marquee, the impossible script, all of it stuffed back into that stupid little notebook with a quiet snap. She stood. Walked toward the guy.

Mitsuya didn’t even know if she knew him. Maybe she didn’t. He watched as she stood straighter, spoke softer, smiled like it wasn’t hers.

The girl who used to act like she had a spotlight on her every second was suddenly standing in someone else's shadow. And for some reason, she seemed... fine with that. No, not fine. She looked relieved. Like someone had finally arrived to ground her. Like the sky was too big, and this guy’s stare was the first thing heavy enough to pull her back down. Mitsuya felt something twist in his chest.

He should’ve looked away.

He kept watching as she laughed at something the guy said, though it wasn’t really a laugh. It was more like an offering. Her eyes flicked up to the jukebox for half a second, the one she used to lean on like a prop in her invisible Broadway. But now she looked at it like it embarrassed her. Like she was embarrassed of herself. That hurt more than anything.

Mitsuya pressed his fingers into the fabric in his lap, letting the needle scratch his skin just enough to sting. That guy didn’t say a single word to him. Didn’t even glance his way.But he still managed to take something.

Not the girl. That was too easy. He took the illusion. The belief Mitsuya had been feeding himself little by little. That maybe she’d look back one day. That maybe the boy with the needle and thread could sew himself into her dream. But that dream was gone now.

And he was too much for her fantasy. Or maybe... not enough. Either way, the scene was over.

Mitsuya was just watching the credits roll.

It had been weeks. Thirty-four days, to be exact, not that Mitsuya was counting. But he was. He always did. Not because he was waiting for her, no, he knew better now. It was just muscle memory. Like breathing through a stitch, or threading a needle in the dark. Some things, you do without thinking.

And today, the hallway felt too narrow. The sun leaked through the dusty school windows, slicing sharp shadows across the tiles. His hands were ink-stained from morning club work, and the sketch of her mint-green dress was folded in the back of his notebook, nearly worn through from how many times he’d taken it out just to look.

He should’ve let it go.

Should’ve cut the thread the moment she walked away.

But instead, he worked.

He kept cutting, measuring, folding satin and tulle with hands steadier than his own heart. He even hand-stitched the lining, he never did that, not for school projects. Not for anyone. And today, he finally saw her. At the end of the corridor. Her silhouette, framed by the chatter of students and the echo of slamming lockers. She was laughing again. But not the loud, airy laugh he used to hear echo off the drama club walls. This one was quieter, folded in on itself. The kind of laugh you give someone when you're afraid of them getting bored.

He knew who she was with before he even saw him.

The guy with the sidewalk stare. Black-eyed, sharp-mouthed. Standing just close enough to make a point. Mitsuya didn't hate him, not exactly. You don’t hate the sky for raining. It just ruins your plans.

Still, his legs moved. He didn’t plan it. One second, he was gripping the strap of his bag, and the next he was walking toward her like he’d rehearsed this scene in a dream a thousand times. “Hey,” he called, soft but clear.

She turned. Their eyes met, just for a second. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. But all he got was that distant, polite confusion. Like she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before. He cleared his throat. “The dress. It’s almost done.”

For a moment, she just blinked. Then she tilted her head slightly. “What dress?”

He swallowed. “The mint green one. You said you wanted something soft, with a back slit and a square neckline. You wanted to wear it under the lights of a stage. Remember?”

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Oh,” she said. “That was just a childish caprice.” The words didn’t come out cruel. That’s what made them worse. They were said with the kind of calm you only get after giving up completely. The kind of detachment that didn’t leave room for mourning.

Before he could reply, the guy beside her shifted, his arm brushing against hers. Possessive. Silent. And she moved with him. Just like that, she turned back to the hallway and kept walking. No look back. No pause. Her voice echoed one last time:

“Thanks, though.”

Mitsuya stood still for a while.

Long enough for the hallway to empty. Long enough for the fluorescent lights to flicker. Long enough for the quiet to stretch out into something cold and unspoken. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call her name, didn’t ask what changed.

He just pulled his sketchbook out of his bag. Flipped it open. There it was. Page fifteen. A mint green dress with a hem like a soft sigh. Her dream, his hands. A piece of something neither of them had the words for. He looked at it one last time.

Then, without a sound, he tore the page out. Folded it slowly. And slid it into the trash can by the window. Some dreams don’t fall apart all at once.

Sometimes, they just keep walking down the hallway with someone else.

–2017

The room smelled like fresh flowers and polished wood.

A soft quartet played in the background, some classical piece Mitsuya couldn’t name, and didn’t care to. The music swirled around the ornate hall like smoke, curling between crystal chandeliers and white silk ribbons.

Everyone was smiling.

Mitsuya was not.

He stood at the back, dressed clean and quiet, his hands folded in front of him like a man attending a funeral. But there was no casket today. Only a woman in white, glowing under the golden light pouring through stained glass windows. And she was beautiful. God, she was beautiful.

Even after all these years, his chest still clenched at the sight of her. Not like it used to, back when he’d catch glimpses of her behind half-drawn velvet curtains or leaning against fake jukeboxes in the school corridor. No, this ache was deeper now. Quieter. It lived in the marrow of him.

But she wasn’t wearing mint green.

Not that he expected her to. That dream had died long ago, burned in the silence between hallways, buried under a careless “Thanks, though.”

She wore white.

Simple. Elegant. The kind of dress someone else probably helped her choose. Maybe the same man whose hand she held now, black-eyed, still sharp-edged, though his hair was slicked back and his suit crisp. The same guy from the hallway, years ago. Still the same, only older. Mitsuya watched as she leaned in and laughed at something her soon-to-be husband said. The sound hit him like a fist, soft but precise. She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t even know he was here. He hadn’t sent a message. Just showed up. Like a ghost, like someone caught in his own past. Some people might call it masochism. But Mitsuya called it closure. At least, that’s what he told himself. The minister began to speak.

And Mitsuya tuned it all out. He looked at her instead. Her profile, so familiar and still impossibly far. He remembered her younger eyes filled with artificial stars, talking about Fox Studios like they were just across town, asking for a mint-colored dress like it was a passport to another life.

But she was always chasing lights that didn’t exist.

He was always too much.

Too invested, too sincere, too willing to hand over his craft, his time, his heart, to someone who only saw him as the boy from the sewing club. He thought maybe, just maybe, she’d look back. But she never did. Not then. Not now. Her fingers curled around her husband’s, steady and sure. No hesitation. No looking over her shoulder at the past. He realized something then, as her voice echoed through the hall saying “I do.”

The dream wasn’t hers. It never was.

It was his.

She was never really the one lost in fantasy. He was the one who kept holding on to something she’d already let go of. And this wedding? It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just… life. But it still felt like a lie.

A mint-water-colored lie. The prettiest one he’d ever seen.

He closed his eyes. The applause thundered. A kiss. A veil pushed back. The beginning of something. But not for him. For Mitsuya, this was an ending. When he opened his eyes again, she still hadn’t seen him. Good. She didn’t need to. He turned and left the hall before the photos, before the toasts. The sun was warm on his face as he stepped outside, but it didn’t touch him.

After the ceremony, he returned home to find some of his old creations in his belongings, including a mint-colored dress.

She never wore it. He never finished it. But it was the most honest thing he ever made. And now, it would stay just that. A memory of a dream he once loved.

Too much.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo revengers x reader #mitsuya takashi #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya x reader #tr mitsuya #tokyo revengers mitsuya #takashi mitsuya x reader #mitsuya takashi x reader

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

Text

The art of hospitality (Nanami Kento x fem!Reader)

Life wasn't that good after you dropped out of college. Luckily, a friend of a friend of a relative was willing to take you to live with him so you could watch over his weirdly big house while he was away on endless work trips. Nanami never thought that investment in the kindness of his heart would pay out like this. He is not complaining.

Tags and CW: Yandere, mild dub-con, non-consensual masturbation, Nanami is a panty stealer, light age difference, power imbalance, housewife kink AO3

Some people are just not built to fend for themselves. Nanami can name a few, even though the sentiment leaves a bitter, bun-haired taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t think like this – like him – but it’s as impossible as not thinking about a panda bear after you just been prompted with hot imagining one.

He can only repeat that he isn’t like this. It isn’t like him. Some people are just not built to fend for themselves, so people like Nanami are doing everything in their power to protect them. Weak are ruling the society and this is exactly how it is supposed to be. Strong should be content with not having any gratitude, happy that they were able to help. This is exactly how it’s supposed to be, and yet… — Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Nanami-san. With the lease and everything coming up, I just… His cheeks aren’t dusted red because this won’t be a normal answer to the situation. He isn’t blushing because he is somewhat not used to receiving a little thank you from a nice girl next door that he allowed to live with him and watch over the house while he is away on the missions(dumb, dumb girl got kicked out of the apartment after a failed lease renewal and found him through a friend of a relative). He knows how grateful you are – not having many things or a lot of money saved, you probably would have moved back to the countryside if it weren’t for him. For a girl like you, it would be kissing your dreams goodbye. Not like sleeping on his couch is any better for someone your age. There is curry on the kitchen island. He recognises the packaging – generic brand from the convenience store he sometimes walked passed during missions in Asakusa. Hm. Last time he touched your cooking(four days before, when he actually managed to drag himself to the house without losing too much sweat) it was made from scratch. He isn’t complaining because he still wasn’t the one to cook it. Asking a girl in dire circumstances to play housewife would be… You don’t pay rent, you get half of the groceries from him(ever-lasting meal planning for everything, even when half of it gets thrown away after a nasty curse hunt is leaves him on the other side of the prefecture for few days in the row) and you don’t sleep on the couch. He has a perfectly comfortable guest bedroom with fresh sheets for you.

Maybe, you could play housewife a little bit. It’s so stupid for someone in his position, but the packaging of a store-made curry almost made him question the decision to help you in the first place. He didn’t…didn’t expect you to cook for him, of course. He only took you in because being a young adult is tough and not having any friends in a city as expensive as Tokyo can crush a girl like you. He doesn’t know what is this feeling blooming in his chest. Maybe, the remains of the last exorcism are still clinging to him. — You found a job? You tilt your head, your (adorable) lips in a surprised impression. You probably never thought he’d give someone like you this much of his mind – not with how little you talked before. He might come off as too harsh – but he still looks you in the eyes, his gaze only softens because of the glasses he still insists on wearing even inside the house. Nanami promised to himself to not bring work home – but it’s hard to even determine what is home anymore. Maybe it’s a space on the couch, right next to your sprawled legs. Maybe it’s his bedroom. Maybe it’s… — Yes! It’s a convenience store, so it’s part-time, but… He frowns. You close your mouth immediately, lips pursed. Nanami doesn’t want to intimidate you – it’s just six thirty, already too late to be in a serious work mood – but it’s hard when you look simply divine with that scared impression of yours. He shouldn’t bully non-sorcerers, but some people are making it hard. Impossible. He almost understands Satoru. — This is all? — Well, they allowed me to pick more shifts, so I could actually start paying rent. N…not all, but just to thank you for letting me stay with you. You’re kind, he must give you that. Most people in your situation would already make him feel like overstaying their welcome, breaking the simple comfort he found in living on his own, and deflecting his family’s worries about not having anyone to settle down with. He isn’t thirty yet, he shouldn’t worry about it – yet, the thought itches at the back of his mind, Empty house. Most of his older coworkers were itching to ditch overtime because they wanted to meet with their families. He did it because after fighting curses(and returning to doing so) normal human life isn’t something he’d give much thought to.

— You don’t have to pay. I thought we established that. — I have to start somewhere, right? M…maybe I could save up and get a proper apartment. Still, Kento doesn’t like the idea that he might come home one day and won’t find you sitting on the couch and watching TV. Not because you just went out for a quick girl walk, or decided to go shopping – but because you got a big job, a normal job, and you won’t rely on his kindness anymore.

Some people aren’t made to fend for themselves. Nanami wonders what would you look like if you ever saw a curse. If you were affected by at least one. He…he shouldn’t think like this. You’re lucky that you’re normal. — Paying for three months' rent, the key, and the debt would be impossible with a part-time store job. — I could live with a roommate! Or three… — What difference would it make for our current situation? He puts a hand on the back of the couch. Mere inches from your head – and he can see the surprised expression on your face only getting…more surprised. You are cute for a dropout – ahe he certainly doesn’t mind having you sleeping here. Taking care of the house for him. If he only knew that you also weren’t fully against the proper commitment to this place. Like that little job of yours has any value in terms of experience and…

— I don’t want to intrude too much, Nanami-san. I’ll just get out of your hair as soon as possible, yeah? He would love for you to get into his hair, come to think about it. He had some terrible headaches lately – maybe it’s the job taking its toll again, maybe it’s a lingering curse that he is too exhausted to notice. He doesn’t sense anything besides the overwhelming need for you to come around – and yet he knows he can’t expect you to do that. — I can pay you.

— What? He wonders if the surprise on your face is going to be embedded in your features forever. He wonders what expression would you have if he’d proposed something more provocative. With something that would leave you panting and gasping and gaping. He shook his head. Too early for this – and too late, also. He already loosened his tie and it made the headache less permanent, but if he’d proceeded to imagine how your pathetic, useless (normal, college dropout) mouth wide around the base of his cock, he would have to excuse himself from the house altogether, Preferably moving back to the countryside you tried to run away from. — If you insist on working…there instead of taking time to actually improve yourself, I could pay you to watch over the house. You gulp, tensing up immediately. He must have come off too strong – but he is way too tired to control his tone, and you should be mature enough to handle the conversations like this. He wasn’t kicking you off – quite the contrary, in fact. But, young adults should take the time to be young. But, young adults should be serious enough to behave like adults – and you shouldn’t bury your ambitions while living with four roommates and their boyfriends and college and drinking and… Sometimes he forgets how not much older he is than you. Maybe this is why you’re so hesitant towards getting help from him – someone that you could imagine in the position of a boyfriend instead of a providing and caring figure. That’s bad, really. Nanami would like for you to see him as your husband. — I couldn’t accept it, Nanami-san. You’re already…already doing so much. “Too much” he can get from your frowned expression. Too much of a lonely man with a big house and no one to watch over it. Too much for a man who doesn’t acept any form of payment from you – a man who didn’t even insist on having you cook and clean, since he got a system that would be too much bother to teach someone other than him. System that you cracked in first few weeks, almost making him believe that the salryman dream he lost after returning to Jujutsu Tech, can be still obtained. Still within the reach of his fingers.

The woman of his dreams – if a man like him allowed to have them – is sitting on his couch and gushes over paying him for letting her stay. Like he isn’t the one who should beg for her to not run away. Alas, even dream girls can be a bit…dumb. Stupid. Pathetic in a way that would be insane to anyone else.

Nanami is ought to be a bit more firm with his dumb girl that still thinks she isn’t his. — I would appreciate you cooking way more than any money I’d have to take out of your savings. — But… — You shouldn’t rush into jobs just because you think I would throw you out. I won’t. — It’s…funny. In a way.

— What is so funny? His hand creeps over the edge of your seat, edging on taking a handful of your hair and tugging. Not because he wanted to hurt you – but because setting you in place would be the desirable option right now. Your inability to believe in the kindness of his heart is almost adorable, if it weren’t also so frustrating. It’s a smart choice, although – would be insane to ask you to believe that a man who took you in did so out of the kindness of his heart. But, Kento doesn’t want for you to be smart and make choices that would benefit you. But, Kento wants for you to rely on him – and making smart choices isn’t going to include that. He could just force you, your weak points already accessed – he knows where to push, where to cut, where to ass a little pressure, so you’d stop being so stubborn. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but sometimes you need to crack a few eggs in the process. Sometimes being good doesn’t mean being nice. — I thought you really wanted to get rid of me at first, Nanami-san. He has been stealing your panties since you first stepped foot into his house. It was a mistake at first – neither you nor him knew how to live with someone so close after reaching adulthood and moving out of dorms where the social boundaries are much, much less permanent. You were silly and forgetful, sometimes mixing your laundry with his. Something as small as a pair of panties, no matter clean or not, were prone to get lost in the laundry area, forgotten in a pile of clothes you already washed – and if Nanami was a lesser man, he would have scolded you for not having the basic courtesy of keeping your things away from his. If Nanami was a bigger man he wouldn’t have slipped a lacey pair into a pocket of his pants, fidgeting on the fabric while you gushed over having to buy so many necessities all of a sudden, or apologized for wrecking havoc in his bathroom. Even now, when you’re embarrassed and warm, trying to explain your point of view to him, he is still playing with your underwear, buried deep within the pocket of his work clothes. He luckily didn’t run into Satoru today – he doesn’t really want to know if his Six Eyes could detect something as scandalous. Not in a normal sense, of course – you’re an adult, if a bit irresponsible – but in the form of him having connections. Someone to return to.

Nanami wants to push you on your knees and take his rent right out of that surprised, open mouth of yours. You don’t wear any makeup, you’re at home, after all – but he would buy you some adorable lipstick, some sweet lipgloss, just so you could smear it all over his cock, choking and drooling. He wants to be a good man, a patient man, but he has your panties in his pocket already, and it’s always a fresh pair every few weeks – not enough to make you suspicious that this isn’t the washing machine eating it, but also desperately low for someone like him.

He wonders if you would be even softer than the tender silk of the things you wear. — Why would you think I accepted you, then?

He knows why you might be nervous – his attitude isn’t the most welcoming one. He can be soft if he has a reason you – but being soft for too long will make you spoiled. Bratty. He likes women with character, but not women with attitudes he can’t control. Even your sitting position, with both of your legs on a couch, is something he could change with a few spanks on the bare skin he can clearly see from under your shorts. Wearing this when there is a man in the house – how scandalous. How precious. He wonders if all the lingerie sets he already bought for you (getting exact sizes is quite easy when he already knows your proportions divided by 7), will be a nice look on you. For you.

— Maybe it was your one good deed for the month, but then you’d get annoyed and… He touches you – for the first time in weeks. Maybe the first time since he shook your hand all those time ago. The first time he touched you while you weren’t sleeping, at least. Fully conscious, aware of the man in front of you. (Nanami liked to watch you sleep, sometimes. Stressed people have a bad habit of attracting curses, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t invite anything in the safety of his house. It’s what he keeps telling himself when he inevitably ended up at the food of your bed, hands on his cock, stroking it slowly, knowing a dumb girl – naive girl – won’t wake up even if he’d decide to finish on your face. He never would – not until you’d ask him to, at least. He hopes that he will be a good person even after you do) Nanami’s hand is on your cheek, holding you softly. Gently. You’re surprised because this is the first time he touched you so softly – so intimately. You’re blissfully unaware of the fact he was touching you so, so much already. Stroking your ass, your tits, your face when he felt particularly tender – when he knew you were too tired of whatever you were doing while being unemployed and having everything catered to you to notice that he is touching you. — I won’t get annoyed with you.

You press your face against his hand, taking in his touch. He has soft hands – cared for, manicured carefully. He takes care of his appearance and you’re embarrassed to appreciate that about it. To even notice – he isn’t yours, probably doesn’t want to be, but he allows you to live in his house even though you suck at being a proper housewife, and it should mean something. It does mean something – you smile and close your eyes. You want to do something for him because he already did so much for you. The possibilities are making your ears burn. — How can I repay you if you don’t want rent then? He can think of a few ways. The possibilities will make your ears burn. — You can start by actually cooking.

And he will call in to fire you later.

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #nanami smut

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someverygaymoth · 5 months ago

Note

NIGHTMARE WITH OSDD

I love your headcanon and I'm going to take it and it into a 5-star meal🙏

May I have more please🙏😔 /nf

I love NM with OSDD!!! Yay!!! Free ramble pass!!!!

There are so many good options for this. I'm gonna go with fuzzy system of 5, where Nightmare(the corruption) is their host, Night(little guy before the apple whoopsidoodle), Moon(the hurt, scared, grown up version of Night), Dream(little guy before the apple whoopsie doodle), and Sun(a grown up Dream. The kind of brother he wanted and needed, but never quite got.) Lots of fuzzy cofronting, lots of gray amnesia and emotional amnesia with occasional blackouts.

Silly BSP hyjinks ideas:

Nightmare worrying, trying to find one of his boys because he doesn't remember that he sent them out on a mission that morning. (Killer finds him and reminds him that Dust and Horror are out on a mission, and not to worry about them)

Horror finding out they're plural and learning that alters have different tastes??? He would be so excited to figure out everyone's favorite food!!!

Cross learns NM is plural and immediately does all the research possible so he knows he isn't accidentally being offensive, and also so he can be more helpful. (He has to be the helpfulest all the time! That's what he's good for!)(he is so mentally ill)

Killer does the research in secret and then purposefully says ignorant shit so Cross gets scandalized and NM gets to watch them argue and have a little snack on Crossy's indignance and terror. NM knows he's being annoying on purpose because he starts doing really considerate shit without being outward about it. (Bringing back a bunch of sticky notes in different shapes and colors from his missions, casually asking him how to be more helpful, wrapping him in a blanket and laying on him when he's dissociating into high hell so he's nice and grounded, or just cuddling with him while he's having a long, slow switch. Bringing him water and headache medicine once it's leveled out, catching up whoever is in front now, making sure they know they're safe...)

Dust is obscenely good at telling who's fronting. He noticed way before Nightmare told any of them. "[Shrug] Shit didn't add up," is all he says about that. Nightmare has no idea what that means, but at least Dust can tell him he's doing the hand wringing thing that Night always does when he's fronting, so he can tell who's cofronting and giving him a massive migrane. He's just very watchful.

Evil ideas:

Moon is so frightened and overwhelmingly broken, for a long time. Nightmare can tell he's near front when he starts to feel tearful and hurt seemingly without reason.

Sun lashing out at one of the boys because he feels like they're being threatened (the boys are trying to be nice to him)

Sun feels helpless in the body because he has near no control over their tentacles. He can't protect them and that's very scary for him. He doesn't like feeling out of control.

Night had a phase where he would write in books, Nightmare hated this.

Sun has a habit of trying to convince the boys to leave them because he doesn't want anyone close to them. He feels like he has something to make up for, with all that Moon went through. He feels so much pressure to be better than Dream ever was to them.

More silly to cleanse the owie:

Nightmare's system is relatively functional and stable once Sun gets off his "hurt them before they hurt us!!" Horse.

Sun has a silly lil crush on Killer that he will vehemently deny if asked about.

They're silly and I love them.

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idontknowmyownmind · 9 months ago

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Soukoku Fanfics Recommendation

COMPLETE

[Series] tiny hints of being related together but ehhhh by Vitya_Viktorie

[Series] home by setosdarkness

[Series +FyoYa] synchronous by setosdarkness

[Series] never been happier by saffroncassis

Counting the Days by Neiro Gin (Neiroa)

Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Emotionalgemini

chaos crushed to dust, I shall die peacefully by cinnamon_penpal

grief: a synonym of sorrow by cinnamon_penpal

picking a flower that blooms on the heart for you by burgundytshirt

Skyline Pigeon by forest_raccoon

something just like this by Maristella

Rite of Passage by A_Zap

the taste of love by cherryousama

You Will Never Stop Hurting by hybridempress

time after time by Maristella

i want you (bless my soul) by secondwind (mizore)

Mark by Raven_Rein

Full Tacit Understanding by setosdarkness

hide the truth by writingfromtheshadows

A Melody of Shredded Notes by black00cat

The Making Of You by black00cat

Linger by iskendaris

Waiting For My Wish To Reach You by black00cat

5 + 1 Dazai the Courier by 2day4u_2morrow4me

In the Sun's Peace of Mind by daibakusasshin

time enough for love by setosdarkness

April's Fool by TopHat69

Harvester of Sorrow by arkastadt

Turning Pages by arkastadt

The Ticking of The Countdown by Exiti_Anima

For Worse by arkastadt

Empire of Dirt by arkastadt

The Little Family We Dreamed Of by serenathea

Untainted Memories by serenathea

the liar’s house by burgundytshirt

fuck off, you’re stepping on my invisible wings by burgundytshirt

picking a flower that blooms on the heart for you by burgundytshirt

Stay by the_most_happy

the world is full of fishes (but i trust you, i trust you) by communist_sasuke

i love you (i love you i love you i love you) by communist_sasuke

money well spent by chuuyasoup

Six peculiar things about Chuuya Nakahara according to Dazai. by BlowingYourMind

come crashing down by meyllah

On My Knees (Looking for the Answer) by A_Zap

Bruised Fists and Telling Looks by chuuyasporkie

Dazai’s Boyfriend, Mister Fancy Hat by yummybeefcake

The Story of One Asshole of a Father and His Three Sons by orphan_account

catch me once, catch me twice by Seedus

overturning the heavens and the earth by cherryousama

Ephemeris by Seedus

I Was Screaming Your Name Through The Radio by ElectricSplatter

23 Minutes by roadtosomewhere

eternity (i'd choose you every time) by orphan_account

Tempus Fugit by Imabakuhoe

This is how it feels to take a fall by forest_raccoon

Wish in one hand by forest_raccoon

Chuunyaa's Pawsitively Catastrophic Day by forest_raccoon

Plate :( by forest_raccoon

I called your name 'til the fever broke by forest_raccoon

A Face Like Glass by forest_raccoon

Willful Neglect by toucheslikethesun

Butterflies and Storms by Chailily

Tomorrow Has Not Yet Come by izanyas

ten by setosdarkness

The last string to sever by foundmywei

beyond space and time by setosdarkness

The Undercover Mission by OldSauk411

Through the Rabbit Hole by Aamu16

Maid of Steel by A_Zap

Like A Summer Night's Star by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)

Jealous Jealous Boy by wallows_4

who you belong to by neon_toad

the kids are alright (and so are we) by lunarumbra

chasing daybreak by lunarumbra

imagine being loved by me by lunarumbra

gathers no moss by bigdamnher0

allergic to a chibi by lunariclipse

open up your heart, like the gates of hell by dendronali

chuuya-san! please wake up! by dendronali

it's a way to make a living by refectory

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ON-GOING

[Series] Ayatsuji & Chuuya are friends by TheSilverHunt3r

[Series] Coin Toss by Yellow_Canna

[Series] Crystaliqueeen's Soukoku Realm by Crystaliqueeen

[Series] Mafia Boss Chuuya by bluemisfortune

[Series] Soukoku Flowers by StarMaidenWarrior

[Series] Wardens Of The Night by bluemisfortune

[Series] Murder Mania by Areetails, Grxdients (Areetails)

[Series] until the day i'm forgiven, until my sins are forgotten by mil_writes

[Series] all for one, one for all by devilrin

[Series] sofia's relationship reveals by xxalwayssofia

[Series] I'd Rather Be by The_notorious_subhuman_freakshow

[BSD x JJK] A Ripple of Chaos by BlueGhostCardinal

[BSD x MHA] When we're together (I'm not afraid of my tears) by Must_have_been_the_wind

a syzygy on earth by missconceptually

And The Walls Came Tumbling Down by SapphireDragon2708

The Darkness Always Deceives by uzai_sagi

The Shadow by the Window by Areetails

transcendence by chuuyasporkie

lamb to the slaughter by melebee

#soukoku #fanfic recommendation #dazai x chuuya #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #will add more later #when i found another fics i like #if you have any recommendation and it's not in the list #do tell 'cause i'll like it and give it a go

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freshlycookedegg · 3 months ago

Text

The last thing he can remember is picking up his crutch, because it seems as if the councilors were ready to disband for the day. There was a strong sense of accomplishment back then, in the circle of the small counsel, like they all committed a good deed. With a few words and a small vote, the city had been saved, because Zaun was in their good graces. War was over.

Silly as the notion was, he found himself bathing in relief. After a lifetime of effort, at least something good might open its gates for Zaun, and having hope like this was an unfamiliar but welcome bridge over the horizon. He sighed with satisfaction, deep enough to make himself cough, and the little slip caught Jayce’s attention. It was no matter, though, because when he finds Jayce’s intense gaze standing proudly beside him, sees Jayce’s determined jaw clicking, they share a nod without saying the words:

We have our chance.

A glimpse of it being all right with the world, until the next moment, when that world all but shatters apart in an instant.

Blinding, bursting shatters, to be clear. A pulse of intense pressure, knocking him backwards. His own limbs moving out of his control. A flash of gold, a deafening blast, and soon…

Darkness. Heavy. Something very heavy.

The smell of metal. Metal and dust. Metal, dust, soot, and…blood? My blood. No.

Someone else’s.

But there is weight, so much weight. Crushing. Hurting. Warm. Why?

Voices are sharp yet distant. Floating. Shouting.

“Help—-! He-elp!”

“Get —- off! Get it o—-!”

“Mel? Mel! Are ——- alright? You need —— out of —.”

And laughter. Wait, no… screaming, crying, sounds of suffering. Voices growing in urgency. Heavy. Still so heavy.

“General, search ——— more survivors.”

“Get ——- here!”

Boots, sounds of bodies. Shifting, scraping. More screaming.

Then…lifting.

Yes, lifting. Sudden weightlessness. Ah. Weight lifting from lungs. Gasping for air. Taking deep, sucking breaths. Air that is full of dust. The warmth is gone.

Yes, black spots start dissipating. Oxygen, carbon, dust, and dirt. Vision swimming, and a light glowing beyond the mask. Bleary. Blinking. Trying to rise slowly. Limbs stitching back together.

“Viktor?” scapes a voice. It is close. “Viktor!” Hands now, firm on his shoulders. A face swimming into familiarity.

“Mel?” Viktor cracks. Weak. The dust is heavy. Now coughing again, tasting blood. His own blood. “What…”

“Lie still. You have —-“

What she says next never mattered. Not when Viktor looks up, sees what was lifted, now in the arms of an enforcer above them. White tatters on a limp form, shoulders scraped in red and embers. Flesh burnt. Mangled. Brow slick and dark. Gold in those…

Eyes..? Yes, gold eyes. They are glass, staring unseeing through thick, dark lashes, and the porcelain husk of a perfect doll.

But they are not that at all. He clambers to reach them, pushing all else aside. No…

“J—,” Viktor chokes. What had Jayce done? “N-no. This cannot—“

Jayce’s eyes, his face still warm in his hands. Breathing? Not breathing. He would know that breathing.

Viktor chokes because there are no words, just ringing. A world that tilts on its axis when he realizes they are taking Jayce away. The hands that do not leave his shoulders pull him back, saying nonsense. “Viktor. Listen to me, your —.”

All else fades. A voice is screaming closer now, howling. He thinks it might be his own.

More shifting, more pulling. He must resist. More figures moving in, and more hands— large, callused, gloved, that prod and poke. Shoving him back down into the dust. They are taking Jayce away—

No, stop it. Stop it!

“Lie still, sir.”

Do not do this to me. A memory tugs at the back of his mind, his own voice.

“Carefully, do not hurt—-“

You have to destroy it. .

“Tell the medic we found them bo—“

I can’t do it. You have to.

“Then get them both into the infirmary now!”

Promise me.

“I’m sorry, madame counselor. But Talis, he’s—“

And another voice.

I promise.

A sharp stab in the arm brings Viktor out of that dream. But how could he not still be in one? “No, no…!” Hands over his ears to block out the endless roar. Thousands more voices joining in. He is writhing. Clambering. Reaching through a terrifying darkness that is quickly encroaching once again. Nobody is listening, only holding him down. Why? Why?!

This is all wrong. This is not…this was never—

How it was supposed to happen.

***

A soft voice stirs behind his lids. It is in his imagination, most likely —the first piece of the environment Viktor notices.

The second piece he notices when he awakens in a pool of smooth calm is his mouth tasting of cotton and iron. To be fair, everything is always calm in the beginning, because of the nature of the medicine, but he is all too familiar with the way a sedative tastes.

Same for the room. Even blinking into pitch black, he knows the shape of its walls. The distinct sound of its machines. They hum away to his left. Mm. Must have been admitted onto the fourth floor this time around.

A dull ache in his upper arm. Not a shock, there. Though, he must not have felt the original prick of the needle. Or did he? Hysterics could have that effect.

A broken femur? This was very likely, by the way his leg is anchored to the bed. Just another obstacle to be dealt with.

But he wished to every god and beyond that nothing had brought him back out of that darkness.

What a blessing it was, feeling nothing, remembering nothing. How lucky of him to be shut out from the world for who knows how long. The gift and curse of medicine.

Because despite all of this calculation. All of this deduction for where he is. As soon as he awakens, as if by instinct alone, he remembers so, terribly coherently that—

“Jayce is dead,” Mel’s voice cracks loudly beside him, and she sobs.

***

WIP ***

The voices are gone. There are no more screams. But he can’t tell if they were ever real or not, laying in this dark hospital room. After some time, the sobs begin to subside, more exhausted than anything. Mel has released her tight grip on Viktor’s hand, since he had never really returned it. He wants to, desperately. But it would only make it all too real.

This is not how it was meant to happen.

#arcane #jayvik #viktor #jayce talis

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jobean12-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Heart of a Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Werewolf!Bucky)

Word Count: 746

Summary: Life without Bucky is unbearable but when he somehow returns to you, changed but the same, you hold on to all hope that it's more than just a dream.

Author's Note: Just needed to get this out and I love werewolf!bucky. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy🥰

Warnings: angsty beginning, mentions of grief, there is a lot of softness and love too

In the stillness of the night you lie awake. The shadows cast by the moon dance along the bare walls while the whispers of the wind linger. The darkness envelopes you, echoing the emptiness you feel inside. The only sound you hear is that of your own heartbeat, a slow and rhythmic reminder of what he left behind.

The world itself feels withdrawn and you’re left alone with the weight of your grief. Your tired mind plays tricks on you. The dimly lit corners of your perception hold illusions of color…blue like the ocean. Somewhere, deep down, you know these visions are mere remnants of your longing for a love lost.

The night, once shared in whispered promises and soft touches, has transformed into a vast void of emptiness and heartache. The profound silence is punctuated only by the ache you feel but you grasp at the fleeting solace found in the illusionary glimpses of his presence.

As the night deepens and your sorrow crushes you nearly to dust, you whisper his name, one last attempt, one last plea.

Silence.

But just as you close your eyes to succumb to the nightmare, the air thickens with an otherworldly energy, it’s presence felt in every corner of the room. It settles into your bones, warm and familiar.

The shadows stir, the darkness parting for something even stronger, something filled with a love and longing that transcends all else, even fear.

Your heart beats with new life and you search in the darkness, hope filling your soul.

“Bucky?”

“I have missed you more than life itself,” he whispers, emerging from the dark.

His eyes, though somehow more beautiful than before, still carry the same depth of emotion that connects your souls. His voice, a whisper that both resonates with the echoes of the past and the enchantment of the present, beckons you.

He extends his hand, a silent invitation that holds the promise of things you cannot begin to fathom but still somehow understand.

You rush to him, clinging to the softness of his skin and the hardness of muscle that ripples beneath. He captures you in his embrace, his hands wandering with a reverence over the curves he once cherished and finding new life in every touch.

“Bucky,” you cry, burying your face in his neck and combing your fingers through his long, dark hair.

His lips ghost along your jaw as he cups your chin and breathes you in.

“I have done everything to come back to you,” he murmurs before his lips brush yours. “And here you are. Waiting.”

“I’ve waited every night since,” you say softly.

His long fingers caress your skin and he draws your closer, pressing his lips to yours.

As the feel and taste of you consumes his senses he comes alive, his desire for you unbridled in its release.

Your name falls from his lips as his body begins to contort and shift. Fur grows like dark, silken threads, soft and lustrous in the moonlight. Bones groan and creak until he towers above you, his sharp teeth gleaming as his snout twitches with his deep breaths.

With a gasp you take an unsteady step back. He does nothing to hinder your retreat but you can see his long, sharp claws twitch at his sides.

“What happ…?” you start, choking on any other words.

With trembling lips you study him, some of your surprise and fear dissipating as he holds you captive with his gaze, one still familiar but filled with vulnerability and love.

“I made a choice,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “One I knew would bring me back to you.”

Your fingers reach out, delicate and unsure.

“Bucky.”

His whispered name holds finality and when your fingertips touch his fur your eyelashes flutter and your breath rushes out.

“Doll,” he breathes out, his own eyes closing as he gathers you against him, the tension in his body melting away.

The feeling of warmth and safety envelopes you and when you turn your face to his fur his scent is the same.

He bends over you, nuzzling your neck with his snout as he drags it along the delicate curve with a long inhale.

“Every night I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms again,” he hums against your skin.

Your fingers curl into his fur and you burrow closer.

“Please don’t let this be a dream,” you whisper. “If it is, I don’t want to wake up.”

@hiddles-rose @randomfandompenguin @lizette50 @blackwidownat2814 @littleseasiren @kmc1989 @buckysdollforlife

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #werewolf!bucky #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #werewolf!Bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky au #bucky #werewolf au #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan

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scary-grace · 2 months ago

Note

19 from the what will your character do prompt list please!

Thanks for the prompt! I actually took the opportunity to explore an opposite perspective from the mismatched AU. Here is ‘kissed on the forehead by an enemy after a near death experience’, featuring pro hero!Tenko Shimura and a less than heroic reader.

They call you a supervillain, but you aren’t, really. Supervillains have dreams, grand plans that end with them on top of the world and their enemies crushed beneath their feet. Supervillains leave swathes of destruction in their paths and their clashes with heroes come with actual body counts. You’re not a supervillain. If you were a supervillain, then you’d be the one bombing this building, not one of the people cowering in its ruins, waiting for the air to run out or the remainder of the endoskeleton to collapse. If you were a supervillain, you wouldn’t need anyone to save you.

You know who they’ll have called to the scene. There’s a rescue hero who’s perfect for jobs like these. You know how he works, how he’ll take apart the wreckage one layer at a time, freeing each victim with care. Tenko Shimura is a one-hero rescue squad. Too bad he won’t rescue you, even if he gets to you in time. There’s too much bad blood between the two of you, too much confusion and anger and pain. Tenko Shimura will save everyone who’s trapped here, because that’s what heroes do. And you’ll listen to him do it while you die.

The air around you tastes dusty and uncomfortably warm, every breath you take poisoning the cramped space around you. You close your eyes against the darkness and curl up even tighter, trying to find some place in your memory that’s happy enough to die in. Happy’s not something you get very much of, but there’s one thing that comes close, maybe. Two weeks or less in an apartment that wasn’t yours, wearing clothes that belonged to someone else, falling asleep at his side and waking up in his arms. That memory is soft, warm, safe. You bury yourself in it as your chest goes tight and the walls sink closer.

You aren’t expecting a rescue, but the wreckage crumbles away from around you, fresh air flooding in. You open your eyes in shock and find Tenko Shimura crouched over you. “Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks. There’s no spark of care or familiarity in his eyes when he looks at you. “Did you pass out or hit your head?”

You shake your head. You had a hard landing when the floor fell out from beneath you, but you never lost consciousness. Tenko asks you another question, something that’s lost in the noise of approaching sirens, in the sounds of people calling for help. When the police get here, Tenko will take you to them. They’ll interrogate you until your mind snaps, if it ever does, and then they’ll get started on destroying everything you’ve worked for since stepping into the spotlight. No matter what happens next, it’s all over.

Tenko Shimura helps you to sit up, leaves his hand at the small of your back to steady you. He speaks so quietly that you have to lean in, close enough that his mouth is pressed against your ear when he speaks. “I didn’t see you.”

“What?”

“I didn’t see you. You were never here. It’ll be a long time before anyone here starts thinking about chasing villains,” Tenko says. “If you can walk and if you go now, they won’t follow you.”

You stare up at him. Your eyes are burning, from the clouds of dust or something else, and Tenko Shimura averts his in the same moment as you realize that he’s shielding you from sight with his body. “If you’re going to go, go,” he says. “I have other people to save.”

Somebody else might think he’s being cold. You’re smart enough to know that this is better than you deserve. You sit up, away from the support of his hand, and get to your knees, then your feet. Tenko rises along with you, steadies you when you stagger. “Go,” he says again, but his hands are still on you. There’s barely distance between you as it is, but he pulls you closer still, and his lips press against your forehead. “You’ll be okay. Go.”

You pull away from him and bolt, turning your ankle as you stumble through the wreckage. It doesn’t matter. You don’t stop until you’re twenty blocks away from the site of the accident, in the middle of a busy square. The billboards that usually carry ads are playing the news instead, all about the bombing, all about the rescue. Tenko’s everywhere, comforting the injured, saving lives. Knots of jealousy tie themselves into your stomach as you watch the way he handles them, treating them with the same gentleness as he handled you. It spills over into your eyes, and in spite of all your efforts as a so-called supervillain, you’ve never had a disguise better than this. People notice monsters. No one notices someone crying in the street.

But even through your tears, there’s something you can’t miss, something that helps ever so slightly. Tenko Shimura might be agonizingly gentle on everyone he rescues, but out of the dozens he helps, you’re the only one he kissed.

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @stardustdreamersisi @cryptidfuckerofficial @lacrimae-lotos @lvtuss @issaortiz @evilcookie5 @f3r4lfr0gg3r @aslutforfictionalmen

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #Shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shimura tenko x reader #shimura tenko x you #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #x reader #reader insert #mismatched au #man door hand hook car door #asks

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