#that's the reason he has no scars there huh?

[featherandferns]

like him (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | inspired from this scene and this scene, this request/message, and this incredible, heartbreaking song

content warning: anxiety and panic; mild v!olence; non-specific references to child abus3

word count: 6.6k. (not yet proofread so apologies for spelling/grammar errors)

blurb: at the town meeting for the Maybank property, everything that's happened to JJ in the past forty-eight hours comes to a head. In his internal turmoil, you're the only guiding light back to safety.

Energy can’t be destroyed. JJ wasn’t much of a smart ass at school but he managed to understand that much. He remembers the lesson for some reason: maybe it was the muggy classroom, the hottest day of summer, or maybe it was because he was sat next to you and nearly every memory that has you in it is etched into his brain with permanent marker. But JJ remembers physics class enough to recall that law. Newton’s, was it? Who knows. 

Energy can neither be created or destroyed - only converted from one form of energy to another. 

Maybe JJ understood that law so well because he’d seen it play out more times than he could count. Practical things like that always had a way of welding themselves into JJ’s intelligence; he was better at hands-on learning. He’d seen it in the ocean, riding on waves, journeying from the power of the currents. He’d seen it when fixing up cars, when fishing on the docks, when lighting up a bonfire. But the time he remembers best is when you burnt yourself. 

It was a silly thing, really. You’d been craving mac and cheese and had tried to fix a pan of it up. You’d used the wrong type of lid and placed it overtop of a near to overflowing pan of water. The bubbles pushed and prodded at the glass and the steam simmered up and up. Always one to talk, you weren’t much paying attention. You were leaning on the counter, a hand beside the stove, and gazing up at JJ like he was something special. He wasn’t sure why you looked at him like that, all he knew was that he never wanted it to go away. JJ can recall the moment that the lid of the pan came tumbling off. Water overflowed from the lip and trickled down the sides. The bubbles popped and splashed and a hefty droplet of water landed perfectly on the back of your hand. Your eyes were pink from the tears as JJ held your hand under running water, trying to sooth the burn, ease the injury before it could worsen. His lips had pressed to your forehead in a tender way that he always wished his dad would kiss his after a fall or a scrape. Your voice was stuffy and thick when you cursed water and pans and, sadly, mac and cheese. 

Glancing to his left, he spots the faint scar on your hand that remained from the incident over a year ago. It’s a distraction from the legal babble that fills the city hall. His eyes trace the curve of your arm, following it like roads on a map, guiding him to your shoulders and your collarbones and your neck and your face. The jut of your chin and the slope of your nose; the shining of your eyes in the bright light as you stare intently ahead at whatever was unfolding. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to hear. Your lips are being brutalised; gnawed on anxiously as you track the conversation between lawyers and councilmen. You were always the clever one. JJ would have you explain things to him in physics knowing damn well that he barely understood. It was an excuse to hear your voice and to make you laugh when he made crude jokes. “Kinetic energy, huh? Think I know a thing or two about that.” Maybe, if there were different circumstances, he’d have you translate the jargon being tossed around in the room to him. Put it into layman’s terms, spell it out in the way only you could that avoided being condescending. Only caring. 

But JJ can hardly hear over the sound of his own ringing ears. He can hardly think over the buzzing of his thoughts as if his mind had been infested with cicadas. He can hardly breathe through the thick, musty air of the room. His throat feels tight like he’s having an allergic reaction. His heart is aching and pounding all at once in that awful, annoying way it likes to do when things feel like they’re out of control. And, boy, did things feel like they were out of control. 

You wince as your teeth pull on a loose piece of skin of your lower lip. It draws blood. Not much, enough to be gone in a swipe of your tongue. JJ remembers his previous line of thoughts. How natural for his mind’s path to be derailed by you. 

Energy. The pan. The pressure. JJ felt pressure. He felt like that pan. Inside of him, it was building. The bubbles and the steam, pushing its ways up, churning through his stomach, pressing against his chest, fighting up his throat. It was invading his head. Shrinking his thoughts, clouding his mind, blurring his vision. It was squeezing him, suffocating him. He’d been on the heat for too long. Too many things, not enough time. Too many thoughts. Too many curveballs. If this was a baseball game, it would have had people’s heads spinning. JJ’s head was spinning. There was too much, too little, too big. He didn’t like big. No, he liked small. He liked simple. He liked the house and the garden and the shop and you. He liked his life. But it wasn’t his life. Nothing was his life now. It was building - the pressure. Building and building and building and–

–And any second now, he was going to explode. 

Lid on the stove. Water over the edges. Burn on the hand. 

Your hand is on his leg. You’re looking at him. It takes him a moment to register. He feels miles away from his body. Eyes slanted with concern, you’re frowning at him. 

“Are you okay?” you whisper. Never condescending; only caring. JJ gives a stiff nod and, purely because he can’t stand to see you look at him like that, like he’s something good, he turn his attention back to the front of the room.  

“We are scheduled to hear from some of the members of the community,” boldly-locks in the glasses announces into the microphone. “Beginning with a representative from the occupants of the Roger’s Point property, which used to be the Maybank property.”

It’s funny how Maybank has been JJ’s last name his whole life, but hearing it this time, out loud, it doesn’t feel like he knows it anymore. He props an arm up on the stall’s edge, running his fingers over his lips. A representative, huh?

“Anybody feeling brave?” Kiara asks in a hushed tone. 

Energy. JJ’s pushing up onto his feet. “I am. I got this.”

Your hand latches onto his arm before he’s fully risen.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” John B murmurs in alarm. JJ looks down at John B, then at you. You’re half-apologetic as you shake your head ‘no’. 

“Sit down, okay?” Pope demands in a hiss. 

“Not me, then. All right.”

When JJ reunites with the seat, it feels as though the pressure doubles. Your hand reaches for his; fingers intertwined with his. JJ lets your hold linger for a second, enough for you to know he isn’t angry at you, and then he lets you go. He’s too fidgety. Too clammy. Too much, too fast, too little time. You whisper with the others as you try and decide on a voice for the group and, soon enough, John B is volunteered forward. As he stands, JJ claps proudly. That’s his brother. 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“I am John Booker Routledge.”

“Damn right,” JJ affirms. In his peripheral vision, he sees you nodding. Susciently, soundly, somewhat calmly, John B fights the Pogue’s corner. He asks the questions that all of you had been asking since this new curveball was fired. JJ felt like he used to be good at dodging things. His dad’s bunches; homework and detentions at school; juvenile and prison and consequence. But now, here, in this room, things are feeling less manageable. Things are feeling more real. 

The lid. The stove. The pressure, building. 

“Myself and Sarah…We both lost our fathers last year…”

JJ’s eyes squeeze shut. Like whiplash, images flash through his mind. Pictures. Words. ‘I’m not your real dad’. Something that feels like bile creeps up his throat but he forces it down. Your hand reaches out and clenches his knee reassuringly. Pressure. Energy. JJ’s foot taps anxiously against the tiled floor of the building. It’s building. 

A kook stands up. Not any Kook. The kook. The prison master in this sick, twisted game that Figure Eight was playing with JJ’s life. He’s perfectly presentable in his black suit, grey hair combed without a single strand out of place, glasses perched innocently on his lightly wrinkled face as if he was destined to age like a fine wine. It’s easy to do that when you don’t know stress. When you don’t know fear. 

“Excuse me. May I speak?” he oh-so-politely asks. 

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you, Mayor. There seems to be a misunderstanding. Okay? And I think I can clarify.”

“Oh my God,” JJ mutters. 

“What an asshole,” you murmur. 

With John B’s permission, Mr Zeasy shuffles him out of place and takes over. He talks as though he was born on a soapbox, preaching down the sinners of The Cut, sneering at their poverty, scoffing at their struggle. 

“So what the, uh, current occupants of the land don’t seem to understand is that there is an injunction to invalidate the most recent sale.”

JJ’s brows furrow. You shake your head. 

“Wh–What does that mean? JJ, what does he mean?” you mumble, glancing at him. 

“There was a pre-existing promissory note from the original owner that was in the process of benign finalised when the land auction took place.”

“What the fuck?” you whisper harshly. “Is that even legal? How is that legal?” 

JJ can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. 

Stove. Pan. Lid. Water. Pressure. 

“The bank wasn’t legally allowed to go to auction.”

“Bullshit,” JJ mutters. All of it. Everything. Everything was bullshit. 

“We have a promissory note right here from the original owner, signed before the auction, and finalised  by Judge Holden.”

The applause that follows the announcement feels like a thousand pinpricks into JJ’s eyes. 

“That means our sale was invalid,” Pope tells Sarah. 

The buzzing is back in JJ’s head. It’s louder now. Deafening. Overwhelming. He has to fight to hear the discourse occurring at the front of the room. His chest feels tight. His throat is closing up. His lungs can’t take in air. They’re shrinking. It’s too little, too much, not enough. Building. Building. 

“And where is the original owner and can he validate the authenticity of this document?”

“Yes, he can. He’s right here.”

Mr Zeasy gestures down the aisle. JJ can’t bring himself to move. He’s stuck in place. Until he isn’t, and he’s turning, looking over his shoulder as the room heckles and hollers. There he is. Sitting then standing, taking off some dusty cap. He lingers like a fucking idiot. JJ’s vision blurs. Stove. Pan. Water. Tears. Pressure. Building. 

Everything else fades away as Luke locks eyes with JJ. It’s hard to believe there’s any sincerity when he speaks. 

“I’m sorry, J.”

It’s hilarious, actually. Everything that’s happened in the past forty-eight hours: what was he sorry for this time? Scratch that, not the past forty-eight hours. His whole life. His whole miserable, bitter existence. His life spent in poverty and in fear and in self-deprecating shadows. Because of Luke. Because of a man who might not even be his father. So, tell me dad, what are you sorry for this time? 

JJ can’t take another moment staring at him. He turns back towards the front, bowing his head. His eyes are downcast to the floor. His shoes are dirty. They always are. You always offer to clean them for him but he never accepts. There’s no point, he’d say. JJ was never good at keeping clean. 

“Isn’t it obvious? He signs the promissory note and in exchange, he gets amnesty.” 

JJ’s jaw clicks. The townspeople are in uproar, hollering out, yelling for justice, frowning upon the inequality of the island. You’re on your feet too. Tossing your arm, yelling out in anger, the pain thick in your voice. Somewhere behind him, somewhere amongst the chaos, is the man JJ thought was his future. The man he thought he was destined to grow into. Why wouldn’t he? They look the same, talk the same, act the same. The hair, the mannerisms, the self-righteousness, the selfishness, the idiocy, the blinding, brimming anger that was always right there on the surface. The man who was JJ’s sign for a deadend - a deadend he was bound to find himself at too, with time. The man who pulled the rug out beneath him merely moments ago. 

His head is buzzing. His chest is tight. His throat is dry. His heart is racing. His foot is tapping. His jaw is clenching. His rage is boiling. The pressure, building, building, building. Stove. Pan. Tears. Burn. Too much, too little, too fast. The buzzing is loud, deafening, like a migraine on steroids, and he can’t find a thought, can’t find anything to ground him. You’re not there. There’s no thought of you to invade in and to bring him peace. 

It’s building, it’s building, it’s building. 

Stove. Pan. Lid. Pressure. 

Energy. 

It feels like a dream when he pushes onto his feet. His body screams out for relief, for satisfaction, for something. The world lags around him, time dragging like molasses, and JJ feels as though he moves in slow motion as he walks down the aisle of the hall. In the blurring of his vision, there is a clear point of focus, like a road illuminated by headlights in the pitch black of night. Luke comes into view. His father. His dad. His abuser. JJ breezes past him. Makes a right. 

Energy can’t be created or destroyed. 

His hands grab onto a stray chair. His knuckles whitening with his tight grip on the wooden arms. It feels light as paper when he lifts it from the floor. 

Energy can only be transferred. 

The glass shatters in a beautiful array of shards as the chair pummels through the window. Daylight floods the room. A breeze brushes over his face as if saying thanks. The fresh air is a relief. 

JJ can finally begin to breathe again. 

An arm hooks around his neck and JJ’s flailing and throwing himself into action. He grunts and fights and elbows until the grip finally loosens. Another cop is approaching in the pin-point vision and JJ hurls his legs out, leaning back against his aggressor, and kicks the man away. An arm comes loose and JJ uses it to grab at the cop, and then he’s lurching himself forward, tossing the cop over him and onto the floor. Energy. He is full of energy. The first punch lands square on his cheek. The second just skims his jaw. His uniform is scratchy in JJ’s grasp as he holds his down. The man’s face is indistinguishable in the mist of his messy head. It’s Luke. It’s Groff. It’s Mr Zeasy. 

The pain of the nightstick is numb when it collides with his back. JJ stumbles forward, grunting. He staggers up onto his feet, disorientated, confused. His vision becomes to sharpen and the room comes back into sight. It’s a cop on the floor. A bloody, bleeding cop. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh, fuck. 

He wobbles back a few steps as his mind tries to catch up with the moment. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. 

Your hands grab at the lapels of his jacket. Your face is almost unrecognisable from the panic. But JJ can hear your voice loud and clear as you yell at him. 

“Go! Get out of here! Go!”

You give him a push. Energy. 

A cop is coming at him, fast. JJ runs out of the room, through the doors, and he grunts as the officer makes a grab for him near the main exit. The two fly out onto the porch and down the stairs. The pain is lessened from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s pure survival instincts as he feels cops surround him, grabbing at him body, holding at his limbs, pushing him against a cop car’s bonnet. The metal is cool against the boiling hot skin of his face. He manages to wrangle an arm free and rams it into the cops face. He imagines it’s Luke’s. The hold on his other arm loosens and he manages to break free, wrestling against the forces.

“Get off me! Get off me, man!”

He’s shoved into the back of a cop car, head first. He grunts as he collides with soft cushions of the seats. But then there’s people at the window, slamming at the glass, yelling at him. No, no this is bad. This is really fucking bad. This is worse than the time JJ spilt wine on your favourite dress. It’s worse than when he accidentally hurt you whilst fooling around. It’s worse than when he thought you’d drowned on t he boat. It’s worse than when you burnt your hand at the stove. JJ looks around frantically but he’s surrounded by people. Everywhere. 

What the fuck is going on? 

It’s a reflex when he shields his face from the glass of the back window. Squinting, he sees a trainered foot kicking through it. He recognises those trainers. It’s you. 

“Back up! Back up!” he yells out the window. It’s you. Pope’s by your side. JJ kicks out his leg and knocks out more glass, clearing a space. You’re there with the others, grabbing at his arms, trying to pull him out as he wriggles his way through the clearing, over the seats. His legs feel like jelly when he gets to his feet. 

He stares blankly at John B and Pope, staggering backwards as they drive him away. Then you’re pushing through the two of them, grabbing at his face, simultaneously encouraging him away from you. 

“Go! Run, JJ! Go!” you shout. 

Never condescending; only caring. 

JJ nods. 

Energy. 

JJ starts to run. 

His feet pound rhythmically on the concrete. It’s endless, the energy pounding in his body. He could never be exhausted. For the first time in what feels like his whole life, JJ feels free. And as JJ runs through the abandoned streets of Kildare County, he feels like he’s chasing down the ghost of his father. 

Who is he?

JJ had always thought he knew that answer. JJ Maybank: delinquent, future tax-evader, loyal friend, son of a lowlife. A Pogue. A grifter, a grinder. Despite all his ailments in his life, he had never needed to question where he came from. It was plain as day, clear as light, who JJ was. Who his father was. Who JJ would wind up being. Luke had told him so, with every hit he landed on his puppy-fat cheeks, with every slap swiping across his youthful face. Any blood drawn came with the assertion that this was what he deserved. This was who he was. A good for nothin’, low-life just like his father. A waste of space. A high school dropout. 

He turns onto a side road and realises he’s heading for Main Street. It’s weird, seeing the town so hollow, nothing but a shell of its buildings. It unsettles him further. He could never run out of energy. JJ keeps running. In the distance, that figment never becomes clearer, never becomes closer. But he follows it anyway. 

Luke looked like JJ. The blonde hair, now faded into shades of grey. The lips and the nose and the eyes. It was more than that; it was the temperament too. The frustration and the short fuse, passed down through genetics like an Olympic torch. At least, he thought. So, what did that mean? It was never inherited? Was JJ just fucked up from the start? What was that theory you were trying to teach him about - back when he had tried to win your affection, offering up study dates to help try and pick up his grades. Any excuse to be in your orbit. It’s nature versus nurture, JJ, you’d said, smiling sweetly. Your fingernails were rounded and painted pink, chipping at the tips, as you point at the diagrams. But JJ was watching you, he wasn’t paying much mind to the image. Look! Come on, you have to focus! He’d said something then, something to make you laugh, something that had you all flustered and blushing and him smirking. But then he’d looked. He’d listened. Some traits can be inherited from genes - nature - but some come from upbringing and environment - nurture. 

Was that what this was? Nurture? Had all the years spent wrapped up in the daily missteppings of his father moulded JJ into some tormented, tainted failure. Had his soul been pure before and his future been clean and bright, and Luke had used his grubby hands to reshape it into something ugly as if JJ was nothing more than a scrap piece of clay. A scrap that could be thrown away. 

He was thrown away, though. Wasn’t he? Groff didn’t want him. Groff didn’t care for him, not like Luke did. He didn’t feed him, didn’t bathe him, didn’t teach him how to fish, how to ride a bike, how to roll a cigarette. He didn’t care for him. He wasn’t a father. But Luke wasn’t either. 

Luke wasn’t his father but he hit him like there was the same amount of honour ladened into every punch. 

What did Groff look like? JJ can hardly picture his face in the dimming brightness of the streets. The streetlamps were coming on now. The hours were ticking away. Nobody around, time seemed to stand still. His steps ease up just slightly. He isn’t tired though. He just needs to concentrate more on what Groff looked like. But he can’t seem to formulate the picture in his mind. It’s blurs and snippets of shapes and colours. Blonde and white and shifty. Rich. Kook. No, fuck that, JJ wasn’t any Kook. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. But still, for some reason, JJ finds himself obsessed. 

Do I look like him? 

Somewhere in the midst, JJ swiped a baseball bat. The whole journey is a daydream. A fever dream, really. It doesn't make sense. There’s no chronological order to it; just flashes of moments like a busted old film reel. You’re the star. You always were in JJ’s life. The brightness, untouched and untarnished, beaming bright on him. The thing he wished on and the thing he planned his life around. He can remember the break in your voice as you yell at him to run. He should run. JJ keeps running. 

Something makes him stop. Crickets chirp. He’s panting but not nearly as much as he should be, right? Why isn’t he tired? You’d know. You know everything - maybe even more than Pope. Sirens wail in the distance like a warning. They’re coming. He pushes those thoughts away to the back of his mind. He tries to push that other thought away too, but it won’t budge. Instead, it stands front and centre like the banquet of a movie theatre. Do I look like him? 

JJ realises he’s staring at the window of a shop. A jewellery shop. The lights are on because these Kooks can afford to keep the electricity running after hours. They’d never understand what it’s like to go without. To feel so hungry you think your stomach might start to digest itself. JJ knows that feeling - knows it well. JJ isn’t a Kook. A smile presses onto his face. It feels like breathing. 

Energy. 

He yields the bat and takes a swing. Bam! The glass shatters musically. It’s so beautiful the way it cracks and splinters. He swings the bat, licking at his lips, and saunters along the pavement. The alarm is like an accompaniment to his symphony of vandalism. The door’s window break is a little tougher; JJ grunts. Glancing inside, his eyes latch onto one of the displays. The silver ring glints temptingly in the fluorescents like it’s from Lord of the Rings. You flash through his mind. The images of you that he saved in that corner he hardly liked to go in, too scared of the world in which it might not come true. Images of you and him, married, happy, you round-bellied, a house and a dog and a life with him. With a nobody like him because JJ was not a Kook. 

But, do I look like him? 

He’s delicate as he removes it from the mannequins hand. He studies it closer and feels settled on his choice. This’ll look good on your hand. You deserve nice things. 

“Thank you,” he says, pocketing it. JJ staggers back onto the road. His eyes glance down the empty street and he’s relieved to find the ghost has faded away. Sirens whir like a doomsday call. 

“Oh, here they come,” he grins. “Okay. So, y’all wanted one island, huh?”

He approaches a car. He’s never owned a car. Never been gifted one for his eighteenth; never thought that he’d manage to afford anything nice, either. Just a banged-up, second-hander. That’s the life of a Pogue. JJ wasn’t a Kook. 

“I’ll give you it,” he grunt, hurling his bat at the vehicle. “Over here, fellas! Y’all wouldn’t want to miss the game.”

Every hit he takes feels like a stone lifted off his shoulders. 

The fuse box causes a magnificent explosion, akin to a supernova on earth, and JJ flinches as sparks crackle out. Energy can’t be destroyed. Rooky error. 

“Let’s play ball.”

The trashcan clatters as if falls to the floor. Trash spews out onto the street. JJ digs about in his pocket, muttering, and procures his lighter. It’s the one you got him for his sixteenth. The flame flickers. 

“Let’s really light it up.” 

The fire catches quick. He remembers that from when the chateau burnt down. There’s fun in the chaos, JJ finds, singing under breath and taking swings at windows and doors like they’re nothing more than targets on a fairground game. Every splint of glass is like resolution for JJ. Every hit is like catharsis. 

“Oh, that felt good.”

The mannequins are undeterred by his violence. It reminds him of you. You never once budged whenever he’d spiral. Would you budge now, after this? 

“Where are my manners?” JJ wonders jovially. His hand cups at the plastic dolls and he guides his lips down to the back of it. The same hand that you had the burn on. His teasing continues on with every toss of the bat. His eyes glance over the male mannequin. The blonde wig and the uppity suit. Did Groff wear suits? What was he wearing when JJ met him? 

Do I look like him? 

He doesn’t want to think about that right now. No, no, he can’t. It’s too little, too much, too fast. He was just starting to feel in control again. He grabs for the bar stool and builds up some power before tossing it through the window a cafe. Energy. JJ is pure energy. He’s chaos reincarnated. Babylon humanified. 

He admires his work like an emperor surveying his kingdom. Just how he imagined the Kooks to do so once they capture his land, his home, his life. 

But was it ever his? What is his life, if more than half of it is a lie? What does that amount to then? What does that leave? What’s left of him if he doesn’t have himself - his identity? 

Who is he? 

JJ takes off running again. This time, he feels like he’s being chased. The figment, the ghost, whoever the hell it is, is behind him now. Haunting him. Hasn’t he always felt haunted? By his mother, by his father. By his future. JJ runs faster. The sirens are like lines of cocaine, propelling his legs ahead. He glacnes frantically left and right and takes a sudden turn. 

The streetlamps cast the streets in an eerie orange glow. The trees look like figures looming by the roadside. The houses and buildings lights are mostly off. Dogs bark, sirens echo. A sign comes into sight as if he was guided to it by some divine force. Zeast Realtors. JJ smiles knowingly at his new best friend. 

“Light her up.”

The stairs don’t creak as he makes his way up the building. His stairs always creaked. They were rotten. Mice lived under his house as a kid. His family house that no longer holds any significance in his life, just the way his name doesn’t. JJ is without a name. 

The alarm fires off the moment the glass shatters on the door. It’s embarrassingly easy to get inside. Within the office are plans laid out like a villainous layer. Plots and plans for:

“A new figure Eight.”

JJ loses it. Whatever remaining grasp of control he had on his inhibition is wiped away like his childhood. Glasses and picture frames and ornaments and business cards: nothing is safe from his bat. 

“What’s fair is fair! Huh?”

But it isn’t helping like it was before. He doesn’t feel lighter. He feels like he’s sinking, down and down. Why isn’t it helping? JJ batters more things, hoping for it to change, hoping for everything to change. He wants to wake up now. He wants to wake up in his bed, beside you, and have you hold him and kiss him and ask him about what had him moving so much in the night. He wants you to make a joke on how it was keeping you up. He wants his life back. 

A framed photograph of Mr Zeasy sits pretty on the mantle. JJ studies it for a moment. Scans over the pressed suit and the quiffed hair and the stagnant smile. The falseness that lies in the act of being proper. His reflection catches in the light. JJ’s face twists in disgust. 

“No way am I a kook.”

The sirens are suddenly very loud. Shit. JJ ducks down out of sight from the windows. His back presses tightly against the cabinets. It grounds him. Shit. His head hangs and his lips purse and his mind reels. This is it. Luke was right. He was a lowlife, a delinquent, a failure. He’ll spend his life in prison. Fuck, he can’t think of how many charges he’s racked up by now. It might be a new record. Maybe for ocne his dad would be proud of him. That’s all he ever wanted. 

“This is what I was talking about, son!” Shoupe hollers out. 

Son. Son to who? 

Who is he? 

“You’ve gone too far and we’ve got a serious situation.”

He isn’t Luke.

“I told you this shit would happen and here we are.”

He isn’t Groff. 

“I need you to put down any and all weapons you may have, or you will get shot.”

JJ rises to his feet. 

“I don’t want that, so just come on out with your hands up.”

He isn’t anybody, anymore. 

“JJ, listens up, son-”

“No, you listen up Shoupe!” JJ hollers. “I’m not just gonna come out there so you can take what's ours and let them win again. It was ours, fair and square. So I have a right to fight for what’s mine.”

“JJ! Can you hear me?”

It’s Kiara. 

“Just, please, do what they say! This is getting dangerous!”

“No!” JJ shouts. His anger twists. “I’m done kissing the feet of people who’ve taken from me my entire life!”

His voice cracks. Tears sting at his eyelids and he wills them away. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He was happy: truly, really happy. Maybe he’s cursed. Maybe he isn’t meant to be happy. Maybe that’s who he is. 

“Y’all might have given up,” JJ shouts. He swallows. Everything hurts. To himself, he makes a stand. “But I’m not done fighting.”

“So, Shoupe. You want me, you’re gonna have to come get me.”

He starts quickly down the hallway. The beckonings from the cops sounds like the devil trying to lure Eve in to bite from the apple. The sound of whistling and crackling has him ducking for cover. Bullets. 

“Jesus Christ.”

No, not bullets. Fireworks. He looks up to find a microwave. His mind works fast. What would you do? Something smart. Think, JJ, Goddamnit. Think! 

‘Metals are conductors’, you explain as you stir the mixture in the beaker. JJ’s toying with the bunsen burner, mesmerised by the flames in a way that has you joking he’s an arsonist. ‘Fun fact about it is that if you put it in a microwave it starts sparking and shit. It can even start fires. Something about it reflects the microwaves. It acts like a mirror. Pretty cool, huh?’ 

JJ scrambles in the kitchen for cutlery. He comes up with a handful of forks and crams them into the microwave. He starts it up and smacks it farewell. Thank God for you and your wonderful mind. There’s no time to waste; JJ races up the staircase of the building. There’s chaos outside. People yelling. He can hear Sarah and Kie’s screams. They’ll be fine. He can’t help them, for once in his life. Maybe he never could. He opens the window and steps out onto the roof. He closes it behind him. Leave no trace, just like his childhood. 

He teeters on the edge of the roof and looks down. Shit, that’s a hell of a drop. They’ll be behind him, though, hot on his trail. There’s no time. Sucking in a breath, JJ prepares himself for the landing before jumping off the roof. The metal of the car smacks against his skin and side. JJ’s knee shifts uncomfortably when he makes contact and he grunts. Rolling off onto the grass, he takes a second to check that he’s really alive. 

“JJ.”

He blinks and looks up. It’s you. 

“Oh my God, JJ,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

“What–Where–”

“It’s just me, I slipped away from the others, they don’t know I’m here,” you hurry out. You’re hands on his body, helping him up. JJ grunts and registers a dull ache in his leg. The adrenaline works well as pain relief. “We gotta go. Now.”

“No, no, I can’t drag you into this,” JJ panics, trying to shake you off him. 

There’s a humour in your eyes as you tell him, “I was already in this. Come on.”

There’s no time to be wasted in arguing. JJ complies and the two of you take off running down the street. You’re guiding the way. JJ doesn't question it. He trusts you. Hell, you might be the last person on earth that he trusts truly and deeply. The limp in his leg slows him down so he lingers behind by a few steps. Your hair is swaying as you race down the street. The streetlamps bask you in an ethereal glow. There’s small cuts on your legs from where you broke the glass of the cop car to break him out. JJ can’t believe you’re here. 

“Come on, through here. I know somewhere we can lay low and think,” you tell him. JJ doesn’t ask any questions. The two of you pant as you run down the road. Soon enough, you come to what looks like an abandoned barn. You guide the two of you around the back and push back some metal siding. It reveals a hole big enough to crawl through. You go first and JJ follows, careful to secure the siding back once the two of you are inside. There’s blind patting around before you let out a sigh of relief, and JJ can hear the rattle of something in a box. When you light a flame, he realises it’s a box of matches. Your face comes into view in the faint light and you look around for something. A candlestick that sits in an old-timey holder is balanced on an old piece of machinery. You take it and light it, and place it back. There’s enough light to make out JJ’s face and his yours. 

For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. Then you’re hurling your arms around his shoulders and pulling him against you. 

“Oh my God, JJ, I was so worried about you,” you tell him into his shoulder. JJ slowly coils his arms around your body. The warmth of your skin through your dress is like medicine. He tugs you tight against him and suddenly can’t think of anything worse than letting you go. His face buries into your neck and he breathes in the smell of you. It sends him back through time; through adventures and restless nights and sleepless mornings and peaceful evenings and joyful afternoons and mornings spent in Physics class together. 

His mind clears enough from the imminent panic of survival that it can make space for that one damning thought. 

Do I look like him? 

JJ isn’t aware that he’s crying until your running a hand up and down his back soothingly. You shush him gently, almost swaying him, and JJ can’t help but cry more and more. His fingers grapple desperately at your dress and he tries to pull you impossibly closer. He can’t lose you too. He’s lost everything he knows: his dad, his mother, his house, his life, his freedom. He can’t lose you too. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Lemme see you,” you worry, unfortunately pulling away from him. Your hands are soft as they brush over the skin of his face, sweeping hair off his forehead, swiping tears off his cheeks. Your smile is sweet and tender when he looks at you through wet eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Do…” JJ can’t find his breathe. Your brows tug together slightly. 

“Does something hurt?” 

Everything. 

“Do I…” JJ gasps for air and clenches his eyes shut. He knows how it will sound. Like a petulant, pathetic child asking his dad what ‘JJ’ stands for. Like an idiotic, dreaming infant asking his dad where his mother is. Like a useless, stupid teenager asking his girlfriend: “do I look like him?”

When he opens his eyes, you’re studying him, confused and concerned. He thinks you might not have heard him. 

“Do I look like him?”

You lick your lips. “Do you…Are you meaning Groff?”

JJ almost winces. He sniffs and nods, trying to steel himself. His shoulders square. He stares at you and waits. Your mouth moves as if to form words but nothing comes out. Sighing, you study him - really look at him - and then you give a half-smile. It’s solemn and sombre. 

“No, JJ. I don’t think you look like him. Not really.”

JJ’s eyes press shut. A sob wracks up his throat. He suddenly realises that he wasn’t sure which answer he wanted to hear. Which answer would hurt the least? 

I don’t look like him. 

“What’re you thinking right now?” you whisper. 

JJ swallows thickly. He wipes roughly at his cheeks with the back of his sleeves. You’re expression breaks his heart when he meets your gaze. Your hand cups his cheek, thumb sweeping over his skin like a mother soothing her child in their sleep. JJ wonders if his mother ever did that to him. 

He doesn’t know who he is anymore, but he can try and find out. There’s only one way to do that. 

“I need to go see Groff.”

Your eyes flicker with withheld surprise. But you’re good at saving face. Smiling, nodding, you back him like you did since day one, sat side by side in physics class due to the fates of a seating plan. From strangers to classmates to lab partners to friends to lovers. And the love you had for him, the love JJ had for you; that was the most powerful energy he'd ever known. An energy that could never be destroyed.  

“Okay,” you say quietly, nodding. “Let’s get you to Groff’s.” 

[kiyomitakada]

FUCK i mixed up the order i thought misa’s parents’ killer was killed after the stalking but it’s the other way around. god damn it. okay just pretend it happened like this for my sake alright.

[last time on soulmate AU so you don’t have to reread: light met L at the student representative speech and Pointedly Did Not shake his hand, and also misa told her manager she was going to move to tokyo]

-

Light manages to avoid touching L for an impressive two days.

Even after tennis — when L extends his hand to him, in the traditional good-game handshake, Light pretends he doesn’t see it as he wipes his palms on his shorts and puts his racket back into the bag. L cocks his head for a second, then lowers his arm back to his side.

Will he think I’m Kira based on my standoffish behavior? No, Kira is dedicated to justice and cares about the people, there’s no way he’d be standoffish… But would Light Yagami be…? I’ll just act friendly to make up for it.

“I think we’re both thirsty, and there’s something I want to ask you, so — do you want to get a drink somewhere?” he asks, straightening and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Well, you beat me, so you can ask me anything you want,” L says. “But I ought to tell you something first.”

“What’s that?”

“I suspect you may in fact be Kira,” L says, as easy as anything. “If you still want to ask me questions after that, go ahead.”

Light swallows. Damn it. He can’t reasonably ask for proof that L is who he says he is, then, not until his suspicion is cleared. He got him again. How does L always keep one step in front of him?

“Haha,” he says, “me, Kira?”

“Well, when I say ‘suspect,’ I only mean by a factor of one percent,” L says. “Is your wrist alright, Yagami-kun?”

Light glances down. Oh. He lets go.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Just strained it a little.”

-

“Misa!” Akako’s tinny voice blares from the speakers. “Good news!”

“Huh?” Misa sits up, still holding her phone to her ear. “Akako-chan, it’s six in the morning…”

“I know! I’ll go to bed soon, just, listen, Misa! Remember the hexing circle I set up for you, for, uh, you-know-who?”

“The one with the voodoo doll I stabbed in the heart?”

“Yeah, that one! Check the detention center website, Misa! Do it right now!”

“Okay, okay,” Misa says, fumbling for her laptop. She has the website bookmarked by now. It loads slowly. There’s the usual banner of Kira victims running slowly on the top of the page—

Oh.

“Oh my god,” Misa whispers.

“He’s dead, Misa! He’s dead! You don’t have to go anymore!”

Kira… avenged her parents. Kira saved her.

A strangled sob escapes her throat.

“Misa? Are you okay?”

“This is the best day of my life,” Misa says.

“I know! Now you don’t even need to move to Tokyo—”

Misa hangs up. She wraps her hand around her neck and squeezes, just once.

She has to meet him. She has to say thank-you. Her life’s purpose has narrowed now; she’s one step closer to being free of it all.

There’s an odd thump.

Misa jolts, dropping the phone. She looks around. Everything’s in place, even the skull decoration that keeps falling off its hook. Huh. Wait, it sounded more like it came from the balcony…

She peers through the window, then frowns.

A notebook?

-

“Here, Ryuzaki, I got your t—”

“…”

“…”

“…Yagami-kun?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s nothing. My bad for bumping into you.”

“You did? I didn’t feel anything.”

“………Right. I didn’t feel anything, either.”

“So, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“That can wait until you’re positive I’m not Kira. You go ahead and start, Ryuga.”

-

“Do Shinigamis have soulmates?”

“Is that what you humans call the ones who share the marks on your skin?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Scars. And no, we don’t.”

“Oh. …That’s a romantic way to think about it. But it must be lonely for you.”

“I’ve never wanted one before.”

“I could draw one on you! I’m pretty good at drawing, you know.”

“Would that not be even lonelier? To have a mark without anyone to share it with?”

“Ahahaha! You’re smart, Rem.”

-

It is a good thing that Ryuga isn’t his soulmate. It would have been dangerous, not to mention societally inappropriate. Light is happy about this.

He wishes he could talk to Ryuk in public, if only to yell at him to stop laughing.

-

“If I got the Shinigami Eyes, could I tell who my soulmate was?”

“No. It wouldn’t be helpful for us Shinigami, so we never evolved the function.”

“Darn,” Misa pouts. “Oh well. I want them anyway.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yeah? Duh?”

Later in the afternoon, she’s very careful with her gloves as she slides the tapes into Akako’s envelopes. She can’t think of anything worse than someone who isn’t Kira getting their hands over her fingerprints.

-

L/Ryuga/Ryuzaki/whoever keeps brushing past him whenever Light goes to headquarters. Physically, that is. Leaving little sparks of contact in his wake.

It’s on purpose. It has to be, at this point.

What is his game? Does he think he can — seduce Kira, or something? Even if Kira was gay, surely L wouldn’t expect him to be attracted to the man hunting him down. Besides, physical proximity doesn’t fluster Light. He’s very used to it. His friends from high school slung their arms over his shoulders, elbowed him, high-fived him all the time.

“Here,” L says, dangling a piece of paper in front of him. “For you to compose your message to the fake Kira.”

He says fake with such conviction. “Thanks,” Light says. He doesn’t snatch it fast enough to stop L’s thumb from grazing his wrist.

Nothing happens. Nothing happened the past few hundred times, either.

“Did you need something else?” Light asks, when L doesn’t move.

“No,” L says. “I’ll leave you to it.”

-

Rem is very careful to never touch Misa. It’s honestly a little cute. She hovers over Misa like a shield as they walk down the streets of Aoyama, sharp-sharp-sharp claws turned away from Misa’s skin.

Misa has a phone wedged between her wig and her shoulder so it doesn’t look like she’s talking to air, but she still turns her face upward to grin at Rem when she says, “Are you excited for the show?”

“Not really,” Rem says. “Trying to find the other Kira is risky, Misa.”

“I know, you’ve only told me a thousand times!”

“I suppose I still don’t understand,” Rem sighs. “I gave you the notebook so you could protect yourself. I didn’t want Gelus’s sacrifice to be in vain.”

“I am protecting myself,” Misa says, tapping the wig. “Haven’t I been careful?”

“You’re putting your life in danger for someone you don’t even know.”

“Are you going to stop me, then?” Misa challenges. “Gonna kill me?”

“No!” Rem sounds legitimately horrified. Misa feels a little guilty for that, though she brightens when they walk past the Note Blue — the cafe should be close now. “I would never hurt you. But… if you hadn’t moved here, you could still be working—”

“I got a new manager, it’s fine—”

“—and you could fend yourself off from any more stalkers with the notebook. You could lead a happy life… away from all of this.”

“Oh, Rem,” Misa says, reaching up to boop the Shinigami’s nose. “You just don’t get it.”

“You’re so selfless,” Rem murmurs, drawing slowly, languidly away from Misa’s touch.

“I’m really not.” But she’s never gotten this point across to Rem no matter how she explains it. For one thing, if she had done what Rem suggests, she would probably have jumped out a window three months in. “Oh look, there’s the cafe!”

-

“Liiiiight!”

Light isn’t usually jumpy, but he flinches when Sayu shouts his name up the stairs. The TV broadcast is still going just as L had written: We can offer you clemency and police protection if you work with us to capture the First Kira…

He’s fucked. He’s so, so fucked. How did the fake Kira find him? Nothing happened in Aoyama! Nothing even happened in the Note Blue — Light just stood around with Matsuda for thirty painfully awkward minutes! He wasn’t old enough to get the margaritas!

I need a plan, he thinks, while he automatically rises to follow his sister’s voice. She’s probably doing her math homework again. He’s going to sell me out, he’s going to kill me, I need a plan—

“Your friend brought over your notebook!”

Light freezes in the doorway.

Notebook?

“Coming,” he says a second too late, hurrying down the stairs.

“I can’t believe you of all people forgot your notebook at school, onii-chan,” Sayu says, elbowing him a little as he goes by. “You’re losing your touch!”

Light manages to smile at her before he rounds the corner, too distracted to notice the way Sayu’s face slides into a frown. He yanks the door open.

………………

The fake Kira is a girl.

The fake Kira is… very blonde.

“N-nice to meet you,” says the only human alive who knows Light’s worst-best secret. “I’m Misa Amane.”

-

( @kiyomitakada )

proof of concept for the yagamane soulmate au (doesn't actually contain any yagamane yet) dont mind me

The only reason Sachiko isn’t running is because there are children swarming around her, laughing and giggling while she shoves her way through the hall. Where had the nurse’s office been on the map — she rounds a corner, tries to catch her bearings, then notices it: the sounds of someone crying.

Light.

Sachiko yanks the door open, heart pounding in her ribs. Light never cries — he used to as a toddler, of course, but after Sayu was born Sachiko can count on one hand the number of times he’s had a tantrum. Her baby is so mature. When the school had called and told her Light was having some sort of nervous breakdown, I think? she’d dropped everything without a second thought and taken a taxi here.

“There, there,” the nurse is saying, rubbing her son’s back. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t touch me,” Light hiccups, broken and high-pitched, and Sachiko would shout at the nurse to get away from him if not for the fact that Light’s little fingers have the nurse’s wrist in a vice grip as though afraid she'll go.

“Light,” Sachiko says, “I’m here, Light.” She drops her bag on the floor and drops to the floor, cradling his face in her hands; Light doesn’t resist. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“It doesn’t work,” Light sobs. His eyes are puffy with tears. From the nurse’s expression Sachiko surmises this has been going on for a while. “Mama — Mama, where’s Dad?”

Sachiko’s heart twists. “Your dad’s at work,” she says, brushing a soaked strand of hair out of Light’s face. The nurse, free of Light’s grasp, has moved a few paces away to give them space. Light collapses. His head flops on Sachiko’s shoulder; she has to shift her weight to hold him. “Honey, talk to me. What happened?”

“I t-tried everyone,” Light says, voice a little muffled in Sachiko’s sweater. “Even the o-older girls, and the boys, and — nothing happened.”

Well, that’s probably good, Sachiko manages to not say aloud. What business does Light have with the upper-grade kids? “Did you want something to happen?” she asks instead.

Light nods miserably. “Noriko-sensei s-says you’ll know when it does. You’ll see it.”

“When wh—?”

Sachiko stops. She thinks. Light’s hand has clamped around her wrist, like he did with the nurse’s, and for the first time she realizes. He’s covering her soulmate tattoo.

“Light,” she says slowly, “what did you do?”

She doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but Light bursts into a new round of tears against her shoulder. Sachiko, shocked, wraps her arms around him, runs a hand through his hair. “It’s okay, Light,” she tries. “It’s okay!”

Light keeps sobbing.

Sachiko looks up at the nurse. “What class was he in just now?”

“Arts and crafts,” the nurse says. “They were making bracelets.”

The red camellias are printed in a woven pattern encircling Sachiko’s wrist. They are silent.

“It was my idea!” Light gasps out between hiccups.

Sachiko takes a moment before she speaks.

“Light, were you trying to find your soulmate?”

“I-it doesn’t make any sense,” Light says. His free hand is clenched in a fist. “You — you and Dad said — you’ll always meet —”

Sachiko swallows her horror. This is her fault. This is all her fault.

“Nurse,” she says, “could you please leave us alone?”

The nurse nods and withdraws through the door.

Sachiko sighs. She knew she’d have to give her kids the talk one day, but Light is only six, and she’d thought she had more time…

“Light,” she says, “soulmates aren’t real.”

-

The soulmate phenomenon is one of the greatest medical mysteries of all time. Not for a lack of literature: the abundance of evidence regarding soulmatehood stretches into Mesopotamian records. But it makes no sense. There are seven billion people alive. The chance of finding your soulmate, even without considering age and gender and all that, is almost nothing.

But it does happen. Misa knows, because her parents are soulmates.

To be honest, she’d had her doubts before. They screamed at each other, sometimes threw things, kept alternating being kicked out to cheap motels. But they always made up, in the end. Made up… passionately. Misa learned to put on music to drown it out.

“What does it mean?” she asked curiously one day, pointing at the bloodred ruby embedded in the hollow of her mom’s throat.

“It means he’s strangling me,” her mom said. “What do you want for breakfast?”

After her dad had gotten back from the motel she’d asked him instead.

“Well, Misa,” he said. “Your mother’s the worst bitch alive, and I’m the only one who can handle her right.” He touched his thumb to the ruby printed on his throat, fondness tugging at his smile. “We’re the same person. That’s what it means.”

Misa hadn’t really gotten it, back then. Why would two of the same people fight? If she could make another Misa she’d do it in a heartbeat. That way Other-Misa could do the chores for her.

…On second thought, maybe she did get it.

But anyway. Somewhere, subconsciously, she’d always doubted. Misa was very up-to-date on the latest celebrity scandals, and she knew how easy matching tattoos were to fake.

But now she is staring through the crack in the closet. There is blood pooling on the floor, a dull red compared to the bright, shining light glowing from her dad’s throat. She stares and stares and stares until it fades to the white color of a scar.

“Miss,” says the officer on the phone, “Miss! Stay calm, we’re almost there—”

“Don’t fucking bother,” Misa says, and hangs up.

Her mom had stumbled like she’d been stabbed when her ruby went white. Snapped at Misa to hide and call the police, then picked up a kitchen knife. Misa isn’t sure when the burglar whoever-it-was dragged her dad’s dead body to rest in her line of view, but she knows his throat had still been glowing until it wasn’t.

She’ll never doubt soulmates are real again.

-

Light is seventeen years old and the world is falling apart.

Soulmates, he scoffs to himself, whenever the topic comes up in discussion. Akasato is rambling about his girlfriend again and how they’re fated to be. Light isn’t jealous. Getting attached is the worst thing that could ever happen to someone.

“I swear, man, the way you talk about her I think your tattoo should’ve been a ball and chain,” Yamamoto says.

Akasato groans. “She’s not that bad! She sent me chocolates!”

“The same ones she gave that basketball guy?” Light laughs.

“Don’t remind me, I’ll kill him, I swear,” Akasato says. Grinning. Murder is so out of the realm of possibility it’s funny. “And anyway, she’s coming over for Christmas.”

“Oh, whoa,” Yamamoto says. “Happy for you.”

“Yeah, congrats,” Light adds.

His mom wasn’t lying, exactly. The chances of stumbling across your soulmate are effectively zero. There’s studies suggesting that it’s higher than random chance, that most found soulmates live in or around the same timezone as you, but he’s pretty sure they’re cherry-picking.

It’s much easier to fall in love with someone and make them your soulmate instead, his mom had explained to him softly, rubbing her wrist. Much easier to get a tattoo with them, rather than hoping it’ll show up on your skin at first touch. Maybe even more romantic. Your dad and I love each other, Light. Who cares if he’s not perfect? He’s good enough for me.

The last time a teacher called Light’s work good enough was in fifth grade. Light had sabotaged his swivel chair afterwards and he’d had to take a week off.

“Thanks, guys,” Akasato says. “Hey, Yamamoto, who’re you having over for Christmas?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.”

“Sending cards to girls again?” Light puts in.

Yamamoto snorts. “Not all of us are lucky enough to be like Aka-chan here—”

“You take that back—”

“—and find their soulmate in middle school,” Yamamoto finishes. “I’m going to keep trying.”

“You know you actually have to make contact with them for it to happen, right?” Light asks.

“Obviously!”

“Yagami’s right,” Akasato says, pleased he’s not the topic of conversation anymore. “Are you sure you’ve got enough game for that, Yamamoto? I think you’d faint if a girl held your hand.”

“I’ve had girlfriends!”

“Sure, sure,” Light says. They all laugh. It’s nice having friends. “Oh, here’s my stop.”

“See ya!”

Light enters the house. Gives his mother his test grades, lets her coo, then slips into his room and heads for the drawer.

There it is. Untouched.

Who needs soulmates, he thinks, when you can be the god of the new world?

-

Misa sits cross-legged on a repurposed picnic blanket spread awkwardly over the wet dirt. She sticks one rose each into the soil in front of her parents’ graves.

“Hey, mom, dad,” she starts. “I’m not gonna come back for a while.”

The graves are silent. They have been for almost a year now. One rose almost falls over; Misa hurriedly reaches to fix it.

“I’m going to move to Kanto,” she declares. “I’ll catch him no matter what I do. I know which jail he’s in already. The prosecutor told me.”

She sticks the rose back in with some violence. It droops. All the other ones she’s brought have wilted — obviously, because their stems were cut ages ago. She can’t plant seeds, though. That would require someone watering them.

“I’ll ask for a visit and get him to attack me,” she continues. “And then I’ll stab him, and I’ll scream, and I’ll tell everyone it was self-defense. What do you think, Mom?” She’d always been better at lying than Dad.

“Good idea? I knew it.” Misa hops up, brushing the dirt off the picnic blanket. “I’ll start getting ready soon. Next month, I think. Definitely.”

-

“Ah,” says the voice from the television screen. “I had to test this, just in case, but I-I never thought it would actually happen… Kira. It seems you can kill people without having to be there in person.”

Light freezes.

He was wrong, he realizes, for possibly the first time in his life. He was wrong. Someone’s out there.

“Try to kill me,” L’s saying, and Light can hear the smirk even through unknowable kilometers of distance. “What’s wrong? Go ahead! Can’t you do it?”

“You bastard,” Light hisses through his teeth, feeling so alive he could cry.

He shouts I am justice at the same time L does, grinning, half-manic, and doesn’t even realize he’s clutching his wrist.

-

“Please,” says the stalker in the shadows, “please, Misa-Misa, I just need to — I just need to touch —”

Misa backs away. This is a dead end alleyway. She should never have gone to the convenience store at night. Her and her empty refrigerator and her stupid hungry stomach. There’s a fire escape, maybe if she jumps—

“Can you even fucking hear me?” The stalker shouts.

Misa nods, automatic, and wonders if she should scream. No one’s around at this time of day. Who would even miss her?

“Just one touch,” the stalker says. “Come on!”

And then in a flash he’s running for her. Misa turns and sprints and leaps for the fire escape — and misses it. She collapses in a heap.

Her stalker has his hand on her cheek. She jerks away. Of all the fucking days she could have forgotten her pepper spray.

“It’s not you,” the stalker says, abruptly sounding like he’s about to cry. “How could it not be you?”

“Get away from me,” Misa says, stumbling to her feet.

“All the interviews I watched,” the stalker says. “I have all your magazines, Misa-Misa!”

“I haven’t been in that many issues,” says whoever is operating Misa’s vocal cords as she calculates her chances. She has to catch him by surprise, it’s the only opportunity she’s got, shove him and run—

Oh. He has a knife. Never mind that, then.

“At least we can die together,” the stalker says — or — tries to say. Misa watches in shock as his mouth clicks shut and he… turns away?

And then he clutches his chest, and he falls.

Misa stays there, sucks in a few more breaths of cold air, then runs.

-

@kiyomitakada (so i can reblog)

[itachanta]

Vash vs Livio Favorite scenes compilation

[orcelito]

Ykno when ur lookin at an artist and ur like "man, I want to commission art from You, Specifically"

I have something in mind for a scene that's coming up in ITNL (whenever I start writing again) that would be really cool, & I know Exactly who I'd want it by... except they don't have open commission slots 😭😭😭

I can be patient, though... I have been patient before...

[silverselfshippingchaos]

one thing about all my y.akuza s/is is that they love older men

[cathnospam]

“I didn’t shave—“

“I do not…give a fuck. Open your legs.”

You and Bakugo have this argument at least once a month. You only need to wax your little lady once a month after your period , and it’s about that time to do so but you have 2 problems;

Your appointment isn’t until 2 more days, and you have a boyfriend that has been waiting a full week to eat you out.

“‘Suki I told you I hate—-“

“Why do you give a fuck about that? It’s HAIR.”

“I FEEL DIRTY.”

“You just took an everything shower.”

Bakugo NEVER understood the point of shaving your pussy anyway. He genuinely does not care whether there is hair or not on it, and after having an irritating crave to eat your pussy he definitely couldn’t care less.

“It’s a bush.”

“I don’t—- y/n the area I wanna suck—“

“Don’t be a pervert.”

He deadpanned at you, the Blondie also never cared for how blunt he was with his dirty words. Just two weeks ago you and him were eating cereal when he just casually spoke, “When I get home tonight I wanna eat your pussy against the door like I did last night.” As he gets up to clean his bowl.

No emotion

And no care.

He’s a damn savage.

“Your clit don’t have hair on it it’s just the lips.”

“OMY fucking—“

“Please.”

You blink, “what…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Bakugo groans loudly and lays his head on your shoulder. And bites it, “OW!” The main reason why Bakugo haven’t let up is because you and him established a strict safe word rule. He knows he can be pushy with things he wants but he’d never want to make you uncomfortable about it. If you GENUINELY don’t want him to all you have to say is “TNT” and he’ll drop it no questions asked. And never bring it up again.

But here you are, contemplating.

Your thoughts get broken by a soft kiss on your jaw, his scarred warm palms lifting your his shirt , playfully tapping his fingers on your clothed panties, “I heard you playing with yourself in the shower.”

You freeze, feeling his devious smirk against your cheek, his natural scent and musk clouding your mind as he keeps kissing you, rubbing on your body, “You want it as bad as I do. I fucking know you do.”

“Remember last time?”

He had your knees to your ears last time, ass hanging off the edge of the bed as he spit, licked, and sucked all inside and on your pussy. His fluffy hair tickling your inner thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin so deep you could just barely grind against his mouth. Bakugo was always a nasty ass eater to the point you were embarrassed just watching him.

His ring and middle finger swirling circles on your clit as his tongue filled your aching tight hole, the way he stops for a moment to kiss the soft little nub , nearly making out with it making you roll your eyes because his pillowy wet lips felt soooooo good against you.

You remembered how he’d slap your ass a few times when you looked away for too long or covered your mouth, you swore he’d heat up his hands slightly just to do so.

You remembered how he’d hold your ankles up and he licked stripes against your pussy and his tongue teasing your other hole.

You remembered how he’d swished his head back and fourth while his lips captured your clit and tugged on it. Sending you over the edge while he sucked and groaned. Two fingers pumping inside you.

“You remember, huh.” His raspy voice against your ear, already teasing his fingers inside you panties, “You came so much you passed out right after.”

The more he spoke to distract you the further he got, eventually laying you down on his huge couch, to pulling off your panties, to opening you legs, to kissing each thigh, and down to repeating his exact actions from last time.

And no he did NOT care about the hair.

[luveline]

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either. 

[harunayuuka2060]

*Some of Kalim's relatives (who are plotting against him and MC) are in a room, devising a plan to harm MC's reputation so that the head of the family would lose his trust in them.*

Relative A: It’s clear to me that the two of them genuinely see each other as siblings.

Relative B: What are you trying to say?

Relative A: If we target Kalim, it will make MC falter.

Relative C: I see... So we will just continue what we started.

MC: That's not really smart.

The relatives: !!!

MC: *smiles* I apologize for eavesdropping.

MC: But you see, the bug you planted in my brother's room annoyed me a lot.

Relative A: How did you—

MC: You're not the only one who can use bugs. Ah, but mine are more efficient—you won't be able to spot them.

The relatives: ...

Relative B: We can't let them live, or it will be the end of us!

MC: Huh.

MC: *confidently smiles*

MC: Bring it on.

Kalim and his parents: *couldn't help but feel nervous for some reason*

Kalim's mom: Dear, hasn’t MC come back yet? They said they were only going out for a walk.

Kalim's dad: Maybe they decided to hang out with their friends. They’ll come home, so please don’t worry.

Kalim: MC has friends outside?

Kalim's dad: *clears throat* Yes.

Kalim: Oh... I see! *laughs* I would like to meet their friends too!

Kalim's dad: You can ask them when they come back.

Kalim: Hm!

Jamil: *gets up after hearing continuous knocking on his door, initially thinking it was Kalim*

Jamil: Don't tell me he's going to ask me to cook him a midnight snack...

Jamil: Hold on, I'm coming.

Jamil: *walks to the door and opens it*

MC: *appears severely injured and falls toward Jamil as soon as he opens the door*

Jamil: !!!

Jamil: What happened to you?!

MC: Can you... drag me inside first...

Jamil: We should call a doctor—

MC: I need to wash up... The blood's making me itch...

Jamil: ...

Jamil: ...

MC: *falls asleep in the tub while Jamil washes them*

Jamil: ...

Jamil: I'm afraid these will scar...

Jamil: ...

Jamil: *whacks their head*

MC: *winced in their sleep*

Jamil: You better have a good explanation for this tomorrow.

[lxvvie]

Couples Shit with Simon Riley, Parenthood Edition:

Thinking it's so cute the way your little bundle of joy scrunches up, especially when she's laying on you and/or Simon.

Simon's irregular sleep schedule making him the perfect playmate for little Miss Riley when she's up and at 'em at night. You remember walking into the living room once and watching Simon just walk around, daughter bundled up in her baby blanket in his arms, cooing and gurgling at her Papa, them having their own conversation, and watching Simon fall in love all over again.

Being hypervigilant to the point that every noise the baby makes prompts you to wake up and panic. The baby whined, you sat straight up in bed, only to see Simon staring at you in concern and baby Riley sound asleep on his chest.

Conversely, thinking something is wrong because you haven't heard the baby cry, waking up in a panic yet again only to be met with Simon and the baby looking at you crazy.

Simon officially becoming a bed for you and baby Riley. It's not uncommon for her to lay on his chest while you're nestled at his side and his arm is around you.

Absolutely, positively loving to put the baby sling on Simon and watching your big beefy lover tote the baby around in it. Also, taking a picture and sending it to the boys. The big bad Ghost? In a baby sling???? Huh. Looks cute on him.

Parental guilt, especially on Simon's end with him being gone on deployments. He made damn sure to see his baby girl take her first steps because he missed it when she began to start fully crawling.

Baby girl being captivated by the scars on Simon's face. And his crooked nose. Loves to grab at his face and you're amused by the way he scrunches his nose when she does so. Apparently baby girl is, too.

You and Simon playing with the baby and next thing you know, you hear a wet fart. Simon chuckles out of amusement and to keep from dying inside because he just changed her nappy. You conveniently had to go walk the cat and made yourself scarce. Meanwhile, baby girl is giggling and gurgling up a storm.

When she gets older, little Miss Riley loves it when Simon carries her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. She'll run up to him and go, " 'tato, Daddy! 'tato!" and next thing you know, there's a giggling toddler slung over her dad's shoulder.

Baby girl drawing a picture of her parents at school and Simon's shoulders are bigger than... everything else on his body. Even his head. You're so tickled that you framed it.

Similarly, sneaking one of her drawings into Simon's bag so he'll see it when he's gone. He does and it's all the more reason for him to fight like hell to see you two again.

Having to limit the amount of sweets you buy because Princess Miss Riley has inherited her dad's sweet tooth. Doesn't stop them from sneaking out to go to their favorite bakery.

Baby girl being the best helper ever around the house, especially when she walks on Daddy's back to help alleviate the stiffness.

Because she likes to draw so much, Simon promised his daughter that she can design the next tattoo he gets. Well, it turns into an entire project and you and her proceed to draw butterflies and other cute designs on his other arm. True to his word, Simon gets another sleeve tattoo with those same drawings. Cheers, luvs.

Simon being in the doghouse with little Miss Riley because he was supposed to wake up with true love's first kiss because you and Simon were reenacting Sleeping Beauty for your daughter. Simon may or may not have taken it a bit too seriously and dozed off. Your baby girl is now upset because this means Sleeping Beauty will never wake up again and no amount of treats from daddy can change that. Princess Daddy status has officially been revoked, Simon. For now lmao.

[suzukiblu]

excerpt from in-progress "timebending with Zuko" fic

Zuko wakes up and everything hurts.

Most specifically, his scar hurts.

That . . . doesn’t make sense, he thinks, and reaches for it automatically. A strong hand catches his wrist before he can touch it, which seems–fair, yes. Probably a good idea, anyway, because spirits does it hurt. Just . . . so much.

“Uncle?” he asks reflexively, attempting to open his eyes. It’s surprisingly difficult. And Uncle is in Ba Sing Se, of course, but he’s on his back on a futon or bedroll or something similar and someone’s sitting beside him and his head is swimming and he’s injured, clearly, so options for who said “someone” might be are limited, really.

So it’s not Uncle, obviously, but . . .

“Nephew,” Uncle says, very quietly, and Zuko . . . blinks.

At least, half-blinks. The one eye’s in too much pain to open.

The ceiling is metal, he notes absentmindedly. That’s . . . odd. He was in the palace, wasn't he?

“What happened?” he asks, vaguely bemused. Uncle pauses in a very concerning way, and Zuko has about three heart attacks about just how badly he doesn’t want to know what he’s about to say before–

“The Agni Kai,” Uncle says, very carefully. “Do you remember it?”

Zuko frowns–just with the one side of his face, because again, his scar hurts right now. To the point that his whole body feels wrong, does his scar hurt right now.

“Um–which one?” he asks, because there’s been about a dozen this month alone, and frankly he’s getting really sick of fighting them at this point but if the old guard of nobles are just going to keep dragging everything out like this–

“With your father, Nephew,” Uncle says, very carefully.

Zuko . . . blinks.

“Oh,” he says, vaguely perplexed. Uncle never talks to him about that. “Yeah, I remember that. What about it?”

“Do you remember what happened?” Uncle says.

“The part where I disgraced myself or the part where he burned my face?” Zuko says, because it’s so fucked up and awful and horrible that he can’t even get upset about it anymore, except when he’s really upset about it. But if Uncle’s bringing it up, presumably he has a good reason to be, so . . . “Or the whole ‘go find the Avatar who no one even believes exists anymore or you can never come home again’ part?”

“. . . all of that, yes,” Uncle says, still sounding very careful. Zuko frowns a little–again with just the one side of his face–and then looks over at him. His body still feels weird and wrong, but . . .

But . . .

They’re on a ship, he realizes. A Fire Nation one.

Well, explains the metal ceiling.

It doesn’t explain why Uncle is wearing red armor and a topknot like he hasn't in years, though, or why he looks so unspeakably sad.

“Um,” Zuko says, and attempts to sit up. His head immediately starts swimming even worse, and Uncle catches his shoulders and keeps him pinned against the . . . futon? Looks like a futon, yeah. “Where are we, exactly?”

“We are aboard a ship,” Uncle says. “I . . . may have slightly commandeered it.”

“. . . you paid for it, right?” Zuko asks, a little skeptical at that idea.

“Yes, Nephew, I did,” Uncle says, giving him a very tired, pained smile. Zuko doesn’t feel much better, seeing it.

“Is someone dead?” he asks, because he can’t think of anything else that would make Uncle look that way.

“Ah–no, no one has died,” Uncle says.

“Then what’s wrong?” Zuko asks warily.

“. . . you are injured, Nephew,” Uncle says, slowly. Zuko frowns, bemused. “And your father . . . I did not know he was going to do this. I am so sorry.”

Zuko . . . pauses. Looks around the room again, and then realizes: he knows this room, doesn’t he. He knows this ship.

This is the same ship he woke up on after the Agni Kai.

“Hold that thought, Uncle,” he says, then lifts his hands and looks at them. They . . . well, they are his hands, obviously.

But they’re not his hands, obviously.

“Huh,” he says, frowning in bemusement at them; turning them around like he half-expects them to stop being a thirteen year-old’s or something equally ridiculous. They don’t. They are very definitely a thirteen year-old’s hands.

Specifically, his thirteen year-old hands.

Huh.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says after a moment, putting his hands back down and glancing back to Uncle, who’s obviously the more important concern. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I took you into that meeting,” Uncle says, his voice tight. “And I watched the Agni Kai. And I did nothing to stop any of it.”

“I know,” Zuko says. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” Uncle says, his smile a sad and terrible thing. “You were there because of my actions. My mistakes.”

“You’re not the one who wanted to sacrifice all those soldiers,” Zuko says. “Or the one who decided to throw fire at my face.”

“You were there because of me,” Uncle repeats, his voice tight and his smile no less terrible. It occurs to Zuko, briefly, that Uncle must be thinking of Lu Ten.

He only ever looks like that when he’s thinking about Lu Ten, so . . .

“Uncle,” he says. “Really. It’s not your fault.”

“Nephew,” Uncle says, and his voice is somehow even tighter. Zuko tries to get up again, and his head swims again, and Uncle moves to stop him again. This time he grabs onto Uncle’s wrists and uses them to pull himself up, and then . . .

Well, then he’s sitting up, at least.

So that’s something.

He tilts his head and his hair slips into his eyes. It’s loose, and long. Not shaved on the sides yet, like he wore it the last time he was thirteen. He supposes he should cut it, but then again, why should he? He's not changing anything, after all.

Except for this conversation, he supposes, because that went very differently last time.

. . . hm.

"Uncle," he says one more time, and reaches out for him. Uncle doesn’t seem to understand what he’s trying to do, so he has to reach out a little farther, and then Uncle makes the connection and leans in and lets him wrap his arms around him and alright, yes: that’s better, Zuko thinks, and clings to him.

Just a little, perhaps, but . . .

Yes. He clings to him.

Uncle wraps his arms around him in turn, very carefully, and makes an awful sound.

“My boy,” he chokes. “I’m so–I’m so–”

“I forgive you,” Zuko lies, because of course there’s nothing to forgive.

But of course Uncle doesn’t understand that, does he.

[dixons-sunshine]

Actions Speak Louder Than Words | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

(GIF by @daryl-dixon-daydreams)

Summary: Being woken up with kisses by you might have been Daryl’s favourite thing ever. Getting a gift that particular morning was unexpected, but not unappreciated. It might have been the best birthday he has ever had.

Genre: Fluff.

Warnings: None.

Word count: 817.

A/N: Wrote a little something in honour of Norman’s birthday! Happy birthday to one of the best people on this planet!

Daryl slowly opened his eyes at the feeling of soft prodding against his skin. He blinked to rid himself of the loopy, sleepy feeling, his gaze landing on the ceiling above. However, he looked down when the soft prodding persisted, and when he did, a small smile spread across his face.

You easily returned the gesture. You pressed your lips against his chest, being extra gentle whenever you were met with a scar. You slowly trailed up his collarbone, his neck, his cheek, before finally letting your lips meet his for a tender kiss.

Daryl pulled away after a few seconds, his signature half smile on his face. “Well, g’mornin’.”

You grinned and brought a hand up to cup his cheek, lightly scratching his stubble. “Good morning, handsome,” you greeted him, your eyes sparkling with excitement—something that made the archer confused.

Your partner raised his eyebrows at you, instantly reading you like the back of his hand. “Alright, spill. What’s up?”

You gave him a faux innocent look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, completely unconvinced. “Sure. S’jus’ my imagination, huh? You wake me up with kisses, lookin’ all excited and s’for no reason at all?”

“Can’t I just be happy to be with you?”

“Sure you can, but s’more than that. I can tell.”

You finally gave up on your attempt at keeping a straight face. You laughed and removed yourself from his embrace, reaching over to grab something from your nightstand. It took a couple of tries to get the drawer open, but you finally succeeded after the third try.

Daryl watched you move in silence, his eyebrows furrowing together when you grabbed a little box that was wrapped in pink, glittery wrapping paper and placed it in his hands. “What’s this?” he questioned, fiddling with the object but making no move to open it just yet.

“If I wanted to tell you, I would have done so instead of making sure to keep it a secret,” you retorted, chuckling when he sent you a look that said ‘really?’ “Just open it, okay?”

The archer hesitated for a few seconds longer, before sighing and slowly beginning to peel the paper away. Underneath, it revealed a tiny wooden box. “A box?” he asked, looking back up at you.

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Look inside the box.”

Daryl chuckled. He opened it up, and his heart started galloping in his chest. He gingerly took the object from the box, his ocean-coloured eyes widening in awe. “I—what? Why?”

You smiled at him reaction. “Because I wanted to. I had to pull some strings with people to let me take their places on runs, but I got something for you. I hope you like it.”

In his palm, there laid a chain necklace with a little silver arrow hanging from it. It may have been something simple in the eyes of others, but to Daryl, it was absolutely perfect. It was beautiful, and he was going to wear it with pride because his woman got it for him.

“Thanks. S’amazin’,” he whispered, letting the chain hang from his fingers. “But seriously. Why? What’s the occasion?”

“You really don’t know what today is?” When Daryl shook his head, you leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. “It’s your birthday, Dar. Happy birthday.”

Realization dawned on him. Ever since coming to Alexandria, where the people had somehow managed to keep track of the dates, you had insisted on keeping an out-of-date calendar in your shared room. You might not have known whether it was Friday or Tuesday, but you knew what the date was. And that day, it was his birthday.

“Shit. That’s today?” he asked, continuing when you nodded. “You didn’t have to do nothin’ for me. I would’a been happy with a simple “happy birthday”. You didn’t have to go through all’a that trouble to find me a gift.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.” You cut Daryl off before he could protest. “It wasn’t. It’s your birthday, and I wanted to get you something for it. That’s not any trouble for me. It’s a way for me to show you how much I love you, okay?”

Daryl’s heart leaped in his chest. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wished he could say to express his gratitude. However, words fell short in that moment. All he could manage was a simple “thanks.”

You smiled softly and nodded. “Of course.” Despite the simplicity of that answer to your heartfelt confession, you knew how grateful he was. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up, in the way his hand found your’s and squeezed it three times, and in the way he looked at you. You didn’t need any words to know how much he loved you.

Sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)

In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.

Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior

[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

"Damn it!"

The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.

"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."

You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.

"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"

"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"

"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows. 

"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.

"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.

"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette. 

You swallow. 

Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves. 

"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago. 

"No." 

That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.

Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.

Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?

You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess. 

Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick. 

"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."

"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"

You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture. 

"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"

"H-huh? What for?"

You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity. 

"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."

You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.

"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.

"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"

"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly. 

The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery. 

The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.

Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details. 

"Wakasugi has been taken."

A chaotic murmur ensues. 

"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."

Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh. 

If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family. 

"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching. 

"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds. 

"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.

"What did you say?" 

Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.

"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."

"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.

There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job." 

He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.

"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.

"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."

The tall yakuza smirks mockingly. 

"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."

Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.

"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him. 

Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.

"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.

"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."

No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.

He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats. 

He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects. 

"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.

If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.

"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."

The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes." 

Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already. 

The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant. 

"Where's everyone?"

"They ran away."

"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.

"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."

He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.

"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.

"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"

"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."

He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.

"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"

Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's. 

"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"

"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out. 

But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin. 

You grimace a little at the mental image. 

The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.

You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips. 

"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.

"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."

He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.

"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.

So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."

"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.  

Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie

[gojos-version]

Dirty secrets..

Pairings- Dads bsf! Toji Fushiguro x reader Part 2 to this fic!

Summary- After Toji; your dads best friend fucks you and your dad catches you both, he bans you from seeing Toji ever again. little does he know the assassin has his ways of hunting down his prey.

Warnings- Public fucking, Toji's 40 and readers 21, pet names (doll), more just risky fucking in public spaces, spanking, unprotected sex and breeding.

Word count- 3k!

Proof read- ✅

A/N- I wasn't originally planning on doing a part 2 to the fic but after people were requesting and commenting for more i decided why not :) so here's part 2!! I hope this feeds you well, i did the best i could <3 Have a lovely day and take care of yourselves :) <3

⋆ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆ ✮ ༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ⊰⊱ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆

“We need to fucking talk.”

Toji stills inside of you, and you turn your head to see that voice belonged to your fucking father. You felt your mouth run dry and you freeze. “Shit.” Toji mutters under his breath. “Toji fucking Fushiguro get the fuck away from my daughter. Now.” “Yeah yeah at least turn around so your daughter can cover up.” Toji mumbles and your dad turns around letting you fix yourself and you turn to Toji, and he looks shameful. The both of you fix yourselves up and you keep your head down. “Alright you can turn old man.” Toji grumbles, and your dad turns around looking furious. 

Your dad grabs Toji by the collar of his shirt and Toji..looks unbothered. “Why the fuck would you fuck my fucking daughter.” Then your dad punches Toji across the face, “Dad! It was both of us ..don't just take it out on him.” You say as strong as you could and your dad shoots you a glare; “No. hes old enough to know right from wrong yet he chose my fucking daughter out of every other single woman out there.”, Toji didnt say anything. He didn't move. Just taking your dads blows. “Why the fuck arent you fighting back, Fushiguro?!” he shouts and Toji just looks emotionless. 

“Dad. stop it. I'm old enough to choose what I want to do.” You cut in, stopping your dads fist from hitting Toji and he glares at you. “You and I are talking later.”, “ (dads name) don’t take it out on her. Please.” “Hahaha! Toji Fushiguro having a heart huh? You don’t get a say in shit.” your dad retorts and Toji nudges you with his hand to leave. You don’t want to leave. Shit. you were too into it with Toji to realise you and him fucking would ruin his and your dads friendship. You swallow the lump in your throat and you run to your room, tears flowing out of your eyes like a waterfall dropping into the lake below. 

Time skip <3

Its been a few months now. Your dad invited you to go to a ball with him since he was there meeting up with people for business. His reasoning was to find you someone. Who were you to deny going to a ball though? So you agreed. Secretly hoping you’d get over Toji. it was time for you to wear your flashy long dress with your hair and makeup done to your best. You followed behind your dad looking at the huge doors opening up to the stunning room the balls taking place in. you took in all the people around you and you swore you saw a familiar scar on someone's lip. No, you must be seeing things Y/N. It can't be Toji..right..? 

It's been months, it can't be him..maybe you just missed him that much you thought you saw him. You sigh and go to the bar to have a drink. As you are getting ready to order you feel a very all too familiar presence behind you. You turn around and see him. Fuck its only been a few months and he looks so fucking good. He was dressed in a black suit, his dark blue eyes boring into yours, his lips twitching to a smirk and you clenched your thighs together. Even though it's been months it's like your body on autopilot gets saturated from him. 

“‘Ts been a while, hasn't it, doll?” He looks down at you and you feel your cheeks heat up. “T-toji it's been so long… I've missed you so much!” His larger hand went on your lower back, “I’ve missed you too doll, why don't we catch up, hm?” His deep voice rings through your ears and you feel your cunt oh so drenched. He took your hand and led you to the hallway that was right next to the ballroom. He pins you to the wall and puts his nose in your hair, “Why are you here doll, hm?”, “I’m here because dad has business here…How about you?” your eyes flit down to his lips admiring the scar too. His lips twitch to a grin, “I’m here for a mission.” his eyes go down to your soft plump lips, licking his own lips.

Before you knew it his lips were crashing down onto yours making you gasp and tug his hair at the nape of his neck. “You can stay quiet can’t ya?” He breathes against your ear as he lifts your legs around his waist, your dress riding up. Toji lifts your dress up enough to see your dripping panties rubbing against his clothes crotch. “Careful Toj’, think you can stay quiet?” You snicker as he unzips his pants, enough to slip his cock through the fly of his pants. “Zip it.” That's the last thing you hear before he slams into you, gripping one hand on your tits through your dress and the other holding your waist. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself quiet as Toji grunts breathy gasps into your ear.

Christ if anyone were to go out of the ballroom and looked to their left they'd see you and Toji. Right against the wall. Next to an open doorway. Tojis cock was kissing cervix making your mascara run down your cheeks from how fucking good he was fucking you right now. You were thankful the sound of your hips slapping together was muffled but the squelching wasn't.  Your body felt tingly all over and the adrenaline you were both feeling that someone was going to see you both made Toji’s hips snap up into yours faster.

Shit. your walls were so tight and warm against his leaking cock, his dick was stretching your poor little cunt to the max and fuck you could feel the knot in your stomach and your waves of heat coursing through your body making your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Come for me doll. Fucking do it.” He orders and shit when he says that your tight walls choke his cock and you release messily all over him. His pants were soaked but he didnt care, not when he stopped moving, keeping his cock inside of you as he fills you up so much. 

He sloppily thrusts inside of you still making your toes curl in your shoes and your legs jump around him. “Y/n? Are you around here?” Your dads voice rings out. Right. Next. to. You. and Toji. Your eyes widen and you look at Toji, he seems to have understood because he slipped out of you, tucking his cock back in his pants and picking you up; throwing you over his shoulder and rushing you both to the girls restroom. 

“W-wait- Toji-”, “No ones in here. Bend the fuck over.” You swallow and you lift your dress up, giving Toji a full view of your cunt and ass as you put your forearms and fists that are clutching your dress over the sink of the bathroom. You looked into the mirror and you could see Toji behind you, landing a harsh smack! To your plush ass. He unzips his pants and they fall to the ground with a soft thump! As he frees his cock, jerking it a few times then pushing softly inside of you alllll the way to the hilt. 

You gasp, tightening your hand against the bench watching Tojis expression in the mirror. He pulls your hair back and starts thrusting harshly into you making your walls squeeze the life out of him. He pushes your lower back towards the bench making the bulge in your stomach push against the bench. The pressure makes you squeal under your hand. Thank fuck there was no one near right now because the way your breasts were lewdly jumping at his every thrust looked like a scene from a shitty porn video. 

“T-toojjiii- ah! Please-angh!” You whimper under your hand and Toji.. Oh Toji just fucking smirks. His hand snakes down to your puffy, hot clit and rubs harshly on it making dumb tears run down your cheeks. The lewdest fap! Fap! Fap! Squelch! Plap! Was the only thing you could hear. Shit at this rate you weren't just going to come. You were going to squirt messily all over his stupid cock. “Shit you're such a good girl, sitting there and just taking it. Gonna fill you up, yeah?” You nod messily at that, clamping your hand somehow harder against your mouth to muffle every single scream threatening to come out of you.

The pleasure was too much. It was too good. You couldn't take it much longer. Sparks were shooting throughout your entire body, that familiar knot knotting up again but fuck it felt different. Before you knew it you saw white. No. you must've seen heaven because you swore you went unconscious for a few seconds. You could feel His warm cum filling you up again, some of it dripping onto the floor below the two of you..and of course your own release dripping off his legs and yours, adding to the mess on the floor.

“Oh! I met the most wonderful man, Sharon!” Fuck was that a lady about to walk in. You softly tapped Toji’s arm in warning, not being able to move without your entire body being jelly. In a swift motion Toji lifted you and shoved you both in a stall, his cock somehow still hard but kept inside of you, except you were facing him, your legs wrapped around his waist as he sloppily thrusted softly inside of you. The women walked in and were talking; you presumed they were doing their makeup. 

“Oh, yuck what's that white and clear stuff on the ground? That’s nasty… how shameless can some people be?” You saw Toji smirk at that and bite back a snicker. Oouuhh what a sly man he was right now. If he wasn't making you feel so good you'd slap him for that. He thrusted inside of you slowly to avoid there being any loud obvious noises, your eyes rolling back at how good it felt even if it wasn't at a godly pace. 

The ladies kept talking…and talking.. Fuck cant they leave?? You really wanted Toji to dick you down faster but shit you can't risk being caught by them. It's certainly not helping that Toji's rubbing your clit. Not when those ladies are right in front of your door doing their stupid makeup. You feel your toes curl and legs clench as he takes a nipple in his mouth, continuing his motions. Fuck. 

You're not gonna be able to make it out alive. Hot shockwaves fill your body as Toji’s mushroomed tip was slapping your cervix with each quick, harsh thrust. Just as Toji nibbles on your nipple you feel yourself explode. You squirted messily all over Toji’s abdomen and thighs again, trembling in his hold as you swear you saw the white pearly gates. Again. Toji opens the stalls door and sets you on the bench, thumbing your wet tears. Oh. the ladies must've finally left. “You okay, doll?”You didn't have any energy to talk so you nodded your head, cupping his cheek. “I needa finish this job so head back to your dad, alright? Don't need him  bein’ suspicious”, “Yeah, okay” You kiss next to his mouth and he pouts, “Not even gonna kiss my lips, hm?”, “Maybe if you come out safely you can have me again.” You tease, sliding down the bench and drying your thighs with some paper towels. “Meet me by the bar later.” He mumbles, kissing your forehead and exiting the bathroom. You sigh in content as you slip your panties back on and fixing your dress. 

You wipe your makeup off and reapply it. Success. You smile at yourself in the mirror, putting on more perfume and exiting the bathroom. You try to focus on walking normally. If you could. It was really hard though because your legs were killing you. And you were paranoid if you sat down his cum might leak out of your panties, or leave a wet stain on your dress. Instead, you got another drink and started walking around, “There you are, Y/n! Where’d you go?” You slightly jump at the sound of your fathers voice behind you. “Oh, hey dad! I was looking around and went to the restroom.” You play it off coolly and your dad nods in understanding. 

After a while of chatting with your dad and his colleagues you feel a gaze burning holes into the back of your head. You turn around and there you see him. Toji. in all his glory. He was drinking some drink with a black suit on that looked so delicious on him. You caught his gaze and it's like time stops. Like it's just you and him. He sends a sly smirk your way and your cheeks heat up. Fuck. “Excuse me, I'm going to go get a drink.” You excuse yourself from the table and try to hide the disgust in your face from the guy your dad was trying to set you up with.

Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy. But. your eyes were on your dads ex best friend. You walk over and get a drink, sitting next to Toji. “Long time no see stranger” You grin, drinking your drink. “‘Ts been too long, doll.” His deep voice makes you want to do somersaults. You clench your hand into a fist trying to calm yourself down. “You finished your job, old man?” Your eyes flit from your drink to the scar on his lip. “‘F course i did. Wanna get outta here or would your date be angry?”, “I’d rather we get out of here. I'm not interested in the boys dad keeps throwing my way.” You sigh and stand up, pushing your chair in. “Oh I bet.” He laughs, setting his empty cup down, following you out the door; of course avoiding your dad. 

You send your dad a quick message that you weren't feeling well and you were gonna go to your home for a bit as you jump into Toji’s car. He drives the both of you to his place, his hand resting on your thigh, caressing it softly. His larger hand made your cunt oh so drenched. His hand looked huge on your thigh and you wanted his fingers deep inside of you. 

Before you knew it you finally arrived at Toji's house, he opens the door for you and takes your hand leading you to the door. He may have seemed like a gentleman but the moment the door was shut he shoved you behind it making out with you like you were a slut. His fingers draw patterns on your back, finding your zipper and slowly zipping your dress down. He kisses and nips at your neck as he tugs the front of your dress down, leaving you in your damp panties and bra. 

“Shit you look so good.” He grumbles against your neck, unclasping your bra and fondling your tits in his hands. Fuck you loved how huge his hands were compared to your body. You loved how thick his fingers were compared to boys your age. He pulls your panties down laughing when his cum from earlier drips down your thighs. “Fuckin look at how much of a slut you are f’me.” He says before throwing you over his shoulder and spanking your cute ass a few times, going to his bedroom.

He puts you down gently on the bed and strips himself before hovering on top of you. “Such a pretty girl.” You almost missed him saying that but before you could say anything he seals your lips with his as his hands roam around your body. Your hands snake to his hair and tugging it softly. “Youre so sappy, Toj’” You mutter against his lips and he snarls, flipping you over on all fours, shoving your face into the pillow. “Sappy huh? You know what?”, “Mmff?” You tried to say ‘what’ but it was muffled due to Toji pushing your head down. “‘M gon’ breed you for that.” He lifts your head up; gripping your hair and your eyes widen. “You say that as if you haven't been breeding me this entire time-hnggghhh!” You were cut off by him sinking his thick cock into your soppy cunt. “Shut it.” He growls before thrusting into you somehow deeper than before making your eyes cross and tear up. 

You let out screams and gasps of his name and he grunts in response, shoving your head back into the pillow, “Yeah that's it. Fucking take it.” He’s so glad you can't see his face right now because he looks pathetic. Eyes rolled back and mouth agape trying to keep his pathetic whimpers and moans in. you feel so good to him. So tight and warm. Your walls were suffocating his cock and fuck if he could hed happily die from your drenched cunt. 

“Fucking-shit- take it.” That’s all hes repeating now, like a prayer as your stomach has that familiar knot signalling youre both so fucking close. “Gonna fill you up. Fucking gonna knock you up and give you my children how about that, huh? Bet youd fucking like that you fucking slut” And fuck that makes you clamp down onto his dick and squirt. For the nth time tonight drenching the sheets under the both of you as his body has a rush of adrenaline; sloppily smacking his hips against yours. 

“Mmmf! Sl-ow d-down-ah!” You try to squeal out, but it just makes his hips move harsher against you. This was going to be a long night, and you wouldn't be surprised if you passed out in the middle of it. But hey it's okay because it's Toji right? Your dad would never find out since it's yours and Toji’s dirty little secret. 

⋆ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆ ✮ ༺ ⟡ ݁₊ ⊹ ა ✧ ໒ ⊹ ₊ ݁ ݁⟡ ༻ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ⊰⊱ ✩°｡⋆ 𖦹｡˚ ⋆

Masterlist<3

Tags :3

@cl0wn1ore @sammywo

[nthspecialll]

The fandom glorifies Arthur Morgan

Now I am not talking about about low honor, I play high honor and got it as the top at the end of every damn playthrough but my Arthur, as it is the cannon Arthur, is not a good guy. I am not going to talk about all of the murder, robbing and stuff he does, because we are majorly aware of it, I am talking his sexism, casual ignorance and disrespecfulness.

I quite often see people say that Arthur Morgan is a woman lover, and he definitely is, he is better than a lot of men from that time (which isn't hard), but he would not hold up in modern times, because he is not from modern times.

Generally speaking, Arthur Morgan is a man who believes in gender roles, he believes in the idea of "a man being a man" and "a woman being a woman." He has opinions about what a woman should do and what a man should do.

I think the biggest hint at this is his relationship with Sadie, because while he accepts her running with the boys he doesn't seem entirely happy about it. "You got a pair of pants and all of a sudden you think you're Landon Ricketts?" "You want to ruuuunnnn with the men?" and also "can Ms Grimshaw spare you?" when the girls asks if they can come to Valentine with him.

Talking of that quest, when he runs off to get Jimmy Brooks he puts Uncle, a lazy old bastard, in charge of getting the girls home even though they are more than capable of doing it themselves as they are healthy young women who knows how to handle horses.

In several antagonize lines against women performers (which are just as cannon as his greet lines) he shouts things like "That isn't very ladylike!" or "Go back to the kitchen" and "go make someone supper."

People keep saying Arthur would "treat them right" and he would, to an extent, he would care for you, he would be nice to you, but he would force those gender roles. He does have a belief women are somehow "softer" and that he as a person with a provider gene should do more of the harsh work.

So now we covered that, lets talk about the racism, or as I probably should rather call it, ignorance, because it is very commonly know Arthur does not judge by the color of skin.

The first one is that Arthur uses the whites-only saloon in Rhodes. Tilly mentions it to Arthur that they don't allow people of color into it, and yet he still supports it, it isn't a big thing but it is something of notice.

Secondly, when he talks to Eagle Flies where he "sets him in his place" Arthur, honey, you are so wrong here. Eagle Flies is being chased by the government for the mere fact that he exists with a different culture, you are being chased because you murdered so many folks, you can run across the sea and live a good life, they are fucked regardless.

When we first arrive in Lemoyne, Lenny and Arthur talks about the Lemoyne Raiders about racism and Arthur says "These boys got a manner about them but I haven't particularly noticed," Arthur of course you wouldn't, you are a tall, muscular, white man with sun kissed hair and blue eyes, you are the poster boy for eugenics.

Lastly, which will also bring me to the third point, the casual disrespect:

Arthur causally calling Javier a slur on the boat for no reason, did you really need that one-liner so badly? That goes for a lot of times in the game such as: "are you secretly normal" "what a lunatic" "we should find a better story for that scar" "But you continue to irritate me, I will kill you and make my appologies to the lady" "stick around and you might die for her as well" "oh I didn't know I was talking to a lady." All those were a slight bit disrespectful, enough to be able to annoy the majority of us if he said it to us, and they were also unnecessary.

He is also canonically chronically late, most notably we can hear Sean saying "that man will be late to his own funeral," and when you go around antagonizing characters in camp they are not surprised at all, rather they go "back at it again huh?"

All of this is just to sum up, Arthur is a pretty bad man (also counting in all the illegal stuff) and we tend to glorify him and forget some of these things, partly is also because Rockstar are amazing at hiding them, at making them seem natural, and they are because this is a historically accurate game! It is set in 1899 and this is a man from 1899 he is going to be casually sexist and disrespectful, and again, considering that he is from 1899 he is a decent guy because the majority of folk would be like Micah, not Arthur.

I definitely love Arthur, and I love Arthur exactly because the point of his character is him not being a saint but a human. His redemption is choosing to do good where he can, but even so, this is a man in 1899 and he is going to have a 1899 mindset. If you want to play a game that is set in the past but don't have that type of accuracy it is not Red Dead you want to play.

Also here is an Arthur pic as a thank you for reading all of that. I love him.

[snail-noodle]

shadow milk cookie x reader headcanons

having the beast of deceit as your lover was not something you had planned to happen in your life. funny how life works, huh?

the main thing you had learned from him was that he's desperate for physical touch. being sealed away for thousands and thousands of years hit him the hardest out of the five beasts.

he wept when you gently cupped his faced the first time. you whispered reassurances as you planted soft kisses on his cheeks, nose, and lips. this man is so touch-starved... please give him a ton of kisses! (he really enjoys it when you place kisses on the scar on his eye)

dark moon magic has a cold-like feeling to it. since shadow milk practically depends on that magic, his entire body is cool to the touch. it's also a reason why he enjoys cuddling you and sleeping with you at all costs! he enjoys basking in your warmth and he makes sure to let you know.

during his imprisonment, he came to realize how much he missed the touch of another. ever since the beasts fell and joined forces, they were never as close as they were before. comforting hugs and gentle touches ceased to exist among them after their fall.

hope you like pranks, because shadow milk enjoys pulling them on you! he finds your reactions so funny and cute <3 his cute little cookie.

when the others are around, the both of you pair up to pull pranks on them as well! the others can only sigh in frustration at the two of you constantly teaming up together to mess with them.

even after his fall, shadow milk enjoys stargazing every night. it calms his raging thoughts and gives him comfort. now that he has you with him, he makes sure to stargaze alongside you whenever you're able to.

if you're ever in danger, he's quick to react and will (usually) be quick to get rid of whatever threat is near you. he hardly even cares if it's a cookie or not, he goes in for the kill and asks questions later.

"shadow milk cookie.. that was just a ball..."

"pfft so?? it was about to hit you!"

out of all the beast cookies, shadow milk is by far the most overprotective and powerful of them all. it both scares you and captivates you at the same time. it gets your heart beating quickly knowing that someone that overpowered cares about your wellbeing.

just as he cares about you, you do the same back to him. he tends to get carried away with learning new spells or spying on others. he sometimes forgets to feed himself or take small breaks when he's focused on something. you always pull him away from his works to get a good rest or to eat the delicious meal you just made <3

he swears he falls in love even more with you every day whenever you do these kind actions for him! he sometimes wonders how he got so lucky to have someone like you around...

[good-chimes]

Proposing:

Grand Unified Scarian Theory

a single, overarching Scarian romance arc across the whole Hermitcraft and Life series as well as a primer for anyone curious about the early seasons.

We start with NEIGHBOR MEET CUTE in early Season 6:

Season 6 begins in a peaceful pirate bay. SCAR, an established hermit just beginning his third season, is happily making pirate caves. Into this tranquil scene comes GRIAN.

Grian, fresh-faced and new to Hermitcraft, picks a sea-themed base location right next to Scar’s pirate caves. He gets himself set up and starts his base. Even someone like Grian can get newcomer nerves, and he spends the first few weeks desperately trying to act like a normal person instead of the horrible gremlin he really is.

(Some hermits are taken in by this. Doc and Xisuma give him pity diamonds, something that—after getting to know Grian—they noticeably never do again.)

The only person exempt from Grian’s just-a-little-birthday-boy act is Mumbo, whom Grian already knows, clearly has a puppy-crush on, and pursues relentlessly.

Grian and Scar don’t interact much at first. Grian sees Scar for the first time while passing by his base. Scar instantly falls in one of his own caves and dies.

Grian panics.

Grian: I DIDN’T DO IT!

Scar, intrigued by his new neighbor, makes some overtures of interest:

1. Scar leaves a fully enchanted trident at Grian’s base as a welcome present. This is a generous gift for the cute neighbor you have a crush on and frankly the most normal thing either of them do in the entire years-long relationship.

Grian goes ‘huh!’ at the trident, never finds out who sent it, and immediately forgets the whole thing.

2. Scar entertains Grian’s traveling-salesman pitch and buys his overpriced armor boxes.

Multiple jokes about the size of Scar’s wallet. Grian clearly pleased by the transaction.

3. Scar makes Grian a complementary in-joke build (Spongebob’s house by Squidward’s house).

This delights Grian immeasurably for five minutes until he turns back to his prank war with Mumbo.

(Poor Mumbo. Clearly immensely fond of Grian but not sure he wants to be in a relationship with a lit stick of dynamite. This is very understandable.)

By this point Scar obviously kind of clocks that Grian is insane about Mumbo. This isn’t much of a leap. The entire SERVER is aware that Grian is horribly in love with Mumbo.

Ah. That’s okay. Scar backs off a bit. He recognizes when he’s not really in with a chance.

Maybe this thing he has with Grian is just going to be a friendship, and that’s okay! Having a crush is fun even if you’re not going to do anything about it. Scar is going to build some shops about it and be normal.

Both of them are going to be very normal.

FLIRTING (First Stages) – mid-Season 6

Both of them immediately forget to be normal.

Grian has started a detective agency and has no mysteries to solve. Scar instantly invents a cookie-based mystery supervillain called the Jangler and leaves Grian a series of tantalizing cookie-based puzzles for enrichment in his enclosure.

Grian has invented a game where you kill people with rockets. Scar volunteers to get murdered. Both of them are delighted.

Scar and Cub’s business empire is incidentally crushing Grian’s startup venture. There is no reason for this to be so flirtatiously charged.

At this point all the hermits move to a new village because of the Minecraft update. Grian starts a who-can-build-the-tallest-house war with Mumbo and Iskall. Scar notices and starts doing the same from the other side of the village.

It quickly gets so wild that Mumbo taps out (Mumbo does not do well with intensity, would rather just not, thankyouverymuch), and it's only Grian, Iskall and Scar.

Scar builds a wild giant plant eating his rocketship, and then a castle in the sky, and an enormous version of himself firing a canon at Grian's house. This is the first time you can really see Grian trying to hold in shrieks when he flies back in to see what Scar has done while he's gone.

Grian’s interest has been caught. He’s gone from barely seeing Scar to checking on him regularly. What’s our good friend Scar up to? What’s Scar done? What is Scar going to do next?

FLIRTING (How To Catch Your Crush’s Interest By Building A Secret Government Facility) – late Season 6

What Scar does next is put on a snazzy military uniform, team up with Doc to steal the time machine Grian invented last week, then, in the most effort someone has EVER gone to to get Grian's attention, spend weeks on end building a fully-functional 'Area 77' military base and containment facility to stop him getting it back.

Turns out this works beyond Scar’s wildest dreams.

Grian INSTANTLY obsessed with breaking into Scar’s base and retrieving his time machine.

Grian persuades Ren into forming a hippie camp with him next to the base and spends weeks entirely fixated on Scar. Meanwhile Scar, who is starting to really understand how to get and keep Grian's attention, builds more and fancier infrastructure to keep Grian out. This is also where Grian really starts looking at Scar's art—the insane cliffs Scar has build around his new hangers—and awkwardly not quite managing words, because it would be very embarrassing to just outright say the word beautiful, and Grian’s a very normal and non-embarrassing person.

In the climax of the season, Grian-the-hippie breaks into General Scar’s base.

Nobody can say that Scar making himself a top brass general and Grian making himself an anti-establishment flower power hippie does not end up with plausibly-deniable not-making-out Grian-provoking-Scar-into-holding-him-against-a-wall.

but.

BUT.

This is Hermitcraft. It’s temporary. Scar and Grian both know it was a bit. A bit they both got super into, sure! But a bit. Not weird at all.

(“Sure, mate, not weird at all,” Mumbo says, after all of this is over. “Then why are you making it SOUND weird Mumbo you’re the WORST”)*

(“Sooo....” Cub says, and Scar says, “I know. I know!”)*

*not canon but you can't tell me it didn't happen off screen

FLIRTING (But What About…) – early Season 7

Okay, so that was weird, but Grian is definitely still in love with Mumbo. The Mumbo pursuit is going great and Mumbo definitely doesn’t look nervous whenever Grian turns up with a new idea. Grian is going to get Mumbo to fall in love with him and they will marry in the spring and have a dozen beautiful children redstone contraptions.

Grian attempts to make it more official with Mumbo. Surely they have been flirting long enough, they are ready for the next stage! This is in no way a reaction to Scar becoming a weird wizard in a way very unsettling to Grian and building the kind of wild organic tangled forest build that Grian is fascinated by but can't even begin to comprehend.

Everything is very under control in Grian's life. He's now official boyfriends with Mumbo. They live together and have a messaging system and everything.

Mumbo announces he’s moving out.

It’s-not-you-it’s-me

You’re… you’re moving out? Grian says, in the smallest possible voice.

We’ll still have the messaging system, Mumbo says, unconvincingly.

FINE, Grian says, I’m moving out TOO.

Mumbo moves out.

Grian deals with this in the healthiest possible way. He invents a mayorship and attempts to give it to Mumbo.

Grian is Mumbo’s self-appointed campaign manager so Mumbo has to be round him ALL THE TIME, it’s for the CAMPAIGN, Mumbo.

Mumbo, a man who doesn’t deal well with pressure or responsibility, is maybe not the ideal choice for mayor, something that has escaped Grian entirely.

Mumbo builds a robot and attempts to palm off all responsibility for decision-making onto it. Grian immediately calls it their son.

Grian puts his moustache all over the server.

NO other hermits support them for mayor (except Scar, from a lost bet, who Grian has continued to have intensely weird flirtations with while all this is happening)

Things reach a fever pitch. Election day arrives. Mumbo doesn’t want this actually but try telling Grian that. The entire MumboGrian edifice that Grian has obsessively and wildly build has reached an unsustainable pitch and finally comes tumbling down around them.

Mumbo votes Scar for mayor.

Grian votes Scar for mayor.

Mumbo disappears for several weeks to do some nice soothing redstone and calm down.

FLIRTING (Civil War) – late Season 7

Everything has calmed down now. Scar is mayor. Mumbo is...somewhere. Grian is going to work on his base normally.

Grian has a new project. He wants to build in the new nether biomes. He builds a huge and echoing and obsessively inverse version of his huge and echoing and obsessively symmetrical mansion base. It's very impressive. It's totally hollow. There's... no one else here.

Grian decides that okay, he is going to bring PEOPLE here.

He invites Mumbo, because he hasn't seen him in weeks. He invites Bdubs, because Grian above all loves genius. And he invites Scar. Because of course. Everything major Grian does now, Scar is an of course.

Bdubs shows up! Generously builds Grian's entire mansion interior. Mumbo shows up. Builds a tiny upside down disco shack.

Scar does not show up.

Scar is being mayor! Scar is a very busy and important man! Scar has spent the last few weeks obsessively replacing every single goddamn mycelium block in the shopping district with beautifully tailored grass and making trees whose flowers are diamonds. He's also got his own megabase going on. For once Scar has so much to do it's even enough for Scar's ambitions, which have never been small.

He does not come when Grian calls.

Grian is Not Happy.

This is the point where Grian starts a steadily more unhinged campaign of leaving Scar invitations. He makes little tailor's dummies of himself and delivers them to Scar's house. He sets up a tea party of three grians in a secret space under Scar's mayoral throne. He hangs himself in effigy on the tip of Scar's megadrill build. Normal behavior.

And then when Scar still doesn't notice, he puts a tiny bit of mycelium back on one of the streets of the shopping district.

This starts… THE MYCELIUM WARS

Scar attempts to contain the growing mycelium patch with warning tape.

Grian spreads more mushroom spores.

Scar brings in his allies to help contain the growing mushroom patches.

Grian digs out an underground rebel HQ, recruits several rebels, and declares himself Motherspore.

Mayor Scar stares into a camera and uses his most velvety baritone to proclaim he will hunt down Grian and the mycelium resistance and bring them to justice.

Grian sets loose mushroom-spreading sheep.

Mayor Scar obsessively searches for his base.

Grian and Impulse build several decoy bases and trap them.

Mayor Scar employs Mumbo to strip-mine every block of the shopping district with redstone tunnel-borers.

Eventually Deputy Mayor Bdubs, having his own thing with rebel Etho, tricks all of the resistance into ender-pearling into jail.

Scar gets to threaten to pour lava on an imprisoned Grian for ten minutes straight and they’re both enjoying this so much.

Grian: Scar! SCAR! Scar Scar Scar no Scar no Scar no listen Scar

Scar: Yes?

Grian: …Let’s take this somewhere else.

They ‘take this’ to Scar’s beautifully-appointed mayoral office. Grian sits on the arm of his chair (I don’t know what to tell you, this is on-screen canon).

Grian: So I know how to end the war.

Grian: We have to play minigames and make personal bets.

Grian: And Scar, Scar, if you lose…

Scar: Yes?

Grian: … you have to help build my base.

Entire room: [stunned silence]

Etho: Is this what it was about the whole time, Grian?

So! That happened. And the thing is, they could both mentally pass off the area 77 general/hippie stuff as Just A Fun Bit That Got Very Intense.

They can't do this with the mayor/motherspore stuff. They are basically making out on Scar’s chair. The resistance have noticed. The mayoral staff have noticed. EVERYONE has noticed.

Scar is into it. Scar is going along with it. Scar knows he’d had a crush for a long time, and he isn't scared of swimming with a huge wave, never mind where it's going to break. Scar has always embraced the rush. With Grian, you never know what’s going to happen next.

Grian has always loved being around Scar because there’s so much going on that you don’t have to think. Grian doesn’t have to think until everything’s calmed down. It's not until now that he stops and realizes… could this be… something.

(Maybe it already is.)

And then, by whatever eldritch mechanic you personally favor:

3rd life begins.

HEAD-OVER-HEELS – Third Life

In the tiny claustrophobic stripped-bare world of Third Life, Grian makes a choice. Grian thinks, for once very, very clearly: what if it wasn't a bit? What if it was real. What if Grian took every explosive piece of who he was and handed it over to someone he's—okay, he'll admit it—someone he's been obsessed with for a long time. What if that heady sparkle he's been seeing in the corner of his vision is true. What happens if you grab it with both hands?

Scar—surprised, bemused, amazed but wrong-footed—almost doesn't know what to DO with this.

Scar is so used to Grian layering all his obsession behind a thick layer of irony and drama and second-guessing and schemes. ‘Sure we can make out but only if I'm trailing mushroom spores and you're wearing that sash.’ ‘I'm only here because Mumbo's not around.’ ‘It’s not a thing.’ ‘It's not real.’

But it is real.

And, for once, Scar hears a tiny alarm go off in his brain. Scar knows Grian better than anyone else does, by now, and even he doesn't know where this ends. Grian is a force of nature and Scar has never been his unfiltered target. But Grian's throwing himself into this, throwing himself at Scar. And Scar always says 'yes.' 'Yes, and.' 'Yes, let's'. Scar never wants less of Grian. Scar has always taken what he can get.

But with that warning bell, Scar does try to keep that slight layer of dramatic distance, even in this new world where you can die and not come back, even if they don't know if they'll get out of this alive. Scar doesn't fully buy into Grian's second-in-command-devotion, he forces a space for Grian to still be the Grian he knows, some kind of safety vent (‘here's a bee on a lead’). And it could be a lot of reasons, but part of it is…Grian's head-over-heels, for once, and Scar has the unfamiliar feeling of needing to be the one to look where they're going.

Because where they're going is: the last two, all their friends dead, not knowing if there's any way to survive but knowing their friends haven't come back, and at that point Scar takes off the very last of his brakes and the very last of his reservations and says:

For everything you've done for me you can kill me.

(I want this. I want it to be you.)

This breaks Grian absolutely and completely.

And not broken in the fun way! Grian is too far in. Grian let go of Mumbo, who was safe because Mumbo never let it get too far, and he took a risk on Scar, and now Grian is discovering that he didn’t even know what risk meant. Grian is in emotional pain he never suspected existed. Grian has let himself put all his gambling chips on someone who wasn't SAFE and he has lost.

Grian has LOST SCAR and he has LOST HIMSELF and he has FOUND OUT HE CAN BE HURT and he is never going to be the fucking same again.

Scar is in the pond with Grian’s sword at his unresisting neck. And Scar is going to die, and Scar (damn him damn him) has turned it into: he's going to die for Grian. Now Grian is hurting, he's complicit, it turns out grief is an inevitable part of love and beauty, this is all it's taken for Grian's worldview to fall apart in pieces he can't pick up, and Grian has no defenses against pain so there's obviously no way to cope except to beat Scar to death in a cactus ring and jump off a cliff.

AFTERMATH – Season 8

They wake up in Hermitcraft.

They wake up in Hermitcraft! Scar is delighted to find out they just reincarnate, after all that!

Sure, they've all got some lingering trauma but Scar has never let that stop him from doing anything. Scar thought that whole thing went well! He just about dares to think...romantic...? Maybe...?

Grian is Normal to him.

Grian is so fucking normal. it's like. s6 normal.

Scar is. kind of. confused.

Grian is NOT acting like someone he had a romantic death match with.

(Grian is falling apart, but if there's one thing Grian has proved in his building it’s that he’s SO. fucking. good. at facades.)

(Don't go round the back.)

Neither of them are ready for the death game to repeat.

DIVORCE (Traumatic) – Last Life, Season 8

Second death game. Grian deals with his trauma super well by isolating Scar, stealing all his friends, tricking a life out of him, dropping his horse in lava, forcing him into an extortion death loop, then abandoning him and—just as a bonus—murdering Mumbo as well.

This time it’s Scar who comes back falling apart.

A theory that seems plausible: Scar’s old friend Cub picks him up, puts him back together, gets him on his feet. What we do know is that Cub moves in next to Boatem, where Scar is still living with Grian, and incidentally builds an enormous dripstone megabiome that is coincidentally very hostile and might murder you upon landing if you're someone who flies a lot, or happens to be a bird.

There’s a hole with an endless dark void between Scar and Grian’s Boatem bases. They built it together. It’s around this time they both keep repeatedly falling in it.

DIVORCE (But When It Was Good It Was So Good) – Season 8, Double Life

Then the moon gets big. Gets close. Gravity breaks down and that should be the end, should be a way out of this terrible spiral they're in, surely they're better without each other—

Grian turns up at Scar's base and says: Scar. Build us an escape pod.

—and Scar does.

They go out together. Both of them can feel the pull back into each other’s orbit but they’ll die if they acknowledge it. At the end of it all, the void, the protective suits, the unbearable gravity of falling into space together, of holding each other until another uncertain end. They're nowhere but they're in it together.

Is this a good time for another death game? Of course. How much worse can it get.

Double Life, and this time Scar keeps his distance. My soulmate is this allay! My soulmate is my cat! I don’t need a soulmate. Oh—it’s Grian? This whole time? Hahaha. How funny.

Grian: Soo… do you want to base together?

Scar: Do we have to?

Grian: It…might be nice…?

Scar is wary.

He has been burned.

But the pull is still there. The pull is always there. You can’t forget Grian, but you can blunt the edge of him on your skin. Scar is here to take care of these cat-pandas. Grian can do what he likes.

Cheated of Scar’s full attention, Grian tries to tempt BigB into a pale imitation of the Scarian folie à deux (BigB is a genuinely nice man who does not deserve this).

The rest of the server turn red, one by one. Grian and Scar are the last greens. BigB is audibly nervous when Grian proposes a red-green alliance, even though BigB is the red, he has the power. But Grian can’t escape the rest of the server, and the red hunt begins.

Grian and Scar, hunted—trapped at the top of flaming towers, jumping from heights, chased down like foxes at bay, crammed into boltholes with their hands over each other’s mouths, Grian shrieks and laughs and falls back on Scar and Scar catches him and they’re both as alive and elated as they’ve ever been. Scar dies once to Ren and BigB’s zombies and Grian murders both BigB and Ren in revenge (BigB was right to be nervous). Grian has another unhinged murder plan underway when he dies for the last time.

This whole time, Grian was hit in the face by remembering that when it's good, it's so good.

Scar isn’t surprised. Scar has known that forever.

Back in Hermitcraft, its not magically fixed. They’re not innocent any more. But every time Grian looks at Scar he remembers: when it’s good, it’s so good.

And Scar never forgot.

DIVORCE (We’re In Love And We’re Not Done Yet) – Season 9, Limited Life

By now we're into Season 9. They’re still alive. They always live, they always start again, and the other one is just there. Being, infuriatingly and magnetically, them.

Grian is thoroughly annoyed by Scar’s new allegiance to King Ren, but he keeps coming back to Scarland anyway. Scar, I made you an obstacle course. Scar, stand here and get squashed by this anvil. Scar if you don’t do something I’m going to start a resistance.

Grian pretends King Ren doesn’t exist and he has more important things to do, and pretends this so hard that he incidentally invents a mad science robot pulls them all through into the Empires dimension.

Scar, assuming Grian is doing his own thing, shacks up with Jimmy.

It takes Grian three weeks to notice and be shriekingly outraged.

Scar we’re doing a project. Scar you can’t spend all your time with Jimmy! Join my cult. Get in my shrinking machine. I made you an enchanted netherite bow. I need your allegiance. (Another real quote).

Scar teases Grian for weeks then instantly abandons Jimmy when the choice comes down to him or Grian.

Fourth death game—they’re used to this, now. Nothing too intense. Nothing too weird. Grian can’t help murdering Scar.

At this point, Scar is starting to read it as: I love you.

And that’s how we get to the current Scarian dynamic we know and love of you're the worst and I'm the worst and we've divorced a few time but we still like each other so fucking much.

It's been years. They've killed each other every possible way. These two characters are in love and they're not done yet.