#there's versions without the red metal too! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

unpretty · 2 months ago

Note

Rare non-kink-taxonomy-hell ask: your description of Sorrowverse Joker as actually good at manipulation and gaslighting, to the point where the act he puts on might sometimes resemble Therapy Joker, has actually made me interested in a version of the Joker. Which has never happened before. Could we hear more about him/this aspect of him? Love your writing btw

what if we had a rare limited-time crossover event

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🤡:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

"Helloooooo nurse."

"Don't whistle," she snapped, shutting the door. "I'm doing you a favor," she reminded him.

"I thought you were recognizing that denying me cosmetics had no purpose but to dehumanize me," he said.

"You know what I mean," she said, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. "And I'm not a nurse." She pulled the sparkly pencil case she'd brought from the pocket of her coat to offer it to him.

He did not so much rise from his bed as unfold. A spider of a man, all long spindly limbs in ill-fitting pale pink. With all the green of the rest of him, it made him look floral, a mop of green hair and his eyes pastel. Even the white of his skin had a green tinge on closer inspection. She'd been sure it reminded her of something and had spent hours online trying to find it. She'd decided on a small emerald moth, staring at stock photos of delicate wings almost translucent and trying to remember where she ever could have seen one.

Charming as a bouquet full of insects.

He plucked the bag from her hand and pulled what looked like a butterfly knife from inside. He grinned, and when he did his face seemed to grow twice as long and half of it teeth. Gleaming purple metal spun between long fingers, but when he pointed it at her to watch her recoil, it had the teeth of a comb. He waggled his eyebrows at her before running it through his hair, using both hands and raising his elbows much higher than necessary so his shirt rode up. She pressed her lips together rather than dignify the performance with a response.

His eyebrows were still pristine and had been since he'd been admitted. Precise arches with edges razor-sharp.

Without products to keep it in place, his hair fell back down at an angle from his widow's peak. "Don't pretend I'm not funny, Dr. Quinn," he said, metal twirling between his fingers again.

"Quinzel," she corrected.

"Nurse Harlequin," he said, rummaging through the limited personal effects she'd brought him. It was absurd to refuse anyone these few small comforts. She'd always thought so. It was punitive, the way they denied any dignity to anyone they were meant to be treating.

There but for the grace of God, she thought and tried not to.

"I don't have a mirror," he declared, holding a red vial she was sure could not be blood. He reached out to touch beneath her chin. "Hold still."

"Mr. J," she warned, refusing as she always did to refer to him by the only name they had for him.

"I love it when you call me that," he said with relish, using her glasses as a mirror to apply tint to his lips with a wand. "Say it again, doll."

"If they catch you wearing lipstick—"

"It's stain," he said dismissively. "They can't prove it. For all they know I got this the old-fashioned way, sucking dick in the bathroom again."

"Agai—"

"Excellent work, Harley," he said, and then his lips were on hers. She made a muffled sound of indignation and was careful not to move. He'd done this before, the first time they'd met, when he'd learned her name and had a good laugh about it. She'd slapped him for it then, hadn't protested when they'd put him in isolation for it. "Aw," he said as he pulled away, touching her lower lip. "I know it hadn't dried yet, but it doesn't show on you, does it?"

It was only stain, but his skin was so pale the red popped, his grin grotesque. A caricature of something unwholesome, white as a sheet and a mouth like a minstrel, too dark a thought to trust. It was hard not to think the worst of people, ascribe symbolism to nothing at all, fall into spirals. Enough real dog whistles without her inventing new ones.

"That's unacceptable behavior," she said, "and that's not my name."

"You don't call me by my name," he said, tapping the tip of her nose, "and I don't call you by yours." He dropped the pencil case back into her hands before she realized what he was doing, and she had to scramble to catch it in time. "Besides, you seem like a good ride." He made an exaggerated handlebar-revving gesture with both hands and winked as he stepped away from her. Something Fred Astaire in his footwork when he walked. She was careful to stay where she was, tucking the contraband back into her pocket.

"Do you harass all your doctors this way?" she asked pointedly, fixing her glasses again.

"Aggressively," he confirmed as he fell back into his bed. "The rest of them don't like it as much as you do, naughty girl." He sprawled sideways, propping his head up in a pose that might have been provocative if he'd had a curve anywhere but the jutting bones that slotted his hands into his forearms. "It's why they locked me up for being a deviant," he said with a limp-wristed gesture.

"They locked you up for killing people," she corrected.

"They were rich," he scoffed. "That doesn't count as people." Her nose crinkled, pressing her lips together again rather than do anything he'd interpret as a laugh. "You can tell because they didn't send me to prison."

"They didn't send you to prison because Gotham's justice system is fucked," she said. Arkham was privately owned with a budget inflated by charitable donations. It was inevitable that expensive-looking criminals were judged criminally insane, the worst of their excesses no longer a taxpayer problem.

He cocked his head. "Do I look sane to you?" he asked.

"Sane doesn't look like anything," she said. "We both know you knew what you were doing, and there's no medical intervention that would make you behave differently."

He grinned, too wide, too many teeth. She tilted her head a little, only enough to see around the edge of her glasses and confirm that his mouth blurred. "Yet here you are," he said.

"Rehabilitation isn't the exclusive domain of the medically impaired."

This job had been a nightmare from the beginning. Every day in large and small ways it wore her down, an endless river of bullshit trying to smooth down every part of her that believed in anything. No accountability, barely treatment, shifts too long with coworkers as sick as the patients. Less like doctors with patients and more like researchers with lab rats. Rubber stamps and no rocked boats and no goals greater than the status quo. Cameras easily bypassed by any employee who cared to, for whatever reason struck their whim. Her no better.

She should have done more. Her job shouldn't have been worth more than her principles. She could have done more than this, makeup and candy and burner phones in her pockets. She kept notes and told herself she'd blow the whistle someday. She kept her head down and kept her health insurance and knew herself for a traitor.

"Come closer," he said, gesturing with his fingers.

She was halfway across the room before she thought to stop and ask, "Why?"

He was grinning again. "Because I wanted to see if you would," he said, and at the look on her face he threw his head back to cackle. She pressed her nails into her palms and felt her face burn. "This might sound racist," he began.

"Then don't," she warned.

"No, no, it's not like that, I just—"

"Don't."

"I can't tell if you're blushing!" he said, exasperated. He swung his legs around to sit upright, his knees a mile apart. "That's all I was going to say, honestly. Is that bad? You can tell me if it's bad."

"I would call that an 'inside thought'," she said, still blushing. He cackled again.

"Really, though," he said, crooking his fingers again, "you should come over here."

"Why?" she asked first this time.

"So I can kiss you stupid," he said.

Her face felt hot again. "I'm not doing that."

He rolled his eyes so dramatically it took his whole face with it. "I have to come over there?" he asked rhetorically, gesturing at her. "Come on, now, doll. Give yourself a little agency, here. I'm locked up. You get to leave. That little love tap earlier was fine, there were cameras on, I get it, kind of hot if I'm honest, pretty into that. But I've got limits too, you know. You want me to play the big bad taking advantage, that's fine, I'm into it, but trust's a two-way street. Get over here and make it clear you know what you're here for, yeah? Despite what your bosses think, I'm not actually an animal. I'm not sitting here waiting for pretty girls to maim."

"I don't think that," she said, defensive.

"Naw," he said, "you're just coming in here when you're not supposed to be and standing in grabbing range, waiting for nothing to happen. Get over here or leave, I'm not going anywhere."

She half-turned, looking at the doorknob, but hesitated. She wanted the last word, but didn't have one ready and her throat was dry regardless. She felt sick.

"You're real scared I'm gonna laugh at you, huh?" he asked, and she whipped her head around to stare at him. He was leaning forward, chin on his fist, watching her. The pale shade of his eyes made it more predatory than it otherwise would have been. His smile was a wry gash across his face. "That happen a lot?" he asked, cocking his head. "Men telling you you're pretty as a prank, asking you out to make fun when you believed it?" She scowled, and his smile split into a grin. "Awww. Poor l'il Harley. C'mere, then. You wanna make a show of being vulnerable, be vulnerable. Least you can do, don't you think?"

The worst part was realizing, the moment he said it, that it was the thing she most dreaded. That he'd laugh at her for believing him.

She came close enough to stand between his knees, but couldn't bring herself to make eye contact. She looked at the hole in his ear where they hadn't let him keep his earrings, instead.

"There's a doll," he said, grabbing her wrist and yanking so she'd fall into his lap. She narrowly avoided her knee hitting him somewhere awkward. She was distracted by how bony his thighs felt compared to hers, all his limbs too thin as his arms went around her waist. He kissed beneath her ear, and she thought of his mouth, the wide span of it and all those teeth at her throat. "Doesn't being honest with yourself feel better?" he asked against her skin.

"This is very, very bad," she breathed, her voice shaking. Her own body heat was mortifying. He felt halfway to a corpse.

"Awww, don't be like that," he said, and she could feel him smiling. All those teeth. "What's the worst that could happen?"

#original #fanfic #a funny thing about sorrowverse is that i have been writing it for so long that some of my concerns are no longer valid #for instance i was hesitant to write any harley origins because i did not want to have to explain what bimbofication was #but now that's significantly more mainstream so. crisis averted?#unfortunately sorrowverse joker does kind of feel like a hate crime. sorry.#does anyone else find edgelord scumbag dom to be a relatable bad decision. is it just me. am i telling on myself.#have not decided if i'll archive this yet. that feels like a commitment.

482 notes · View notes

cillivnz · 10 months ago

Text

RING-POP

PAIRING. sam monroe x f!reader

SYNOPSIS. sam makes you try a different version of your favorite candy; bigger and bitter.

WARNINGS. NSFW themes (18+), pet-names, cursing, dirty-talk & too many puns (i swear this punk cannot shut up), name-calling (brat, dumb girl), brat-taming, degradation, slight dacryphilia, perv!sam, clueless!reader, oral sex (m! receiving), face-fucking, bondage, slight slapping (with a belt, with his cock), hair-pulling, sexualising food?

SMACK, SLURP, POP. the sounds filled sam’s humid room. his brow furrowed further, a look of disdain washing over his pale features at the noise. the videogame in front of him needed all his heed, but it seemed like his brat, bambi, demanded some of that attention, too.

“stop that,” he groaned, frustrated. the sound of his thumbs assaulting the buttons on his controller should’ve been all that was heard, had you not been deep-throating the candy sam made the mistake of getting you. “what— i’m just having my candy,” you whined before continuing, “—and besides, if you have a problem, why don’t you let me sit away from you—” he was quick to shut down that idea, gripping the flesh of your thighs. maybe sam was in the wrong for getting you the cherry ring-pop, your favourite, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have you perched on his lap, sitting comfortably (cluelessly) on his aching boner, but in his defence, he just wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of your plump lips wrapped around the toy candy, sucking and slurping, just as you are now like the good girl you are, but once he switched his playstation on, the competitive side came out.

you shift to your comfort in his lap, feeling the tent in his pants poke directly into your mound. you had an arm crossed over sam’s neck, bringing the ring-clad finger to your mouth and sucking. at the taste of the sweet cherry juices dripping into your mouth, you groan in sam’s ear.

the sounds traveled straight to his cock, his mind tuning out his reality— the game at hand— just to focus at your skilful tongue, stained red by the candy. “if you don’t quit it—” he sighed, his voice strained. the next thing you know, his character is being obliterated by the enemy. you stifled a giggle, your plan worked.

sam had left you so, so worked up. choosing to take out his frustration with his family on some stupid toy, rather than your willing pussy. ever since that day at the playground, you couldn’t go a day without sam pounding into your drooling cunt. even if it was always him starting it, he got you to finish, and you were forever grateful for it. but today? when you dolled up in all black— tank top and skirt— with red lingerie, he decided to pick up that gaming console and not let go.

“alright, bambi, i’ve had it with you,” he gets up abruptly, causing you to hit the ground and land on your knees. you gasped, offended.

his hands, full of real, crude metal were quick to move, undoing his belt, unlike your delicate hand that was motionless with the toy ring perched on it. the leather of his studded belt flicked across your cheek, causing you to look up at sam through wet lashes. he only smirked at the sight. your eyes flicked to the bulge revealed in his boxers, and now your mouth watered for a taste that wasn’t cherry ring-pop.

“‘like to suck your candy, huh, brat?” he squeezed your cheeks together. “since you’ve been practising in my goddamn ears all day,” he continued, pulling out his cock, “let’s see how good you’ve gotten.” his cock was slapped against the same spot at the belt. you only stared at him through your long lashes, unwilling to satiate when you’re unsatisfied yourself. “come on, bambi, open up,” he squeezed your cheeks again, causing your mouth to gape open. “i can’t guarantee it tastes like cherries, but you’re open to trying sweet-n-salty, aren’tcha?” he giggled, amused at his own snarky comments.

the fat tip of his cock pressed into your plump, gape lips, and instinctively, your tongue stuck out to lick it. “there we go,” sam sighed, ready to return to cloud 9.

you sheepishly swirled your tongue around the bulbous tip of his cock, relishing in the taste of his precum oozing into your tastebuds. oh, yeah, you’ve found yourself a new favourite flavour.

“hands up for me, bambi,” he sighed, breathless already. you oblige, eyes widening when his belt snaked over your wrists, tying them in an unholy matrimony. your hands rested in your lap, preventing you from pleasuring yourself like you intended to. “now, open wide f’me.” you’re obedient, eager to please, for you know if sam’s satisfied he would overlook the ‘punishment’ and stick his cock into you. your pussy flutters at the thought of being full again.

as your throat relaxed around him, you started taking more and more of his length, looking up at him through your lashes to seek his validation, and the mere sight was rewarding. his brows furrowed, a pink flush crept into his pale skin, while his lips were plump and agape, marks of his teeth etched into the skin. “your mouth was made to suck cock, y’know that— my cock. you’re only gonna squeeze my cock with that fuckin’ throat, y’hear?” he nods, authoritative yet cooing, “is my girl understanding me?” so you bobble your head along with length. “fuck yeah, brat. going dumb on my cock,” he moans, and you were eager to illicit more of those sounds.

you relax your jaw, inhale deeply, and let him take charge. when sam realises this, the little devil smirks, running his fingers through your scalp to tug at your hair.

his cock pistons in and out of your throat, your eyes watering and your breath haggard. your pussy clenched around nothing but the flooded dampness of your cotton panties.

“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—” incoherent grunts and groans filled the room along with the delirious smell of your arousals. “fuuuuck, bambi,” sam’s thrusts got sloppier.

“you know,” he spoke, breathless yet mischievously, “this candy comes with a creamy centre,” he chuckled, grunting as he came undone in your mouth. “sweet n’ salty, yeah?” he stroked his cock, relishing in the sight of his heavy load dripping down your plump lips. you were quick to swallow every drop, selfishly devouring your favourite candy. you wondered if this was gluttony or lust?

when satiated, sam pulled away, tucking his cock away. you, too, get up from the floor, wincing at the pain of kneeling down for too long.

you shimmy out of your clothes, making your way towards his bed. sam sees you in the corner of his eye, an eyebrow irking at your actions, “what do you think you’re doing,” he asked plainly, leaving you confused. “i- you’re fucking me, right?” you had a pitiful look on your face, so eager to chase your own release with his assistance. “like hell i will, dumb girl,” sam scoffed, “brats don’t get pleasure after punishment,” he shrugged coldly, grabbing his gaming console.

he pointed towards his thighs, “sit your ass back down,” you whine, “but i’ll be so boooored,” yet perch on his lap, still.

“—and i finished my ring-pop,” you sigh in frustration. sam chuckles, “don’t worry, i’ll have your new favourite out in a minute,”

“this flavour never finishes, just keeps on coming.”

THIS PUNK—

SEE ALSO. playground [PRELIMINARY FIC]. more of Sam Monroe [MEAN!SAM, BIMBO!READER AND OTHER TROPES].

2K notes · View notes

heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 3 months ago

Note

Hi Rae!! Congrats so much on the 1.5k!! Been a longtime fan of this blog and I'm always blown away by your works.

For the event can I ask for domestic life/married life headcannons? Or just hear you yap on how Jason and Arkham Knight Jason act in those situations? I personally think Jason would act as a doting, head over heels almost worshipping his darling spouse. Whereas Ak! Jason would kinda be the dark romance almost mafia archetype instead, but on the more quiet obsessive devotion and acts of service galore side with a dash of occasional bordering on if not yandere-ism because of his paranoia and being very overprotective but his spouse has a general idea of what their husband does.

Once again, congratulations and you deserve every follow and reblog and like.

- Rosa🧸🤎

Domestic Headcanons

Hi, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy!

Honestly, I could ramble about whether or not I think AK would ever get married, but it's not about that rn ~700 words

Jason

His favorite thing in the world is waking up next to you. Really, he doesn't think anything beats opening his eyes and seeing the morning sun glint off the metal bands around his and your ring finger. He'll ignore the growling in his stomach and the alarms about to go off for as long as he can, just for another moment to hold you in his arms, warm and tucked away from the world

Speaking of wedding rings, Jason is constantly twisting or fiddling with yours. It's mostly because he's just in awe that it's there, real and cool, and glittering on your finger. He likes to take the opportunity to tease you about buying a bigger rock, even if you tell him anything bigger would look ridiculous and just get you mugged. (He can handle a mugger– or five– so he doesn't think that should be an issue)

Nothing feels like a chore when he's doing it with you. Folding laundry to your favorite tv show, washing dishes while talking about everything and anything, making meals while your music fills the kitchen– he loves it all. Just being in your space, lingering in the mundane, day to day tasks feels special when he gets to see you smile and laugh at whatever joke he's made

You share the same blanket when you're sitting on the couch, always. He made a point of buying the largest, softest one he could find in your favorite color, more or less for the excuse to have you close. Neither of you mind cuddling together, of course, but it's still an unspoken rule that if either of you comes to sit next to the other, you lift the blanket for them, even when you fight

Matching Fuzzy Socks for every occasion. Neither of you necessarily wear them out of the house, but when you're home and Gotham is cold, there are, in fact, heated debates and competitions over who gets to pick what set you're both going to wear that day. (Yes, his favorite pair are the Red Hood ones, and no, he doesn't think that says anything about his ego. They're just the fluffiest and therefore, the best)

AK!Jason

The Arkham Knight comes from a crueler version of Gotham, but he is by no means cruel to you. There are nights where he's sharper, tensing at every noise and bump that sounds too close to your windows and doors, but it only serves to make him hold you closer, ever watchful for danger that could cause you harm– threats that would take you from him

He doesn't go out with you often, but he tries to make up for it in his own way. Public dates are rare, if they happen at all, but he doesn't hesitate to try and make you feel special when you do go out. Entire theaters are rented out in your name, museums and galleries are closed just so you can walk arm and arm through marbled halls without anyone else around

When you're both together, he's always in your space, always finding an excuse to touch you. He only ever softens under your gaze, only ever feels at home when your hands hold his. He'll fixate on the ring you wear often. He likes pressing a kiss to the cold jewel that catches light so perfectly on your finger. It always feels so big, knowing you said yes, knowing you willingly tied yourself to him for eternity

He constantly comes home with gifts– whether it be flowers, food, jewels, clothes, or trinkets– he rarely comes back empty handed. It's less out of a love language, but more out of a desire to show you he's worth being with. The Arkham Knight– before, during, and after he held the name– always has something to prove. But that doesn't mean the thanks you give, the kisses to his cheek and the smiles you offer, are any less special to him (or that his actions mean any less)

He finds comfort in the long moments of silence. Don't get it wrong, he loves to listen to you talk, but there's something about just being in each other's presence without the need for words that soothes something fragmented deep in his soul. He likes to listen to you breathe, feel the rise and fall of your chest against him while he reads whatever book you're flipping through over your shoulder. Those are the only times he ever really feels peace anymore

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #headcanons #arkham knight x reader

539 notes · View notes

vandme12 · 2 months ago

Text

Wedded Bliss and Hit Lists - Killer Chat Wedding! Head canons! (Special for 100)

This is a small gift, 100 followers, I grew so soon. I'm so excited to do things for this fandom!

I love you all!

Ronin Beaufort!

The Proposal? Unhinged.

Traditional? Never heard of her. Ronin proposes in his way—dramatic, messy, and a little bit criminal. Expect a bloody heart scrawled on a wall with his crowbar, a ring slipped on your finger before you even notice, and a devilish smirk when you realize.

He doesn’t ask, he claims. “You’re mine, darlin’. ‘Til death do us part—if it even can.”

The Rings? Custom and Chaotic.

Of course, Angel helps him design them—gothic, blackened metal with a blood-red gemstone (or one that looks like it), and the inside is engraved with"R.B X (Your First Initial)” because he has no shame.

Yours is fancy, but his? He wears a thick band with a jagged design, and if you don’t put it on him yourself,

💀 Ronin as a Husband + The Day of the Wedding 💍

The Wedding Day: A Bloody Fairytale (His Way, Of Course)

Traditional? Nah. Ronin’s wedding isn’t some soft, white-veil affair—it’s a chaotic, adrenaline-pumping fever dream. Forget pastel flowers and quiet vows; he’s giving you black roses dipped in crimson and a blood-splattered ceremony in Purgatory (the alley where you shared your first kiss).

He insists on having the ceremony at midnight. Why? “C’mon, babe—if we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it right. No sun, all sin.” The whole place is lit by red neon lights and candles. Romantic in a rotting kind of way.

His outfit? Over-the-top. Black leather jacket, maroon ripped pants, and his usual chaos of accessories—but with a little touch of wedding flair: a silver chain around his neck engraved with your name, and a skull pin that says “’Til Death” on it.

Angel is the one who "officiates" the wedding—if you count her laughing through the ceremony and calling you both “unhinged lovebirds” as official. She’s wearing all white “to be ironic.” Ronin’s response? “If you ruin my moment, Angel, I'll bring my child."

Instead of a normal walk down the aisle, He carries you “Damn. If I wasn’t marryin’ ya, I’d be kidnappin’ ya.”

The Vows? Pure Chaos and Pure Him.

His vows are a mess—half confessions, half threats to anyone who’d dare touch you. “I promise to love ya, haunt ya, and maybe murder anyone who looks at ya funny. Or Kill ya/j”

He doesn’t get emotional easily, but when he says “No one else gets me, but you do—and I ain’t lettin’ that go, ever,” his voice dips just a little softer. It’s rough around the edges, like him, but so painfully sincere it’s almost too much to handle.

“Blood-red suits ya, babe.”

Reception? Think More Crime Scene Afterparty.

No boring banquet hall—he drags you to the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, where he’s set up his version of a reception. Black leather couches, flickering red lights, and a playlist that’s just metal, punk, and songs that remind him of you.

The cake? Oh, it’s black, alright. A blood-red filling when you cut it open. He insists on smashing a piece in your face. If you try to get revenge, he just laughs and lets you.

When the first dance comes around, he pulls you close—no slow, sappy waltz. He dips you so low your back almost touches the floor, all while murmuring, “Can’t believe ya married me, sweetheart. You’re a little crazy.”

Ronin as a Husband: The Good, The Bad, and the Chaotic.

Clingy. Oh, he loves being married to you—and he’ll make sure everyone knows it. If you even try to go anywhere without a goodbye kiss, he’s pulling you back by your waist. “Where’s my kiss, Mrs. Devil?”

Pet Names? Relentless. "Darlin’," "Sweetheart," "My Little Heartbreaker," and—when he’s feeling extra possessive—“My Forever.”

Jealous not really! But! Anyone so much as flirts with you? They’re getting a look that could kill. If you tease him about being possessive, he just shrugs, “Course I am. What’s mine’s mine.”

Weirdly Domestic… In His Way.

Will absolutely make you breakfast—but it’s gonna be black coffee and pancakes shaped like skulls. Maybe Not, He's a okay-person in kitchen

He’s in charge of home defense, which means there are too many weapons hidden in your place. (Your couch? Knife. Your bookshelf? Crowbar.)

Anniversaries Are… Intense.

Every anniversary, he takes you back to Purgatory to “renew your vows” by carving a fresh bloody heart into the wall.

He gets you the most unhinged gifts: one year, he gives you a dagger with “Mine Forever” engraved on the blade. Romantic!

When You’re Sick?

Pretends he’s too tough to worry, but the moment you so much as sneeze, he’s fussing over you.

Brings you soup (even though he can’t cook) and sits at your bedside like a demon guard dog. “I ain’t leavin’ ‘til you’re better, babe.”

Fights? Loud. Dramatic. Always Ends in Kisses.

Arguments with Ronin are explosive. He’ll push your buttons on purpose, just to see if you’ll push back.

But if he thinks he’s really hurt you? He folds immediately. “Baby—hey, baby, c’mon. I didn’t mean it. You know I’m an idiot.”

Would He Die For You? Absolutely.

He wouldn’t hesitate. Your enemies are his enemies.

But really? He’s not afraid of dying—he’s afraid of losing you. “If you go first, babe, I’m followin’ right after ya. No question.”

Forever Means Forever.

Ronin doesn’t do temporary. When he said “forever,” he meant it. Whether you want to wreak havoc together or just spend quiet nights tangled up in each other—he’s there. Always.

And if anyone thinks they can take you from him? They’re in for a hell of a rude awakening.

“What’s mine stays yours, darlin’—and you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

When V finds out you and Ronin—the Ronin—are officially, legally (or maybe not-so-legally) married, his reaction is… complicated.

🖤 1. The Initial Reaction: Processing…

At first? Silence. Cold. Heavy. The kind that stretches on long enough to make anyone else squirm.

You tell him during a quiet night on the server—just a casual drop like, “Oh yeah, by the way, Ronin and I got married.”

For a full minute, he doesn’t respond. Not one word. Not even a blink emoji.

Then, finally:

V: "Married."

That’s it. One word. Flat. Clinical. Like he’s trying to figure out if this is some elaborate joke—or if the world’s truly gone off the rails.

🗡️ 2. The Overprotective Judgment™

Look, V isn’t stupid. He’s always known something was brewing between you two. He heard the flirting, the teasing—he’s seen Ronin’s obsession with you. He’d be blind not to.

But marriage? That’s another level of unhinged.

His next DM comes ten minutes later, and it’s direct:

V: “Is this a joke, or have you genuinely lost your mind?”

He doesn’t trust Ronin—not entirely. Not when the man’s idea of a romantic gesture involves blood splatter and sharp objects. And while V respects your choices… he’s concerned.

“You understand what you’re tying yourself to, don’t you?” he asks, voice colder than usual. It’s not disapproval—it’s caution.

👁️ 3. Watching Ronin… Closely.

From the second V learns about the marriage, Ronin becomes his #1 Surveillance Target.

He tracks his movements more. Listens to every conversation. If Ronin so much as breathes suspiciously around you, V knows.

If Ronin’s sweet? V thinks it’s manipulation.

If Ronin’s distant? V’s ready to interrogate.

And Ronin? Oh, he loves it. He knows V’s watching—and he plays it up. Texts you obnoxiously sweet things in the public chat just to piss him off:

Goreboy: “Missin’ my spouse already. Bet you’re sittin’ there lookin’ all cute, huh? 😘”

V? Seething.

Angel's reaction

1. The Initial Reaction: Stunned Silence (And an Immediate Drink)

When Angel first hears the news, she’s mid-photoshoot—some sleek, ethereal setup where everything is soft lighting and cold marble. Her phone buzzes with a notification from Luca (because, of course, he’s the one who spilled it to the whole server).

SURPRISE Y’ALL, DEVIL GOT WIFED UP 💍 @Goreboy @You

Her brain short-circuits. She actually calls a break. Angel, the perfectionist who never leaves a set, calls a break because her ex-turned-best-friend just got married without telling her.

And the first thing she does? Orders champagne.

If anyone’s getting drunk over this, it’s gonna be her.

2. Teases Ronin

She slides into Ronin’s DMs while waiting for her makeup touch-up, keeping it light, breezy—too breezy:

Angel: “Marriage? Really? Is this some new kink or are you serious?” Goreboy: “Relax, Mx goreboy will not be happy to see what you thought. I'm serious Angel."

Angel: “Ugh, That ring wasn't a joke..”

3. The Protective Big Sister Mode™

Angel sends you a DM next:

Angel: “Congratulations (I think). You sure you’re ready for that lunatic 24/7?”

You tell her you love him. That you’re happy.

And Angel feels happy for her friend...

4. The Girl Talk Interrogation

When you and Angel finally talk voice-to-voice, she’s sitting on her balcony, glass of wine in hand, night breeze tugging at her perfect curls. Her voice is too casual—the way it always is when she’s hiding how much she cares.

“So… tell me everything. Did he do some grand psycho thing? Blood hearts? A body? Knowing him, he probably thought a murder scene was romantic, huh?”

She laughs, but it’s not cruel. It’s just… Angel. Sharp edges wrapped in sugar.

But underneath, she’s asking the real question: Does he love you the way you deserve?

And when you answer—when you tell her how he looks at you, how he treats you like you’re the only thing in the world—Angel relaxes. Just a little.

Angel makes a public post in the server—for you—because that’s how she expresses love: loud, visible, undeniable.

"Congrats to the newlyweds. If @Goreboy screws this up, I’m personally throwing him into a woodchipper. 💋 #AngelApproved #WeddingOfTheYear"

Misaki's reactions!

💌 1. The Immediate Reaction: Absolute Chaos™

When Misaki finds out—because let’s be real, they didn’t get a formal announcement, Luca probably dropped it in the chat like a bomb—they lose it.

Luca: “Yo, @Goreboy got hitched. Someone check the apocalypse calendar.”

Misaki: “EXCUSE ME??? MARRIED?? LIKE LEGALLY?? WHO THE HELL ALLOWED THIS??”

Cue Misaki spamming the chat with caps lock, fifty cat memes, and alien abduction theories. Because if anyone was gonna get legally bound to Ronin, they figured it would be an interdimensional being, not a real person they actually know.

They’re not mad. They’re just deeply confused—and too entertained to stop.

💌 2. Instigating Maximum Drama™

Misaki immediately slides into your DMs with zero chill:

Misaki: “HOLD UP, YOU MARRIED THE DEVIL AND DIDN’T INVITE ME???” You: “It was… spontaneous.” Misaki: “Spontaneous is buying a weird energy drink at 3 AM, not legally binding yourself to the human equivalent of a horror movie jumpscare!!”

They are deeply offended they didn’t get to throw confetti or wear some ridiculous outfit to your wedding. In retaliation, they threaten to officiate a fake ceremony in the chatroom.

Misaki: “Second wedding. My rules. V’s the flower girl. Ronin wears a leash.”

And the scariest part? They’re dead serious about it.

💌 3. Confused… But Protective

Once the jokes die down (for about five seconds), Misaki takes a breath—and the worry kicks in. They may be playful, but underneath all that chaos is someone who actually cares.

Because they know Ronin.

And yeah, he’s fun, but he’s also… a lot. And they’ve seen how quickly things with him can go sideways if you aren’t careful.

So, they check in.

Misaki: “But seriously… you okay? He treating you right?”

When you tell them how happy you are, how Ronin’s been soft (well, as soft as he can be) and sincere, Misaki lets out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding.

💌 4. Becoming Your Self-Appointed "Marriage Consultant"

From that point on, Misaki takes it upon themselves to be your official marriage advisor, despite having no business doing so.

Misaki: “If he pisses you off, put glitter in his boots. No killer is scary when they sparkle.”

They send you relationship quizzes, offer weird gift ideas, and will absolutely text you things like:

Misaki: “If he ever forgets your anniversary, I’m legally required to assassinate him. Just saying.”

💌 5. Weird Wedding Gift Incoming

A week later, a mystery package shows up at your door. Inside?

A handmade knife (with both your initials engraved, because of course).

A mixtape labeled “Marriage Survival Guide” (track one is Olivia Rodrigo’s Bad Idea Right?).

A tiny alien plushie with a note: “If he acts up, beam his ass back to space. – Love, Misaki 👽”

💍 After-Wedding Ronin Headcanons 💀

🖤 1. "Husband" Privileges

Oh, you think Ronin is letting this slide quietly? No chance. The second those vows are said, it’s like he’s unlocked a new personality.

“‘Spouse’ sounds so boring—‘lover’ is better. But ‘husband’? Oh, babe, I’m gonna make that your favorite word.”

He abuses the title constantly—throwing around “husband” and “wife” or “spouse” in every context possible.

“Can’t argue with me, babe. Husband’s orders.”

“That’s ‘your devil husband’ to you.”

“You married me, sweetheart—this is legally your problem now.”

And he expects you to flex it, too. If you don’t show off the ring? He’ll make sure everyone sees it.

“Mx Y/n Beaufort.”

“This means you’re mine. No take-backs, sweetheart.”

He’ll tease, of course. Ask if you’re gonna run—if you regret it—but his grip when he holds you? That death-grip on your waist? Yeah, you’re not going anywhere.

💋 3. His Version of Domestic Bliss

Ronin’s not the white-picket-fence type—but he loves the idea of building chaos with you.

Late-night drives to nowhere, hands tangled on the gearshift.

he tells you the stories from his past.

Waking up with scissors on the nightstand and a love note tucked under your pillow.

“Rise and shine, lover—thought about murdering you in your sleep, but I’m sentimental now.”

He loves you, The next time he wakes up. He knows you're someone who won't discard his past. You will listen to it, He trusts you.

Angel

Angel as Your Wife – Wedding Day Perfection

Angel has always been the type to love love. She flirts like it’s second nature, teases with a wink and a smile, but underneath it all, she loves deeply, fiercely, without hesitation. And today—her wedding day—is the moment she’s been dreaming about since the day she realized forever with you was the only thing she ever truly wanted.

💍 The Proposal – The Moment She Knew

Angel is a romantic, but she also loves a bit of fun, so her proposal to you is an event. Whether she’s proposing to you or waiting for you to propose, it has to be memorable.

If she proposes, it’s spontaneous but perfect. Maybe it’s on a quiet rooftop under the city lights, her hands slipping into yours as she murmurs, “I never thought I’d find someone who could keep up with me, who’d see all of me and love me anyway.” Then she pulls out the ring, and for once, her teasing smirk softens into something more tender. “So, what do you say, sweetheart? Want to be mine forever?”

If you propose, she’s stunned—like genuinely breathless for a second, blinking at you before breaking into the brightest, most heart-melting smile. She tackles you in a hug before she even gets the words out. “Yes! Of course, yes! How could I ever say no to you?”

Either way, the moment the ring is on her finger, she’s already planning the wedding with stars in her eyes.

☀️ The Morning of the Wedding – Butterflies & Love Notes

Angel wakes up bouncing with excitement. She’s always been a morning person, but today, she’s practically glowing before the sun is even up.

Her first thought? You. She grabs her phone immediately, sending you a text: “Good morning, future spouse. I hope you’re ready, because in just a few hours, I’ll officially be yours. Nervous? Excited? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make sure you never regret saying ‘I do.’”

She sends you a little gift—maybe a handwritten letter filled with all the reasons she loves you, or a small locket with a picture of you both.

Despite being surrounded by bridesmaids and stylists, her mind keeps drifting to you. She keeps catching herself smiling in the mirror, twirling in her dress, wondering what your reaction will be when you see her.

👗 Her Look – A Vision in White

Angel has an eye for elegance, but she also knows how to make an impact.

Her dress is breathtaking—soft, flowing fabric that clings in all the right places, delicate lace details that shimmer under the light. She wants to look like a dream, and oh, she does.

Her makeup is just enough to enhance her natural beauty, with a soft glow and perfectly lined lips. She knows you love her smile, so she makes sure it stands out.

Her veil? Dramatic—because of course, Angel loves a touch of flair. But when she lifts it to kiss you, her eyes are locked onto yours, warm and full of love.

💌 The Ceremony – The Moment Everything Stops

When the doors open and Angel steps down the aisle, the entire world pauses.

Her eyes find yours instantly, and her teasing smile fades into something softer, more vulnerable. For once, she’s not flirting, not playing—she’s just looking at you, and the sheer love in her expression is enough to take your breath away.

She walks slowly, savoring every second, every step closer to you.

When she finally reaches you, she exhales a little laugh, whispering, “You look so good, my love. I almost want to skip the vows and kiss you now.”

And oh, the vows.

Angel speaks from the heart, her voice steady, but full of emotion. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing excitement, chasing passion. But then I met you, and suddenly, all I wanted was something steady—something real. You are my greatest adventure, my softest love, my forever. And I promise to be yours, every single day, for the rest of our lives.”

When the officiant finally says, “You may kiss the bride,” Angel does not wait. She throws her arms around you, pulling you in with a bright, breathless laugh before pressing her lips to yours in a kiss so deep, so full of love, that the entire crowd erupts into cheers.

🎉 The Reception – The Life of the Party

If the ceremony was emotional, the reception is pure fun. Angel is in her element—dancing, laughing, stealing kisses from you every chance she gets.

The First Dance: She pulls you close, resting her forehead against yours as you sway to the music. “Dancing with you feels like a dream,” she murmurs, “but you’re really mine, aren’t you?”

Feeding You Cake: She feeds you a bite with a teasing smile, but if you try to be playful and smear frosting on her nose? She gasps dramatically before grabbing you by the tie (or collar) and whispering, “You’ll pay for that later.”

The Bouquet Toss: Angel throws it over her shoulder without looking—and then winks when she sees who catches it.

🌙 The End of the Night – Just You & Her

As the guests start to leave, Angel finds you again, slipping her hand into yours.

She’s softer now, the excitement of the day settling into something deeper.

“Let’s go home,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “I’ve had you in front of hundreds of people all day. Now, I want you all to myself.”

The second the door closes behind you, she’s wrapping herself around you, sighing in relief. “I still can’t believe it,” she murmurs against your lips. “I get to be yours. Forever.”

And as she pulls you down into another slow, lingering kiss, it’s clear—this isn’t just the end of your wedding day. It’s the beginning of forever with Angel, your sweet, flirty, devoted wife. 💕

How V reacts!

V treats Angel’s wedding with his usual brand of stoic dignity—or at least, he tries to.

During the Ceremony: He watches silently from the back, arms crossed, dressed in an immaculate black suit. When Angel walks down the aisle, there’s the faintest hint of a smile—just a twitch at the corner of his lips. If anyone asks, he’ll claim he’s there to "ensure the institution of marriage isn’t a front for more criminal activity." But really? He respects Angel more than he lets on—and seeing her happy means something.

When Ronin Starts Teasing: V doesn’t engage—at first. But when Ronin drops his “consummate it” line, V glances over and mutters dryly, “It’s impressive how you can make anything sound depraved. A true talent.”

At the Reception: He lingers at the edge of the crowd, sipping sparkling water like it’s a stakeout. But when Angel pulls him onto the dance floor, he surprisingly doesn’t resist. He’s stiff at first—too controlled—but softens just enough to let Angel tease him into a spin. (He draws the line at twirling.)

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: It practically flies in his direction. He catches it with one hand—then immediately hands it off to the nearest bystander with a curt, “No.”

When Saying Goodbye: His farewell is simple, but sincere. He clasps Angel’s hand briefly and says, “You deserve to be happy. Don’t let anyone take that from you.” And if his gaze lingers on her just a second too long… well, no one calls him out on it. Not even Ronin.

How Misaki Reacts!

Misaki treats Angel’s wedding like it’s the social event of the decade—equal parts chaos and genuine affection.

During the Ceremony: She’s sitting in the front row, legs crossed, wearing a pastel pink suit that’s somehow both adorable and deadly. She whistles low when Angel walks down the aisle and mutters, “Damn, girl—if your spouse backs out, I’m right here.” She’s definitely the one who claps too early when they’re pronounced married.

When Ronin Starts Teasing: Misaki cackles. Loudly. And, of course, she piles on: “Please, you know Angel’s gonna break them in, not the other way around.” She even fake-swoons and adds, “Wish someone would ruin me like that.”

At the Reception: She’s the first on the dance floor and the last to leave it. At one point, she grabs the mic and gives an impromptu, half-drunk toast: “Angel, babe—if your spouse ever breaks your heart, I’m legally obligated to commit murder. Just saying. Congrats, though!” She cries a little at the end but blames it on the champagne.

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: Misaki dives for it like her life depends on it—elbowing anyone in her path. When she catches it, she holds it above her head like a trophy and yells, “I’M NEXT, BITCHES!”

When Saying Goodbye: She hugs Angel so tight it’s borderline suffocating. Her voice is soft, just for a moment, when she says, “I’m proud of you, y’know? You deserve all this happiness. Don’t mess it up"—but if you do, I’m still your ride-or-die.”"

How Ronin reacts!

Ronin treats Angel’s wedding like it’s both an opportunity and a game. He’s there to cause problems—but only the fun kind.

During the Ceremony: He shows up fashionably late, of course—wearing an all-black suit that’s too sharp to be legal. He slides into a seat next to Misaki, leans over, and whispers, “Think they’d let me object just for the drama?”

When Angel walks down the aisle, he whistles low under his breath and mutters, “Lucky bastard.” But when the vows start, for once, he’s quiet—watching with an unreadable expression. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

When It’s Official: The moment they’re pronounced married, he claps slowly and drawls, “Congratulations—enjoy the lifetime sentence.” But his smirk isn’t as sharp as usual. If anyone’s watching closely, they might catch the way he tilts his head—like he’s memorizing the sight of Angel happy.

At the Reception: He’s everywhere—stealing drinks, and stirring up chaos. When it’s time for speeches, he takes the mic without being invited.

"Angel, babe—I was gonna prepare a heartfelt speech, but let’s be honest, I’m here for the open bar. You’ve always had terrible taste—clearly, since you tolerate me—but somehow, you found someone crazy enough to love you. Don’t mess it up. Or do. I could use the entertainment.”

Of course, he flashes a wicked grin at Angel’s spouse and adds, “Good luck keeping up, sweetheart. You’re gonna need it.”

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: He makes a show of dodging it, dramatically stepping out of the way while saying, “Marriage? Nah. I’d be someone’s worst nightmare.” But there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—an itch he won’t admit.

When Saying Goodbye: His voice drops lower, teasing but softer when he pulls Angel in for a private goodbye. “Don’t go getting all domestic and boring on me, yeah? But... if they ever break your heart—well, you know how much I love a good reason to kill.”

And Angel walks away, he lingers just a little too long—watching, smirk slipping into something harder to read. He's happy...That his Friend has someone...

💍 Angel as a Wife – Headcanons 💋

Flirty Forever: Marriage doesn’t tone her down—if anything, it dials her charm up. Angel flirts like it’s her full-time job, whether you’ve been married for a week or a decade. Random texts like “Thinking about you in nothing but that ring. Come home soon~” are her specialty.

Spoiling You Rotten: Angel firmly believes her spouse deserves the best of everything. She buys gifts “just because,” books surprise vacations, and insists on pampering you with everything from homemade breakfasts to spontaneous spa days. If you so much as mention wanting something, it’ll probably show up by the end of the week.

Ultimate Hype-Wife: Whatever you do, Angel is your loudest cheerleader. Big career move? She’s throwing a celebration. Minor achievement? She’s bragging about you to anyone who’ll listen. She’s the type to make “I’m married to the hottest, smartest, most amazing human alive” her whole personality—and she means it.

Touchy-Feely Queen: Angel thrives on physical affection. Expect endless kisses (especially when you’re distracted), back rubs after a rough day, and snuggling close whenever you sit down. If you try to leave bed without a goodbye kiss, she’ll whine until she gets her due.

Fights? Flirt Them Away: Arguments with Angel rarely last long—mostly because she’s too stubborn to stay mad and too charming to let you stay mad. She’ll tease her way back into your good graces with a smirk, a soft apology, and probably a well-timed kiss. “You’re not really mad, are you? C’mon, baby~”

Possessive but Playful: Angel doesn’t get jealous often—she knows she’s a catch—but she’s very clear about one thing: you’re hers. If anyone flirts with you, she’s right there, wrapping an arm around your waist and flashing a smile that dares them to try harder. “Aw, sweetie, you’ve got great taste—but they’re all mine.”

Wife + Best Friend Combo: She’s your partner-in-crime for everything—shopping sprees, Netflix marathons, late-night junk food runs. Life with Angel is never boring, and she’s always game for a new adventure, as long as you’re by her side.

Pet Names Galore: She cycles through affectionate nicknames constantly—baby, sweetheart, honeybun, love of my life. If you blush at a particular one, congratulations—it’s now your permanent title.

Over-the-Top Anniversary Queen: Every milestone is an event with Angel. First kiss anniversary? Fancy dinner. Wedding anniversary? Expect an elaborate romantic getaway. She lives for grand gestures and wants you to feel cherished every single day.

Soft, Secret Vulnerability: Beneath the playful exterior, Angel takes marriage seriously. She’s terrified of losing you or not being enough, though she rarely voices these fears outright. On quiet nights, when the world slows down, she’ll hold you a little tighter and whisper, “You’ll stay with me forever, right?”

🌙 Misaki’s Rooftop Wedding – Headcanons 🌙

Setting: A city rooftop at night—skyline glowing, a chaotic mix of neon signs and moonlight. It’s so them—a little messy, a little reckless, but undeniably full of heart. V handled all the preparations with his signature precision (and judgmental sighs), while Ronin and Angel add a sprinkle of chaos just for fun.

🎵 1. Wedding Vibes: Jazz, Chaos, and Cup Noodles

Misaki refuses a traditional ceremony—too stuffy—so the wedding is an informal, wild mix of their favorite things: jazz music blasting, neon lights glowing, and a makeshift altar made from stolen milk crates (Ronin’s touch, obviously).

Angel makes a playlist with Rina Sawayama and Olivia Rodrigo bops because “Misaki deserves a banger soundtrack.”

There’s a snack table… well, more like an entire section dedicated to cup noodles. V disapproves but lets it slide—this once.

🌟 2. Their Wedding Look: Streetwear Chic Chaos

Misaki does not dress traditionally. They rock a black-and-red themed wedding outfit—sleek but chaotic. Their usual worn striped shirt is swapped for a matching black-and-red blazer with the sleeves rolled up.

The lock on their red choker? Custom-engraved with your initials.

They stick to their star hair clips—because they’re a star, duh—but Angel gifted them a tiny wolf charm to wear on their boot. (“For your werewolf agenda.”)

V, with his perfectionism, tried to get them a “sensible” wedding ring—Misaki immediately swapped it for a cheap, heart-shaped plastic ring from a vending machine.

💌 3. The Vows: Silly, Sweet, and So Very Misaki

Misaki writes their vows on the back of a convenience store receipt (fitting, considering their broke assassin lifestyle). Despite the messy delivery, their words are raw and honest: “I never thought I’d make it to something as soft as this. You’re the one thing that makes all this chaos worth it. I’m yours—mess and all.”

They get flustered halfway through and throw in a joke: “If I die first, you get all my cup noodle stash. That’s real love, babe.”

🔪 4. How Everyone Reacts

V: Stoic but proud. He spent weeks planning everything and it’s…chaotic, but seeing Misaki happy softens his usual icy demeanor. At the end, he quietly pulls you aside and says, “Keep them safe. They deserve it.”

Ronin: Cannot stop teasing. Every time Misaki gets emotional, he’s whispering something like, “Aw, soft little killer’s gone domestic. Adorable.” But he means it—his chaos aside, he tells you in private, “Take care of our disaster, yeah?”

Angel: Is the emotional one, dabbing their eyes with a tissue and cheering the loudest when you kiss. They’re also the first to demand a dance party afterward.

🎁 5. The Gifts: Because It’s Misaki

Misaki’s love language is gift-giving—so, naturally, they hand you a handmade, weirdly adorable scrapbook of your relationship so far. Complete with doodles of them as a werewolf protecting you.

Your gift to them? A custom-made lock to replace the one on their choker—it opens with your fingerprint only. They’re OBSESSED.

💫 6. Post-Wedding Chaos

After the ceremony, Misaki pulls you into a rooftop dance—barefoot, giggling, spinning to a jazz remix of their favorite songs.

You both steal leftover cup noodles from the snack table and eat them sitting on the rooftop edge, feet dangling over the city. Misaki leans against you, sighing softly: “If aliens are real, they’d be jealous of this.”

Ronin insists on a “honeymoon prank spree,” while V pretends not to know any of you. Angel suggests a beach trip instead—Misaki loves the idea (mainly because they want to see you in a swimsuit).

Despite the chaos, the night ends with you tangled together under the city lights—Misaki’s head on your shoulder, murmuring: “I’m still a mess, but I’m your mess now.”

How Each would react!

🖤 V – The Reluctant Wedding Planner

Let’s be real—V did not want to organize this chaos, but Misaki (and you) asked, so he did it perfectly.

He handled the venue, the food (even if it was cup noodles), and made sure everything ran smoothly. Efficiency first.

While everyone’s goofing off, he’s quietly watching from the corner, arms crossed. If anyone dares to mess up the ceremony? They answer to him.

Emotional Reaction:

He won’t admit it, but he cares—a lot. Seeing Misaki genuinely happy softens his usual cold exterior. When you exchange vows, you catch the faintest twitch of a smile.

After the ceremony, he pulls you aside and says in his quiet, serious tone: “They’re fragile, even if they pretend otherwise. Don’t hurt them.”

Wedding Gift:

V gifts you both, What...He could. He makes sure, It's well-taken.

🔥 Ronin

Ronin shows up in the most absurd outfit—a sleek black suit, but the tie is covered in tiny cartoon wolves because "Misaki’s whole werewolf thing is iconic, babe."

He spends the whole night teasing both of you, leaning into Misaki’s ear during the vows to whisper: “Awww, soft assassin finally tied down. You’re practically domesticated now.”

Emotional Reaction:

Beneath the teasing, Ronin’s more sentimental than he lets on. He watches Misaki beam during the first dance and mutters to himself, “They deserve something good. Guess that’s you.”

He’s the first to make a dramatic toast, grinning like a devil: “If you break their heart, sweetheart, I’ll break your kneecaps. Fair trade, yeah?”

Wedding Gift:

A personalized lock-and-key set: the lock is heart-shaped and engraved with “Property of Y/N”—he hands it over with a wink.

Also sneaks an untraceable burner phone into Misaki’s gift bag because “You two will get up to crimes eventually. Might as well be prepared.”

💋 Angel

Angel is the emotional one—they’ve been waiting for this moment forever. When you both say “I do,” they’re openly crying while clutching a bedazzled tissue.

They personally decorate the rooftop with fairy lights and glowing stars (“Because Misaki’s a star, duh.”) and insist on a first dance under the neon lights.

Emotional Reaction:

Angel pulls you both into a tight hug right after the ceremony, voice thick with emotion: “You two are so freaking cute. If you mess this up, I’m divorcing both of you emotionally.”

They’re the first to drag you and Misaki to the dance floor, twirling you around while shouting, “Married life means more jazz, babe!”

Wedding Gift:

A scrapbook of all your chaotic group memories—half of it is glitter-covered, and there are way too many doodles of Misaki as a werewolf.

They also gift you a matching bracelet set, one that says “Killer Couple” because Angel is nothing if not dramatic.

💌 After Marriage Headcanons with Misaki 💌

Your life together is a mix of cozy chaos. Mornings are spent tangled in bed sheets because Misaki is not a morning person—good luck trying to pry them away from you.

Misaki insists on keeping your home aesthetic but comfy. Expect string lights, random trinkets from missions, and a million throw pillows because they like to “nest.”

They absolutely steal your clothes—hoodies, shirts, even socks. If it smells like you? It’s theirs now. Don’t fight it.

Home Setup:

Your place is a weird hybrid of a sleek assassin hideout and a cozy city apartment. Their bunker days are over, and you make sure they have a soft place to land after jobs.

Cup noodles still dominate the pantry, but they try to cook for you sometimes. It's… chaotic, but their enthusiasm is cute.

“I made dinner!” “This is three different flavors of instant ramen, babe.” “You love it.”

💖 Affection Overload

Misaki is clingy—but in a cute, touch-starved way. They’re always finding excuses to touch you, whether it’s holding hands, leaning on you, or cuddling in the middle of the day.

Surprise forehead kisses are their favorite weapon. They’ll catch you off guard, pressing a kiss to your temple while grinning, “Love ya, babe.”

When they’re anxious, they’ll find you and bury their face in your neck. Your touch calms them down faster than anything else.

Pet Names Galore:

You get a rotation of chaotic and sweet nicknames—"babe," "cutie," and their personal favorite, “My favorite human.”

If you call them a pet name? Instant blush. They act cool, but the minute you say something like “baby”—they melt.

🎁 Love Language: Gift-Giving

Misaki constantly brings you random gifts—they’re bad at expressing feelings with words, but their love shows in thoughtful gestures.

You get:

Tiny trinkets from their missions (“Look! I stole this cool keychain just for you!”).

Silly notes left around the house (“Don’t forget to eat, nerd.”).

Handmade playlists labeled things like “For when you miss me” or “Hot Assassin Vibes Only.”

🔫 Balancing Assassin Life & Marriage

They’re still taking contracts, but they work less after marrying you. You become their anchor—a reason to come home in one piece.

Whenever they’re out on a job, they text you constantly:

“Still alive. Miss ur face.”

“Bet you’re wearing my hoodie rn.”

“If I die, clear my search history. Love u 💀.”

You’re their emotional support after missions. When the weight of their work gets heavy, you’re the one they fall apart with—and you never judge them for it.

🎶 Random Marriage Shenanigans

Dance Breaks: Random jazz-fueled dance parties in your living room. Misaki will literally grab your hand mid-task and spin you around while singing off-key.

Aliens Exist, Fight Me: They are obsessed with alien documentaries and will drag you into deep conversations at 2 AM.

“Babe, what if we’re just, like, an alien reality show?”

“Misaki. Go to sleep.”

Pet Parenting: One day, they adopt a stray cat and name it “Murderbean.” Misaki spoils it rotten. Murderbean likes you best, and they’re jealous.

🌟 Soft Vulnerability

Marriage makes them softer—with you, at least. You’re the only person they feel safe enough to let their guard down around.

On bad days, they curl up beside you, murmuring, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” They mean it.

They still struggle with anxiety, but knowing they have you makes it easier. When they get overwhelmed, you hold them until their breathing steadies.

💍 Forever Vibes

They talk about the future like it’s inevitable—with you, it is. Misaki jokes about retiring and opening a record shop with you one day.

“As long as I’ve got you, babe, I’m good.”

If you’re ever away for too long, they’ll dramatically drape themselves across the bed and text you, “Come home. I’m dying. No one else makes cup noodles like you do.”

🖤 V’s Proposal

V’s proposal isn’t grand or flashy—it’s intimate, deliberate, and entirely him. For a man who sees himself as a protector of justice, promising forever to you is a vow he takes more seriously than anything else.

📖 The Moment It Happens:

It starts with small changes—V’s usual hyper-focus on his work begins to shift. You notice how often he lingers at home, how his fingers brush against yours more often, and how his rare humor comes easier when you’re near.

One night, after a long evening, he finds you sitting on the balcony watching the stars. He doesn’t speak immediately—he just stands there, as if memorizing how you look under the moonlight.

Without his usual tactical armor, he seems softer—like the edges of his sharp moral code dull when he’s with you.

He kneels, smooth and controlled, and extends a small, hand-carved wooden box. You can tell he made it himself—polished oak, edges crisp and precise. No waste. Nothing careless.

Inside is a delicate ring—a silver band shaped like intertwining vines, with a small gemstone nestled between two silver birds in flight.

His voice—steady, low—breaks the silence:

"A lifetime isn't enough to repay what you’ve given me. But if you'll have me, I'll spend every day trying."

💍 How He Handles Your Response:

The moment you say "yes," V’s composure wavers—just a little. His breath hitches; his fingers tremble as he slides the ring onto your hand.

He doesn’t waste words—but the look he gives you is fierce, unyielding. The kind of gaze that says you’re not just his partner—you’re his reason.

When he pulls you into his arms, there’s a gentleness in his touch that no one else ever gets to see. And he lingers—always lingers—because holding you feels more like home than any place he’s ever known.

🕊️ Your Wedding Day – A Sanctuary of Wings 🕊️

V isn’t a man who does things halfway—your wedding is no exception. Every detail reflects his principles: kindness, minimal harm, and a world where every life matters.

1. The Venue – A Bird Sanctuary Paradise

The ceremony is held at a sprawling wildlife reserve—a bird sanctuary he’s been quietly funding for years

The setting is breathtaking: a secluded meadow surrounded by towering trees, soft petals scattered underfoot, and the air filled with birdsong.

Aviaries open during the ceremony, allowing rescued birds—doves, swallows, and finches—to fly freely above the altar.

2. V’s Wedding Attire – Sleek, Minimalist Elegance

He’s all sharp angles in a custom black suit—tailored to perfection. No gaudy embellishments—just clean, elegant lines.

Around his lapel, a silver pin shaped like a raven’s wing—your private symbol.

But when you approach? His expression softens, his usual cold restraint cracking beneath the warmth he saves for you.

3. The Ceremony – V’s Vows

V’s vows are short—but every word is deliberate, and his voice holds no hesitation.

"I’ve walked through a world of violence, always alone. Until you."

"Your kindness—the way you see the world—changed something in me. You remind me why I fight. Why life matters."

"I vow to protect you. To stand beside you. And if you’ll let me—I’ll make every moment worth it."

When he slips the ring onto your finger—a matching silver band etched with the wings of a dove—you see the faintest tremor in his hand.

Because for all his composure, this moment matters to him more than any mission he’s ever taken on.

4. Animal-Friendly

No leather, no silk—every material is cruelty-free. =

Instead of traditional confetti, guests toss biodegradable wildflower seeds—so the meadow will bloom with color long after the wedding is over.

Rescue animals from the sanctuary are honored guests—V even arranges a surprise for you: an owl you once admired during a visit flies in during the ceremony with a silk ribbon carrying your rings.

5. How V Reacts Seeing You Walk Down the Aisle

The moment you step into view, V—who’s always so composed—freezes. For once, his calculating mind is quiet.

His lips part slightly, breath catching. And when your eyes meet? The rest of the world ceases to exist.

He doesn’t realize he’s clenched his fists until his knuckles turn white—like holding himself back from rushing to you.

And the closer you come, the softer his expression grows—by the time you reach him, his hands are already outstretched, steadying you as if you’re the most fragile, precious thing he’s ever known.

6. The Reception – A Quiet Celebration

V doesn’t like big crowds, so your reception is an intimate gathering. Close friends, the sanctuary staff, and (of course) the Killer Chat gang.

He ensures all donations from the guests go directly to the bird sanctuary—your wedding doesn’t just celebrate your love; it leaves a lasting legacy of kindness.

When you dance together for the first time, V is surprisingly graceful. But his focus isn’t on perfect steps—it’s on you. Every touch, every glance is full of quiet adoration.

7. After the Ceremony – A Private Moment Just for You

When the guests drift away, V leads you back to the aviary—where a newly rehabilitated falcon spreads its wings, ready to take flight.

You release the bird together, watching as it soars free. His fingers lace with yours, voice low:

"Freedom matters. But so does choosing where you want to be."

And as the bird disappears into the sky, he turns to you—lips brushing against your temple—and murmurs the words he never thought he’d have reason to say:

"I choose you."

Reaction!

Ronin

“Awww, our little edgelord grew a heart.” The moment Ronin hears about the wedding, he’s insufferable. Absolutely unbearable. He shows up just to stir the pot—grinning like the devil, all sharp teeth and bad intentions. From the second he lays eyes on V in his formal wear, he’s got jokes. “Didn’t think you’d live long enough to settle down, bro. What’s next? A white picket fence? Little masked brats?”

Flirting with You—Just to Poke the Bear: Ronin doesn’t miss a single opportunity to tease. The second he catches you alone, he’s all smooth lines and mock flirtation, just loud enough for V to hear. “You sure you wanna lock yourself down, sweetheart? I mean, icy’s fine and all—but I come with fireworks.” He always flashes a wink right before V steps in—because what’s life without a little danger?

Messing with V’s Image: He makes it his mission to chip at V’s ever-serious persona. At the reception, he leans in to whisper (way too loud), “Can you believe it? V—Mr. Justice himself—married. I thought the only thing he’d ever commit to was brooding in alleys.” He’s fully prepared to dodge a punch if necessary.

To You—Half Serious, Half Joke: When things settle down, Ronin pulls you aside. For once, his voice softens—just a little. “Look, V’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not all bad. And trust me—he’ll go down swinging for you.” Then, with a wicked grin, he adds, “Still… if he gets too boring, you’ve got my number.”

Brotherly Concern—In His Own Way: Beneath the teasing, there’s a glimmer of something real. As you’re about to leave, he catches you both one last time. His usual smirk fades—just a bit—and he says quietly, “Take care of him, yeah? He acts like he doesn’t need it, but…” He trails off, then adds with a grin, “If he ever gets too serious, I’ll come mess him up for free.”

Post-Wedding Shenanigans: Ronin does not let V live it down. Anytime he’s in the chat, he’s dropping lines like:

“Hey, husband-of-the-year, how’s married life?”

“Y’know, I always knew you had a soft spot. But this? This is adorable.”

“If you two have a fight, just send them my way—I give killer marriage advice.”

But Deep Down… He won’t admit it, but seeing V happy? It kinda warms the shriveled thing he calls a heart. Not that he’d ever say it. But if anyone dared threaten your happiness, they’d have two monsters to deal with—because as much as he loves to mess with V, no one else gets to touch his “bro.”

✨ Misaki and Angel Reacting to V and You Getting Married ✨

🗡️ Misaki’s Reaction (The Agent of Chaos)

“Wait—you mean, V? That V? Mr. No-Fun?” When they first hear the news, Misaki is in utter disbelief. They dramatically gasp, clutching their chest like it’s the most shocking thing they’ve ever heard. “I thought V was married to his moral code! You’re telling me he found someone who willingly deals with that?”

Relentless Teasing—With Love: They spend the entire wedding day bouncing between genuine support and pure mischief. During the ceremony, they lean over to you and whisper, “Blink twice if you need rescuing. I know a guy.” Then, to V: “Wow, you actually smile. Who knew you had human emotions?”

The Chaos Gift: Misaki’s wedding gift? Pure trouble. It’s either:

A matching set of “Justice” and “Chaos” mugs.

A framed photo of V looking broody with a glittery heart drawn around it.

A lock-picking set labeled “For when V’s rules get too much.”

Low-Key Soft About It: Beneath all the teasing, they’re actually kind of touched. At the reception, when you’re not looking, they tell V, “You better treat them right, or I’ll break every bone in your body—lovingly, of course.” And to you? “If you need a break from the broody husband life, call me. I’m way more fun.”

💋 Angel’s Reaction (The Sweetheart Femme Fatale)

“Aww, my cold little knight found love? Be still my heart.” Angel is delighted. She always suspected there was a soft center under V’s icy exterior, but seeing him actually marry someone? She’s practically glowing with joy for both of you.

Supportive with a Side of Flirt: During the wedding prep, she offers to help with anything you need—while slipping in teasing comments. To you: “If he ever gets too broody, I’m just a call away. I’m excellent at… distracting.” And to V: “Be nice to them, darling. You may scare everyone else, but I’ve got claws too.”

Her Wedding Gift—Elegance Meets Mischief: Angel’s gift is both thoughtful and playful—something like:

A luxurious couple’s spa day voucher (because she knows V needs to unwind).

A sleek dagger set engraved with “For better or worse.”

An elegant framed photo of you two with a handwritten note: “True love is rare—don’t mess it up, darling.”

Protective Big Sister Vibes: She may flirt and tease, but her protective side comes out in quiet moments. She pulls you aside to say softly, “You make him happy. I see it. But if he forgets how lucky he is? You know where to find me.”

After the Wedding – Life with V as Your Husband

V doesn’t just see marriage as a title—it’s a vow, a binding promise he takes as seriously as his work. Being his spouse means you’ve broken through walls no one else ever has, and now? He’s yours—entirely, irrevocably.

1. The Home You Share – A Haven of Quiet Comfort

V custom-builds a home on the edge of a nature reserve—secluded, quiet, and surrounded by wildlife. Large windows let you watch birds and animals roam freely, while the interiors are sleek but warm.

The house is eco-friendly—everything sourced ethically, with minimal environmental impact. Solar panels, rainwater collection, the whole thing—V doesn’t do anything halfway.

Despite his cold image, your shared bedroom is a place of warmth. Soft lighting, heavy blankets for nesting together, and an ever-present sense that this is where he feels safest—by your side.

2. The Way V Loves – Fierce, Silent, and Unyielding

V isn’t traditionally affectionate, but when it’s just the two of you? He melts.

His touches are feather-light—fingertips brushing your hair back, a hand resting protectively on your lower back, or a thumb tracing over your wedding band when he thinks you aren’t watching.

You become his anchor. After every night patrol, no matter how tired, he always comes home to you—sometimes slipping into bed without a word, but his arms wrap around you tight, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

He notices everything. If you’re cold? He’s draping his coat over your shoulders. Tired? He’s already running you a hot bath. Sad? He doesn’t offer empty words—he offers presence, grounding you with quiet care.

3. V’s Domestic Quirks – Things You Discover After Marriage

Early Mornings Together: V’s a painfully early riser—he likes to meditate or train before dawn. But on rare days off? He stays in bed longer just to hold you.

His Tea Ritual: He has an entire shelf dedicated to obscure herbal teas. No matter what mood you’re in, he has a blend for it—especially if it soothes you.

Silent Acts of Love: Flowers aren’t his thing—but he fixes broken things without being asked. Keeps your favorite snacks stocked. Learns every little habit you have and quietly accommodates them.

4. Protective to a Fault – But He Trusts Your Strength

He never stops being your protector—but he never underestimates you. If you want to be involved in his work or his world, he doesn’t hold you back.

Still, if anyone dares to threaten you? He’s not forgiving. There are no warnings—only consequences.

He checks in, always. If you’re out late, you’ll find a simple message on your phone: “Are you safe?”

5. Intimacy – The Soft Side No One Else Sees

V isn’t loud about his affection, but behind closed doors? He’s endlessly gentle.

He craves your touch more than he admits. A hand tangled in his hair while he works? Instantly soothes him.

If you kiss him before he leaves on patrol, he lingers longer than he should—like he doesn’t want to pull away.

After difficult nights, he doesn’t ask for comfort outright—but the way he clings to you in his sleep says everything.

6. Jealous? Not Exactly—But…

V isn’t the type to get jealous easily—he knows your heart belongs to him.

That said, if someone flirts with you? He won’t say anything—but his presence shifts. Colder. Sharper. And the offender usually backs off without him needing to lift a finger.

Ronin loves teasing him about this—“Careful, Angel. If you break his heart, who’ll keep the streets clean?”—and V’s usual stoicism cracks just a little when you smile at him in response.

7. Building a Future – With You, There’s Always Hope

Despite his heavy worldview, being with you brings light into his life. He wants a future with you—and he allows himself to dream of one.

He secretly wonders if you’d want to foster rescue animals—or maybe even kids someday. He’d never push, but if you bring it up? He’s already imagining filling your home with life.

Whatever path you choose, V’s vow remains the same: “I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

227 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 16 days ago

Text

A LOYAL HEART | OP81

an: the longer i was writing redcoat the longer i was falling in love with this version of oscar and i was held at gunpoint to write something for our dear boy. i loved writing this little universe, come talk to me about it if you like it!

warnings: mentions of death and miscarriage

wc: 5.0k

summary: Following Lando's story in Redcoat, this follows Oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. Burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. Through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.

redcoat part one | redcoat part two

CHARLESTON, 1785

The war had ended, or so the papers claimed.

But the streets still bristled with the memory of it. With boots, with bruised pride, with banners torn down but not forgotten. Charleston stood like a house after a storm: upright, but no longer quite the same.

Oscar had been posted there six months now. Not as a soldier, they said, but a man of peace. He wore the same red coat, only now it felt thinner. Not in fabric, but in meaning. Where once it had shielded him with duty, now it hung from his shoulders like a story no one wanted to read again.

He still polished his boots each morning. Still folded his letters to Lando with precision. Still stood when women entered a room and removed his hat as if God Himself were watching.

It was routine that kept him breathing.

And routine that led him, one golden afternoon, into the old quarter, where homes leaned tiredly into one another and shops bore names not meant for British tongues.

There, nestled beneath the shadow of a drooping willow, was a small apothecary.

It was nothing grand. A bell that clattered like a cough when the door swung. Shelves lined with glass jars, some empty, some filled with dried herbs, some labelled with scrawl barely legible. A counter smoothed from the brushing of many elbows. And behind it was a woman.

She did not smile when he entered. Nor did she greet him. She simply looked up from her mortar and pestle and said, “You’re bleeding.”

Oscar blinked. Looked down. Sure enough, a thread-thin cut ran across the back of his knuckle, courtesy of a brass buckle and his own damn stubbornness.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “you lot never do.”

And then she turned, muttering something about oak bark and stubborn fools, and disappeared into the back.

He should have left. Truly, he should’ve.

But Oscar stayed. Drawn by something he could not name—perhaps it was the way she had not flinched at the red of his coat. Or the way she’d looked at him not like a soldier, not like a symbol, but like a man too daft to clean a wound.

She returned moments later with a scrap of linen and something bitter-smelling in a chipped jar.

“This’ll sting,” she warned.

“Good,” he replied.

She arched a brow, and the corner of her mouth twitched, but did not smile.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, without question.

And for the first time since the war had ended, Oscar felt something stir in him that was not guilt, not weariness, not displacement.

It was... quiet.

And curious.

And very much alive.

He came back two days later.

No injury this time. Not even a scratch to excuse his presence. Only a chill to the morning air, and the slow, unsatisfying drag of time between dawn and noon. He told himself it was the sound of the apothecary bell that drew him. That odd, metallic cough. Something needed mending.

But it wasn’t the bell.

It was her.

She looked up as he entered. Still no smile. Still no formal greeting. Just that same flat stare, heavy with appraisal, as though weighing not his presence, but his purpose.

“You’re not bleeding,” she observed, arms crossed.

He cleared his throat. “I noticed the door hangs. Makes a racket when the wind kicks in. Thought I might fix it.”

“Do I strike you as someone helpless with a hinge?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I’ve spent so long fighting men, I thought I might try fixing something instead.”

There was silence. Then, with the softest exhale, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement, she gestured with her head.

“Toolbox’s under the stairs. Don’t break anything.”

He nodded once. Removed his coat, slowly, almost reverently, and hung it over the back of a nearby chair.

It struck her then, how deliberately he did everything. As though every action were a confession. As though the very act of folding, of lifting, of hammering quietly, was his penance.

She watched him work. Not openly, but from behind her shelves. Between tasks. A careful, covert study.

He didn’t hum, as some men did. Didn’t boast or explain or ask for praise. Just knelt, straightened, tightened, and tested. All in holy silence.

At one point, he murmured, “You’ve made something peaceful here.”

She paused. Dried her hands on a cloth. “Peace is expensive.”

He glanced up. “And who paid for yours?”

She didn’t answer. Only said, “If you’re after a confession, you’ll have to find a priest.”

Oscar smiled, not broadly, but in that quiet, stunned sort of way a man does when something warm touches a cold place he’d forgotten about.

“I stopped trusting priests when mine told me war was glorious.”

She looked at him then. Properly. And something unspoken passed between them, not flirtation, not fondness. Something older. Graver. A shared truth without the burden of speaking it aloud.

When he stood, the door no longer squeaked.

He gathered his coat, eyes still on her. “I’ll be by again,” he said.

She arched a brow. “More hinges?”

“Not if I can help it.”

It was the kind of storm that made you feel watched. Thunder low and rolling, like God pacing behind closed doors. Rain that struck the shutters with impatient fingers. Wind that howled not for entrance, but in warning.

She had just locked the shop when the knock came.

Not loud. Just three quick raps. Measured. Controlled. And yet somehow...desperate.

She opened the door to find him drenched. Hat forgotten. Red coat darkened by rain, hair plastered to his brow, shoulders hunched like the weight of silence had finally broken him.

“Oscar,” she said, blinking. “What in heaven’s name—”

“Our quarters flooded and I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice raw, like it had rubbed against something sharp.

She stepped aside without question.

Inside, the apothecary felt even smaller against the storm. Shelves cast long shadows by the hearth’s glow. The scent of dried lavender and damp wool clung thickly in the air. She handed him a towel without asking. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

They didn’t speak for a moment. Just the fire. The distant moan of wind. And the quiet thump of his heartbeat trying to calm itself.

She watched him as he stood by the hearth, drying his hands but not his eyes. He looked like a man who’d wandered too long in a wilderness of thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, soldier?” she asked, soft but steady.

He let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “You ever sit so still the past catches up with you?”

She tilted her head, waiting.

“I’ve been... proud,” he said slowly. “Too proud to admit it. But the war didn’t just take lives, it took the map I lived by. God, country, command, all of it. Gone quiet. I watched boys younger than me fall with prayers still on their lips. And I kept waiting, for something. Some divine sign. Some reason.”

He swallowed.

“But it never came. Only more orders. More blood. And now... Lando is alive, and happy. And I’m glad. I truly am. But it makes the quiet louder, somehow. Like the war gave him purpose. And all it left me was... this.”

He gestured vaguely, to the coat, to the rain, to himself.

Silence fell again, thick and reverent.

She looked at him, not with pity, but understanding. A shared ache. A mirror held at an angle.

“It’s funny,” she said, “how quickly the world moves forward while we’re stuck in the past, isn’t it?”

Oscar turned to her, brow furrowed but not questioning.

She met his gaze. Unflinching. Voice softer now, almost lost to the crackle of fire. “I was married. Before the war.”

He said nothing, but his eyes said everything.

“He was a printer. Fingers always ink-stained. Used to read scripture aloud even when no one asked him to. Said it kept the walls holy.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, as if holding something back.

“They sent his effects in a box smaller than a Bible,” she said. “Told me it was a noble death. As if nobility made the bed feel any less empty.”

A beat.

Then she smiled—not brightly, but with the grace of someone still alive despite everything.

“So no, you’re not the only one who’s lost his faith.”

Oscar breathed in. Something shaky. Sacred.

And then, after a long moment, he said, “May I stay? Just for a little while. I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”

She nodded once, and crossed the room to light a second candle.

Not for brightness.

But for company.

The storm pressed on, but the room had settled. Two souls made smaller by time, and yet somehow, just tonight, stretched wider than they’d dared in years.

Oscar sat in the chair closest to the fire, boots off, coat hung to dry, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He looked… less like a soldier now. More like a man learning to breathe again.

She handed him a mug of something warm and when their fingers touched, just briefly, he didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough from use.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but there was something in her eyes that said it was.

A kind of silence grew between them. Comfortable. Earned.

“I used to love storms,” she said, glancing at the window where rain danced like it had secrets. “When I was a girl, I’d stand on the porch and count the seconds between thunder and lightning.”

“And now?”

“Now I just listen. There’s something honest about a storm, don’t you think? It doesn’t pretend.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “I used to think they were God’s way of shouting.”

“And now?”

“I think… maybe He’s just tired of whispers.”

That made her look at him. Really look. And for the first time, Oscar didn’t look away.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in a long while,” he admitted.

“You mean a woman?” she teased, brows raised.

He chuckled, low and unguarded. “I mean anyone who doesn’t expect me to salute or bleed.”

That quiet fell again. Like a blanket. Like a church.

After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on the fire.

“Lando… he has a future,” he murmured. “He talks about land. About building things. You can hear it in his voice, hope, like he’s already halfway there.”

“And you?”

“I’ve only just stopped being angry. I don’t know what comes next.”

She moved to sit across from him, knees close, skirts brushing his boots.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Not tonight.”

Oscar looked up at her, something fragile in his expression.

Then, “Will you read to me?”

She blinked. “Read?”

“You said he used to read scripture aloud. Your husband.”

“I—yes. I did.”

“You don’t have to. But… I’d like to remember what it sounds like. Holy words in a quiet room.”

She hesitated, then reached for a small worn Bible that still lived on a shelf above the counter. She hadn’t opened it in some time.

Her fingers turned the pages until they found something old and comforting.

She read, voice soft but sure. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…”

The storm cracked loud outside, but Oscar closed his eyes.

And in that moment, with scripture on her lips and thunder in the heavens, something inside him, something angry and hard, bent ever so slightly toward peace.

When she finished, they said nothing.

But he stayed. All night.

On the floor beside the hearth, with a spare blanket and a pillow she brought without question. She watched him fall asleep, his brow soft in sleep, his shoulders less haunted.

And just before she climbed into her own bed, she looked up to the ceiling and whispered, “Maybe You haven’t gone quiet after all.”

He was up before her.

She found him standing in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled once more, hair sleep-ruffled, brow furrowed like the kettle had offended him personally. He held a spoon in one hand and stared at it, as though willing it to explain what, precisely, it was meant to stir.

“You look like a man attempting sorcery,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

Oscar glanced up, utterly unbothered by the state of him. “I’ve faced battle with less confusion.”

“Did you… attempt tea?”

“I may have boiled it to death.”

She crossed to him, took the kettle gently from his hand and laughed, soft, lovely. “That’s not even tea, Oscar. That’s penance.”

He huffed through a smile. “Fitting.”

As she re-boiled the water properly and laid out two chipped cups, he leaned back against the counter, watching her. Something in him had quieted. Not dulled, but steadied.

“I haven’t had a morning like this in years,” he said at length.

“With poorly made tea and a storm-soaked floor?”

“With… kindness.”

She didn’t look at him, just poured the tea, steady hand and all. “It’s not kindness,” she said. “It’s tea.”

He took the cup she offered, holding it with both hands. “It’s more than that.”

She sipped her own, smirk tugging at her lips. “You always speak like you’re mid-sermon.”

“And you speak like you’ve no time for sermons.”

“Perhaps because I haven’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I’ve lived through war. Grief. Raising a child who never came.”

That silenced the room a little. Not heavy, but honest.

Oscar swallowed. “You never mentioned a child.”

“Because I didn’t get to know them. War doesn’t just steal men, Oscar. It takes the things they leave behind.”

He said nothing for a moment, just set down his cup and reached for hers. His hand touched hers when he took it, eyes holding hers with a gentleness that undid her for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not asking for sorrow.”

“Then what would you ask?”

“Company. Real company. Not charity or pity or pride. Just… presence.”

A pause. He nodded. “That, I can offer.”

They stood there, the kettle between them, the storm long gone but its echo still on the windows.

After a moment, she sighed. “So. What now?”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Are we just two people in a kitchen, or are we friends?”

Oscar looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he stepped forward, ever so slightly.

“We’re two people,” he said. “But I think… I’d like us to be more.”

“And what does that look like?”

“A promise. Not grand. Not immediate. Just, if you’ll have it, a loyal heart. Mine.”

She smiled, the sort of smile she hadn’t dared since the world ended.

And as the clock ticked on the mantle and the morning sun peeled itself over the wet horizon, she reached for his hand and said, simply.

“I’ll have it.”

The storm passed. The roads dried. And Oscar didn’t leave.

He made excuses at first, something about checking the roof tiles, how the cellar door didn’t shut properly, how she oughtn’t be lifting crates that heavy. She scoffed, but never told him to go.

They fell into rhythm. Not of love, yet. But something gentler. She caught him humming once as he mended a broken latch. He caught her staring too long at his hands, then pretending she hadn’t.

They shared tea in the mornings. Supper in the evenings. Walks when the weather allowed. Silence when it didn’t.

It wasn’t rushed. There was no grand declaration, no clumsy grasping at passion to fill the empty space between them.

Just… space filled with something else.

One morning, she found him kneeling in the garden, sleeves rolled, palms in the soil like it might speak to him. A sprig of rosemary tucked behind one ear. She leaned against the doorway and called out, “If you’re going to start whispering to the vegetables, I’ll need warning.”

Oscar looked up, grinning. “They’ve heard worse confessions, I imagine.”

That evening, he brought her a handful of violets. Didn’t say a word about them. Just left them by the bread bin and pretended they weren’t there.

She noticed.

Later that week, he fixed the fence at the back and returned with a cut on his palm. She stitched it with a sure hand and said, “Try not to bleed on the sheets.”

He didn’t miss the ‘our’ she hadn’t said.

They went to market together on Saturday. She bought flour and honey. He bought a book of poetry he said he hated. She read from it at night, by the hearth, and he closed his eyes and listened like it was scripture.

One night, after too much wine and too little food, she leaned her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Do you believe in second chances, Oscar?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“I think I’m living one.”

She nodded, quietly. “I think I am, too.”

One particular nice day, the bell above the apothecary door tinkled.

She looked up from the counter, apron dusted in dust, and saw a stranger with the air of a healing man. His coat was a little too fine, boots polished to an almost theatrical shine, and though his hair was longer than regulation, there was no mistaking the military in his past.

“Good morning,” he said, voice rich and warm like burnt toffee. A British accent. “Is this the apothecary that also stitches windows and fixes fences and lends books of poetry with dog-eared pages?”

She blinked. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled. “A friend. Hopefully still one.”

From the back room, Oscar’s voice called out, “I’ve got the ledger right—” and then it stopped. She turned just as he came into view, cloth in hand, and froze.

“Lando?”

The stranger grinned wider. “Hello, Osc.”

Oscar cleared his throat. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Went to your quarters. Your old bunkmate, Logan, was it? Said you’d vanished. Thought you’d gone back to sea. But no here you are, keeping house and hearth.” His eyes flicked between them. “Rather domestically.”

Oscar looked like he wished the floor might open up and swallow him.

She raised a brow. “Friend of yours?”

Lando turned to her, offering a hand with gentlemanly flourish. “Lando Norris. At your service, miss.”

She hesitated because the name meant nothing to her but took it politely. “Pleasure.”

He looked at Oscar again, smug now. “May we… walk? A moment?”

Oscar muttered something and shrugged on his coat.

They walked the back path into the tree-line, boots scuffing frost-hardened soil. Lando waited until they were far enough to be alone with the wind before elbowing him lightly.

“So, Osc,” he said, with mock gravity, “I think you’re not telling me something here.”

Oscar groaned. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“She’s lovely.”

Oscar stared ahead. “I know.”

“Sharp, too. Pretty sure she could kill me with a piece of cotton.”

“Probably.”

Lando chuckled. “You haven’t told her about me.”

Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have, just not much.”

“I’m hurt Oscar, I thought I was your best friend, you don’t even mention me.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “What’s there to say? That once upon a time I was a soldier, and now I’m not? That once I watched you get nearly drowned, and thought maybe I should’ve joined you?”

Lando was quiet. Then, gently, “She’s brought you back, hasn’t she?”

Oscar let the silence stretch. “I don’t know where I went, Lando. But yes. She did.”

Lando nodded. “Then you ought to tell her. Eventually.”

Oscar looked up at the grey sky. “Maybe. When it’s time.”

The sky had gone full pewter by the time they turned back for the house, quiet now but not awkward. Comfortable. Like an old coat dug from the chest, worn but warm.

Oscar spoke first, voice low. “So why’d you really come, Lando?”

Lando gave him a look, wry, gentle, just a shade too soft to be teasing.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “And because my wife’s expecting.”

Oscar stopped walking.

Lando laughed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Aye. I know. I still feel like a boy some mornings, and now I’ve got a child on the way.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say. “Congratulations,” he managed, voice a bit raw.

“There’s more.”

He looked over.

“I want you to be godfather.”

Oscar’s breath caught. “Lando—”

“You saved my life, Osc. More than once. I want my child to know that kind of loyalty. That kind of love.”

Oscar looked down at the mud-spattered path, lips pressed together.

“You know I don’t go to church,” he muttered. “I barely know if I believe anymore.”

Lando just smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll do it anyway.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the shop. Lando kissed the woman’s hand with a bow that was both sincere and mischievous, then vanished into the dusk like a ghost in.

That night, the rain returned, soft against the windows.

Oscar lay awake on the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The candle flickered low on the side table. He’d barely touched the stew she’d left him, too full of something else.

Not quite sorrow. Not quite joy. Just… time. The feeling of it passing. The knowing that he wasn’t young, not anymore. That his hands ached in the mornings and he no longer reached for his boots out of habit.

She knocked on the doorframe softly. “You still awake?”

He turned his head. She stepped inside, arms crossed.

“I saved you a roll. It’s got more butter than sense.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

She hesitated. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I have.”

She perched beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “What did he want, the friend?”

Oscar stared at the candle. “He asked me to be godfather.”

Her brows lifted. “That’s—”

“I haven’t set foot in a church in three years,” he cut in, quiet. “And even when I did… I don’t know. I think somewhere between the dying and the silence, I stopped looking up.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just reached over and placed a hand gently over his.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t still good,” she said softly. “Still worthy.”

He looked at her then, and something in his chest shifted, like a stone being moved after years at rest.

A week passed and they never spoke of that conversation again, Oscar had mulled over the idea of being the Godfather to Lando’s child but he still held some hesitation. What if he wasn’t enough.

Oscar was sat near the hearth, polishing his boots though he had no real cause. They weren’t dirty, hadn’t been since the last rain, but the motion soothed him, gave his hands something to do while his mind wandered far from the worn leather.

She was sat across from him, her fingers moving deftly over wool and needles. The fire threw warm shadows across her knuckles, catching in the curl of her hair. He’d seen her like this more and more, half-turned from the world, busy with something gentle.

“What’s that going to be?” he asked finally.

She glanced up, smiling faintly. “A bonnet. And mittens, if I can manage it.”

“For...?”

“Lando’s wife. The baby.”

Oscar stilled.

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and chose to pretend otherwise.

“Thought it might be nice,” she added, soft. “You said the other day you two went far back. And she, well. I imagine she’s nervous. I was, first time.”

He nodded slowly, the ache rising in him like water through floorboards. Not for her knitting. Not even for Lando.

But for the grace of her. The quiet, unspoken goodness that made her think of others while still mending her own shattered life. She had not just stitched wool, she had stitched him back together without even meaning to.

She stood to fetch more yarn from the corner basket, and as she passed, the firelight caught on her cheek in just the right way, and he saw her not as widow, nor war-bride, nor shopkeeper.

But as hope. As forgiveness.

He rose, as though pulled.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. His hand brushed hers before she turned fully, and she stilled beneath the touch.

“Oscar—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Too long, maybe. But I reckon now’s the time.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

He kissed her like a man afraid he’d wake from it. Not hurried, not forceful. Just quiet. Like a prayer whispered in the dark.

When they parted, she blinked up at him.

“About time,” she murmured.

He huffed a laugh. “Aye.”

The moment lingered between them like the softest of silences, one that spoke far more than either had ever expected to articulate aloud. His lips still tingled where they had pressed against hers, but the feeling was not rushed, not desperate, only a deep understanding. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else. Something neither of them had known they needed until the moment their hearts had silently declared it aloud.

Oscar pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed, as though he feared this was a dream he might wake from too soon. The air between them was thick with a thousand unspoken things, things that had been building, unravelling, stitching themselves together, even when they hadn’t noticed.

She, too, felt that tension easing from her chest, the weight of grief and doubt beginning to lift, replaced with something else. Something raw. Something tender.

“What was that sigh for?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady, as though she wasn’t sure if she was reading too much into every little everything.

Oscar’s hands lingered on her arms, his fingers tracing patterns, as though drawing her closer even in the stillness. “I think,” he said quietly, “it was one of relief, I should have done that long ago.”

Her breath caught, not in surprise, but in understanding.

“You’ve been broken,” she whispered, looking at him with eyes that had seen her own version of that same thing. “I know what it’s like to feel lost. Like you’ve reached a place where you can’t feel anything anymore. Where everything you thought you knew is... gone.”

He nodded slowly, his voice lower now, a confession of his own. “I’ve spent so long fighting the world. Fighting everything inside of me. For what? For who?” He paused, meeting her gaze, the vulnerability raw. “Then I met you. And you fixed me.”

Her eyes glistened, a soft laugh escaping her lips, though it was full of something deeper, something more complicated. “Oscar… you were never broken. Not to me. You just needed a little time. A little care. Maybe you needed someone who could see past all the pieces you thought were shattered. And all this time…” She inhaled, holding onto the truth of what she was saying. “All this time, I’ve needed you too.”

His heart raced with something that felt like relief, like the burden of years, of pain, of lost faith, lifting from his chest. "You make me believe, you know," he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "You make me believe that maybe I’m worthy of something more than just being a soldier. More than a broken man."

She gave a small, trembling smile, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his coat. "I never thought I was worthy of more either. Not after... everything." Her voice cracked, and she steadied herself. "But you showed me that there could still be something good. Something to hold on to, even in the hardest parts of life."

Her eyes met his, and he could see the raw emotion there. The kind of emotion that had once been buried beneath layers of grief, now unspooling in front of him. “I never thought I’d trust anyone again. Not after everything I’ve lost. But you’ve been patient with me. You’ve never pushed. You’ve just been here. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that's the only thing I need to keep going.”

Oscar’s heart clenched at her words. She was giving him pieces of herself that she’d kept locked away for so long, pieces he didn’t deserve but would cherish with every fibre of his being.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, of something he hadn’t felt in years: hope. “But I do know this. I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not when you’ve made me feel like I’m not just a soldier anymore. Like I’m something more.”

She smiled through her tears, gently wiping them away, the softness of the gesture almost making his heart shatter. “You won’t lose me, Oscar. Not if you’re willing to try. Not if we’re willing to try.”

There was something deeply comforting about that promise. Not an empty one. Not a fairytale. But a promise of a shared struggle, of quiet companionship through the storms they both carried.

She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwined with his. "I think, maybe for the first time in a long while," she said, her voice catching, "I’m not afraid of what comes next."

Oscar's breath hitched, a soft smile breaking across his face as he pulled her into his arms once again. This time, there was no hesitation. Only trust. Only the quiet certainty that they had both found something rare in each other, something worth fighting for, no matter what.

And as they stood there in the warmth of the firelight, with the rain still softly pattering outside, they realised that maybe they hadn’t just found each other. Maybe, just maybe, they had found the courage to begin again.

Extra:

Oscar’s letter to Lando with the bonnet and mittens:

Lando,

You’re a bastard, asking me to be godfather. But you knew I’d say yes. I’ve no cross hanging round my neck, no perfect prayers left in me but I’ll love that child like blood. I’ll teach them to read, to keep their chin up, to look after those smaller than them. I’ll tell them stories of their father both the soldier and the fool who once nearly drowned in a river.

Give my love to your lady. Tell her the wool’s from someone who knows what it’s like to start again.

Yours, Oscar

He sealed it with wax. Not a crest. Not a signet.

Just the simple stamp of a man beginning again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana @bookishnerd1132

195 notes · View notes

lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 9 months ago

Text

Overblot Universe (6) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Part 1 • 2 • 3• 4•5•7

From the distance you were struggling to stand, watching gallons of ink warp and grow around the area Riddle had previously been imprisoned

Ultimately creating a giant overblotted depiction of Riddle as the twisted Queen of Hearts that he is

Black Scribbly eyes searching frantically and maniacally as an axe began to form from the scepter he’d been holding

“Guys he knows where we are!”

“(Y/n) why do you think that?”

Before you can answer the weight of the crown and the bodice of your inky outfit have you struggling to look up or even stand

And without looking you could tell that the inky rendition was looking in your direction

“REMOVE THAT CROWN AT ONCE. IT MUST BE THE CULPRIT!”

“It’s a little late for that genius.”

It took Jade and Sebek’s combined effort to peel the crown off your head

The pressure of the inky band finally squeezing off your head was like undoing a stabbing migraine

You almost passed out at the relief you didn’t realize you so desperately needed

“(Y/n) are you alright?!”

“Y-yeah.”

Jack had left managing the mirror to Silver to scoop you into his arms

Ignoring the sneers on everyone’s faces you let yourself relax a little before looking past him

To see Ace, Deuce, and Cater running frantically

Looking behind them was the hundred remaining blotted guards

But even in their growing numbers that was not making giant thuds into the ground

That was the giant Riddle stomping behind looking as though he was about to cast a spell with the giant axe

Which would be ridiculous if it wasn’t making a giant glowing ball

“Guys! We’ve got to go!”

“Alright everybody let’s go! In the mirror now!”

“I agree. (Y/n) you first.”

“Wait, Ace, Deuce, and Cater have to get in. We are not leaving anyone behind!”

They all collectively groaned, scoffed, and kicked at the dirt

Thinking that this is something you have to stress from your friends boyfriends was certainly not the best situation

But now wasn’t the time to unpack that

Cheering over Jack’s shoulder since he refused to set you down

You tried to ignore the blue glow in the clouds

“Guys do you see that? It kind of looks like those robots that abducted our dorm leaders a while back….”

“(Y/n) was Riddle the only one you encountered?”

You slowly turned to where Epel and Jade were looking at the rest of the group turning that way too

The now visible brigade of Idia’s creations surging closer

Even from the ground you could spot the fiery blue hair at the head of the metallic flock

If that wasn’t enough in the opposite direction was another army the same one that was fighting the heartslabyul students at the very beginning of your journey

And above them was what looked like a green haelstorm but you knew better

A terrifying roar rang out and everyone reached for their ears

You stopped searching for the other two overblots just focused on going into the mirror as soon as they were close enough

Unfortunately their frantic running wasn’t faster than the surging groups

There was a red beam aimed at the mirror

Silver, Epel, and Sebek saved it this time but you couldn’t tell if they’d miss it

“Come one you guys hurry!”

They were closer now just a few paces away before an inky arrow flew past

A blotted version of Rook was somehow far ahead the other armies aiming with a bow on a nightmarish horse

If that wasn’t enough the ground underneath your group was falling out from beneath you all

Jack and the other’s figured it out quickly when they spotted the blotted trail to a stalking blotted Leona

Thankfully your friends were nearly there just in front of the electric storm beginning to just above you

“That’s close enough in you go.”

“Hey!”

Epel snatched you from Jack, holding you tight jumping into the mirror

properly transporting you back to the twisted wonderland you know and love and that loves you back

You were safe...right?

7th and Final chapter: Here

580 notes · View notes

ciphersoi · 5 months ago

Text

ME INTERESTED IN YOU ! ₊ ˚. 🕯️ ⊹₊ ⋆

content warnings: graphic descriptions, gore, blood, fighting, disturbing imagery (?)

summary: after a near death experience fighting mr. machete, he gets bored of you. but when he goes to finish you off—your tears bring him…enjoyment?

notes: first time writing for homicipher, hope nothing is too ooc ! also stylized version of the homicipher language to fit the characters more ^-^

“Yo!”

A gruff voice suddenly called out to you, freezing you in place. A cold sweat dripped down your forehead as your [e/c] eyes darted around—frantically trying to find the owner of the voice.

“Above you…” The voice jargoned sinisterly, a toothy grin appearing on its face as your eyes finally locked onto the mysterious entity.

There he sat, confidently resting upon a shoddy balcony against the wall. His gray skin was tinged with red markings, (much reminiscent of your own skin), and his head was wrapped with bloody bandages. By his side rested a large machete, which was currently dripping with a liquid you had no desire of knowing.

A shiver went through your spine as your body instinctively entered flight mode. Even without Mr. Crawling you could tell that this room was unsafe. That entity looked violent, and if you didn’t get out of here now—there was a high chance that he would kill you.

‘He can’t possibly see me with all those bandages…’ You thought to yourself, slowly reaching your arm behind you for the door handle as your eyes stayed trained upon him. ‘Let’s just try to get out of here—’

“Oi…” The mysterious entity’s voice takes on a more commanding tone as his mood begins to sour.

“Me not give permission leave.” The entity starts to rise, his arm reaching for his weapon. Meanwhile, you hurriedly turn the doorknob, a curse rising in your throat as you realize that the door is jammed.

“You leave…” The entity points his machete at you, a wickedly deranged look appearing on his face. “Me kill you!”

Without a second thought you darted forward, sprinting for the door on the other side of the room.

As you ran, your footsteps echoed against the cracked concerte floors. Behind you, the sounds of shuffling could be heard, along with the screech of metal scraping agaisnt concrete, the rustle of fabric, a jump, and a landing, sending vibrations through the ground.

Panic clawed at your chest, urging you to turn left, so you do—twisting your body just in time.

The air hissed as a machete sliced past you, its edge glistening in the faint light. Time seemed to slow as you watched it carve a deadly path through the air. It buried itself into the wooden door ahead with a sickening crack, the force splintering the wood and sending shards flying.

‘Just a moment later and that could have been me…’ You gulped, feeling your heart beat faster at the realization. But, he was now disarmed, giving you the perfect chance to stun him and run away.

Your body entered fight mode as you turned to face the entity. You raised your hand, fingers crackling with energy that shimmered and flickered like embers in a dying fire.

The entity looked at you, showing a brief moment of uncertainty before lunging at you. It was then your palm ignited in a blaze of destructive power, energy pulsing outwards towards the entity.

Dust and debris flew into the air, obscuring your view of the entity. You used the chance to open the door and escape, bolting down a long hallway.

Unfortunately, your moment of victory was short-lived. The door behind you crashed open and the entity’s heavy footsteps followed. They were faster, heavier and closing the gap with alarming speed.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever. Your muscles screamed in protest, not use to this level of physical exertion, but you didn’t dare look back. You could feel him gaining, the air between you shrinking.

And then—

A hand grabbed you, missing by a few inches. The sudden jolt made you stumble, and that split second is all he needed.

Pain erupted in your lower stomach, sharp and all-consuming. You choked out a gasp as the machete’s blade pierced through your lower stomach. The force of the strike sent you sprawling forward, collapsing to your knees.

You clutched at the wound, hot blood pooling between your fingers and soaking your clothes. The world tilted, vision blurring as your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Behind you, his heavy breathing filled the space. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was there, towering over you like a predator over his prey.

“You dead?” He asked gruffly, stabbing his machete onto the ground in front of you before crouching down. Although his eyes were covered, you could tell that he was examining you. Was it to see if you still had fight in you? Or maybe he was deciding how to deliver the finishing blow?

Your trembling fingers curled against the floor, lifting yourself in an attempt to attack him again with your power—but the searing pain in your lower torso was too much, so you crumbled back onto the floor.

“Tch…” An annoyed sound left the entity’s mouth before he roughly grabbed your arm and pushed you against the wall. You grimaced as your vision focused on the man in front of you. He appeared…angry for some strange reason.

“You not fight me.” He grumbled, his hand trailing down your body towards your wound. You flinched slightly. “You disappoint me.”

Before you could react, his hand slammed against your wound, fingers pressing cruelly into the torn flesh. A strangled cry escaped your lips as his weight bore down, forcing more blood to gush out, hot and sticky against your hands.

“S-stop—desire you s-stop…” You grunt out, struggling to formulate words that he would understand. At this rate, your wound would be infected, and you’ve already lost so much blood. Was there any way you could survive this?

The entity quirked his head to the side, his lip twitching upward slightly at the despair on your face. “You understand language?”

When you didn’t respond his grip deepened, every press deliberate, each second dragging out your pain.

You gasped for air, your body shaking violently as you tried to push him away. But it was useless, your strength draining from you at rapid speed.

Tears welled up slowly, blurring the edges of your vision until the world became a blurred haze. Thick globs of water clung to your lashes, trembling with the weight of emotions too heavy to hold back.

Suddenly you felt hot liquid against your cheek, causing your eyes to shoot open. It was the strange machete man, whose bloodied fingers carefully wiped away the tears that streaked down your face.

You took on a confused expression. ‘Was he…drying my tears? Why does he look like he’s enjoying it…?’ You shook your head, dismissing the thought. This must be your body hallucinating due to blood loss.

“Me touch you here…” The machete man hovered over your open wound. “You cry?”

He looked at you with expectation, a concerning grin stretching across his face.

It took all of your strength, but you managed to cough out a short: “You touch me here again…me kill you.”

The grin on his face widened as something akin to a laugh left his lips. “You enjoyable! Me interested in you!”

He tightened his grip on your torso and hurled you up, tucking you underneath his arm. With his other hand you grabbed his machete, dragging the heavy weapon behind him with a deafening screech.

You were too weak to fight against it, so you allowed him to carry you. But you wondered, what would he do with you? And did he know a way to heal you?

These questions would be left unanswered as your vision slowly faded to black.

#homicipher #homicipher fanfiction #homicipher x reader #homicipher x mc #homicipher x you #mr machete #mr. machete #mr machete x reader #cw: gore #tw blood #mr crawling #mr silvair #mr scarletella

291 notes · View notes

antimonyandthyme · 6 months ago

Note

carcar 28 if you are still doing prompts :)

carcar pt 1; curse of obedience/can’t disobey a direct order

“So,” Oscar says, “if I were to say—”

“Don’t,” Carlos says, all urgent, eyes wider than Oscar’s ever seen them. “Oscar!”

He’ll remember this moment after. Go back to it every so often, when his brain sees fit to carve out versions of himself to dissect. Savage, impulsive. Vindictive even. Couldn’t even have picked something non-life threatening, like Drink this drip coffee, which I know you’d rather die than put on your tongue. Had to go for this.

“—run out into traffic, without looking—”

Carlos stands up so fast the chair clatters behind him. Bit of a shock. Oscar looks around, waits for the crowd to laugh along, for him to be allowed in on the prank. The café’s busy, people rippling past them to get to where they need to be. Carlos turns toward the door.

“Carlos,” Oscar says. The vacant look on Carlos’s face scrapes against Oscar’s bare skin like a grater. “What are you doing?”

Carlos gives no response, eyes trained only on the door. Dimly, Oscar wonders if this is how he looks under the helmet.

No, no. Even while racing, Carlos wouldn’t look like this. Surely, his jaw would run askew, his teeth would find his lower lip, his eyes dance bright and hungry.

“Carlos,” Oscar says again. He barely registers his pulse spiking.

Two steps are all it takes for Carlos to get up to full speed, as if he’s got a rabid dog on his heels. He’s a bullet shot out the door, a blur of red.

Oscar’s supposed to have reflexes made from lightning. Fastest in the world, isn’t he? But he stares, uncomprehending, and stares some more through the endless bay windows, as Carlos, uncaring that the crosswalk’s sign is still red, dashes onto the road. He runs, cutting through the continuous stream of metal as if his body were made of something divine.

A car swerves violently, a honk sounds. The ignition Oscar needs to snap out of his daze. Combustion, power. He propels forward, mouth already formed around syllables.

“Carlos,” he screams. “Carlos, stop! Come back!”

He must not be able to hear me. That must be the only reason Carlos keeps running, narrowly avoiding a speeding motorcycle. What did he say, when Oscar was dismissing his confession as a joke? He said—he’s being made to listen, right? To listen and obey. Oscar just has to reach him, so Carlos can listen.

Carlos is too far ahead, outstripping Oscar with an unrecognizable single-mindedness. Oscar’s yelling himself hoarse, but it’s too loud all around them, tires screeching, tearing at his ears. Chaos around them, Oscar unable to reign it in. Even in the rainiest conditions, he’d been able to find more grip than this.

The crosswalk melts onto the sidewalk, and for a blessed second, Oscar thinks it’s over, that Carlos has done all he’s needed to do, carried out the cruel task Oscar’s laid out for him like the gods before Heracles.

Then Carlos turns the corner, still running.

“Carlos!” Oscar’s face is wet, for some reason. A flickering image of Carlos meeting a car sears itself into the back of his eyelids, spills more liquid out. “Come back, please! Please, god. Come back.”

Clarity, even in panic. If he’s braved speeds most people can’t comprehend, forces that could bend and even break a neck, then what is running blind into traffic?

He doesn’t look as he steps off the curb this time. Adjusts his focus to match Carlos’s. Speeds up in a way that is second nature. A driver swearing at him, a blinding flash from a headlight too close for comfort, but Oscar keeps running. Slowly but surely gaining on his target, overtaking within his reach.

“Stop,” he begs. “Carlos, you can stop now.”

Carlos’s feet ground to a halt.

Momentum carries him to a collision. Oscar flings his arms around Carlos, drags him out of the way just as a truck blares past their intended path.

“Asshole, you fucking asshole.” Big, gulping, uneven inhales. “Why did I, why did I go to you, I’m such an idiot, why did I even think you would, ah, fuck. Fuck.” His voice cracks into tiny pieces. “Stupid, stupid. Such a fucking idiot.”

Oscar tightens his hold around Carlos. Dead man’s grip, he’s not letting go. Even though they’re both shaking so hard each breath feels like a bruise. Carlos’s shoulder knocks into Oscar’s teeth, hard enough to cut his lip. Doesn’t matter, he’s not letting go. Oscar tugs Carlos, still trembling, over to the wall of the deserted street they’ve found themselves in. He sinks to the ground, back against the wall, pulling Carlos down with him.

“Breathe,” he says, a little hysterically. “Carlos, come on. Breathe.”

Deep, deep breaths, swelling through both their bodies. Fuck, fuck. Was that also a command? Could he tell Carlos to stop breathing and would Carlos just stop—

“Breathe!” Oscar nearly shouts, to force all other thoughts out of his head. “Carlos, listen to me, you’re alright.”

“—hate you,” Carlos is saying furiously. Oscar squeezes his eyes shut against the pain that lances through him. Nothing like the sting of his bleeding lip; this settles far deeper. “I can’t believe I, you. You.” More air, sucked through rattling lungs. “I shouldn’t have come to you.”

“Why did you?” Oscar says brokenly. He squeezes Carlos to him, then even though he shouldn’t, shouldn’t be allowed to, buries his forehead in the dip between Carlos’s shoulder blades. Selfishly uses Carlos to buttress himself. “Tell me.”

Another command, he realizes too late. Can he not even be in Carlos’s vicinity without being such a dickhead, fuck.

“I thought you wouldn’t.” Carlos’s chest heaves, his throat forcing out words against his will. “Of all people. You wouldn’t use it against me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Oscar whispers, like the greatest hypocrite in all the earth.

Oscar’s never heard Carlos laugh like that, derisive, painfully disparaging. All those times before, when Carlos had teased him, even after a race mistake, he’s done so maybe a little mockingly, but gently all the same. Prodding at Oscar with his bared teeth, but carefully enough he never broke skin. And now he sounds like he would be happy to be wiped clean of Oscar entirely.

Oscar cringes, tries to hide by burrowing further into Carlos’s back. This must be what being flayed alive feels like.

“You wouldn’t!” Carlos says, voice raising high and thready. “After you tried to kill me. After you made me, made me run like a dog huh? Was that fun for you? You like that, huh?”

Carlos’s shoulders pull uncomfortably taut. His shaking slows, the drug of adrenaline siphoning away. The rhythm of his breath changes, stutters, then quickens. His throat releases something wounded. The arm Oscar has braced against Carlos’s chest catches stray droplets, running off Carlos’s chin.

Oscar’s never going to be able to forget the way Carlos sounds broken down. Can’t do anything. Can’t even say something like, Don’t cry, for fear of stuffing all of Carlos’s tears back into him like a botched surgery.

He holds Carlos closer. Lips on the back of Carlos’s neck like he’s allowed, like he can impart I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so fucking stupid it will never happen again I promise. I promise.

“Breathe,” he says.

“Leave me alone,” Carlos says weakly.

Nope, no. Never. “Breathe.”

“Just, leave me alone Oscar.” Carlos struggles in Oscar’s grip, a fish caught in a trap. He doesn’t have the leverage to break free, winded as he is, with one arm tucked under his own shirt, fingers pinching his side so hard the flesh’s turned white.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Oscar says softly. “Please let go, Carlos.”

Carlos’s fingers unclench. He lets out a low, hurt whine, frustration, anger at his own helplessness, at having to listen to Oscar. Of all people. “Fuck you,” Carlos says.

By the third time Oscar repeats it, his mind’s made up. “Breathe,” he orders. “Carlos. I’m going to fix this.”

(put that guy in a situation prompts)

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #carcar #how does he fix this you ask?#well oscar ***** ****** **** *** ****** *** *** ***** ** ** **** *** **** **** *** ****** ******#thank you stevie <3

262 notes · View notes

lamentationsofalonelypotato · 6 months ago

Text

It’s Not A Camera

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: You make Daryl regret bringing you back a gift from a run. This technically takes place in the same universe as my other fics “Your Fault” and “Meet Cute,” but it can be read as stand alone.

Tropes: Fluff, Established Relationship

Era: Alexandria, pre-Negan

Warnings: I mean, I don't think there's any? Daryl being super hot, working on his motorcycle, and being in love with you? Flirting? Honestly, if I’ve missed anything please let me know. ❤️

Note: This is written in a dialect style with Daryl's accent in mind so the misspellings are intentional. There is minimal use of (y/n). If any? Any references to the reader besides the (y/n) is done using "your" or "you". I tried to proofread the best I could, nobody's perfect. If you don't like, don't read, but if you do like you're my favorite!

Internal monologue is done in italics and is in first person.

A/N: Just felt like doing a little bit of Daryl fluff on this fine Thursday morning.

Main Masterlist

Walking Dead Masterlist

}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{

"Alright, could you give me a more engaging pose?" You ask tracing the outlining shapes of the scene in front of you in a worn sketchbook that Daryl found for you out on a run last week.

"Wha are ya doin?" Daryl turns from the motorcycle rubbing his hands against the red oil stained rag that hangs from his back pocket.

"Capturing Daryl Dixon in his natural habitat." You stand up and move to sit next to him, crossing your legs underneath you as you go. "And now I'm getting a close up."

"s'not a camera." He shakes his head at you, but you can see a smile twitch on the end of his mouth before it fades. A reminder that he might act annoyed, but deep down you know he’d be lost without you.

"You can only blame yourself- you're the one that brought this back for me." You tease.

"Because ya begged me to bring something back for ya like a damn toddler."

"No no no. I think secretly you wanted me to capture just how sexy you are for prosperity." Your pencil scratches against the paper, tracing the smooth line of Daryl's strong jaw against the page.

Daryl huffs, but continues to tinker with the motorcycle with red tipped ears.

The sun was just beginning to set in the west, barely seen through the thin slats in the large metal fences that protected Alexandria from the outside world. A cool wind blew from the east, but it wasn't enough to wick the sweat that gathered on the back of your neck and soaked into your collar.

You sit in silence for a few moments together, your shoulder leaning into his arm, while you draw a cartoonized version of him holding a wrench leaning forward to fix a motorcycle that will never be finished, but it's nothing like the real thing.

Daryl lets out a sigh every few minutes adjusting and cleaning, adjusting and cleaning, adjusting and cleaning-

But he makes it look so good.

You think to yourself with a smile.

"Daryl?"

"Mhmm?"

"I love you."

He stops working to glance at you, quirking the end of his lips. "Wha’ did you do?"

"Nothing. I just realized I didn't get to say it to you this morning when we woke up. We were both in a hurry and I wanted you to know." You reach up with the eraser end of the pencil and push some of his dark hair out of his deep blue eyes that always seem to see beyond what everyone else does.

Daryl's hand comes to gently curve round your waist and land on the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. "I love you too.”

"Well I'm glad because if we’ve been together this long and you didn't-"

His lips brush against yours stopping you mid-sentence with a soft sigh as you feel yourself melt into him.

"But at least after all this time, you know how to shut me up." You mutter against his lips.

"Had tah learn pretty quick."

“You think you’re so clever Dixon.”

“Naw.” Daryl nudges his nose against yours with the same soft smile that always makes you weak in the knees. “I’m just happy.”

“Happy that no matter how hard you work on this motorcycle it never seems to get fixed?” You raise an eyebrow.

“No.” He chuckles, raising an oil stained hand to your cheek. “Just happy.”

You lean into the gentle touch of the man you love with all your heart tracing the familiar lines of his worn face and feeling the roughness of his fingertips against the smooth skin of your cheek. The hands that had done so much, both good and bad, and yet were only gentle to you and touched you only with love and care.

“Me too.”

}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this fic please feel free to read the other two in the same universe:

Meet Cute: How the reader and Daryl met

Your Fault: Daryl and the reader navigate a delicate situation.

#daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl dixon #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixion x reader #the walking dead daryl #the walking dead

165 notes · View notes

irradiatedsnakes · 1 month ago

Text

dialtown object head model masterlist

looong post incoming! i've been on a hunt to have a full list of what every dialtown character's head is, kind of as an extension of my own phone (and printer) collecting irl. these were compiled with the help of a very kind handful of people, most notably @germaaaaaaaaaa who has a real knack for sniffing models out! photos are from the sources linked as well as my own personal collection.

phonegingi/callum

3D models based on this specific Ericsson Bakelite 1507, as shown in the extras menu (see first photo below). Note the broken plate on the front where one would put the number card, which is reflected in both Gingi and Callum’s models (Gingi’s has it facing downwards, and Callum’s faces upwards):

typegingi

3D model based on two typewriter models: the overall shape is that of a 1948-1949 Royal Quiet Deluxe, while the keys, carriage, and various details (like the color indicator dots to the side of the keyboard) from an Olympia SM9. Jbhusker on r/typewriters identified that for me :]

oliver

Telecom Eireann Slaney, the Irish version of the BT Relate 200, in color “oatmeal”. He also has a removable plastic standee part on the back that allows it to be hung on the wall, which we don’t see in his sprites but we do see in an image Dog posted of the back of the phone (which is how we know he's in oatmeal, since it's noted on the sticker- the photo below of my slaney is actually in alpine white, it's just become a similar oatmealy color due to age), as well as in the crowd shot during Roger’s presentation, with someone else with the same head.

karen

3D model that is primarily based on a Canon Pixma ts202 (thanks to Smooth in phonecord for that ID!), but has significant differences in shape and color. She’s one of a kind!

randy

Nokia 3410, which came in a couple colors (the Randy aqua we know, silver, and rarely red).

bigfoot

A disposable camera without its outer plastic shell or paper labeling, this Renault one or something similar (maybe different branding? I swear dog mentioned he got bigfoot’s camera at a zoo.). Smooth on the discord found this one.

norm

norm's head is made of meat. here's his hat (which he wears backwards in his sprites). (i never wrote down who found this one and i can't re-find it in phonecord search, sorry. like a 90% chance it was germa)

mingus

Salvage the cat. Salvage the cat is a very unique model of cat.

roger

FeTAp 791-1, in orange (apparently hueshifted- in real life he’s red, but there ARE orange versions of this model, they’re just harder to find than some other colors). This model came in a bunch of colors- please enjoy this one that looks like it’s made of meat and gristle. Far as I can tell, these were mostly German, but also popped up fairly frequently in the Soviet Union. Mine is an Argentinean release of the same model.

peter

Western Electric Model 500, the most widely-produced rotary phone in history, in red. Note also that Peter has no lettering or numbering on his head, which is edited (it’s not possible to sand off a 500’s numbering because it’s actually filled-in plastic vice paint on top). Due to the color & clear plastic wheel, Peter’s model is from 1956 or later.

god

Emerson 11P50. Here’s the specific stock images that his sprites are of, too. byrdffv on phonecord.

jerry

Bell JO-4 or JN-4, same make, different color. Jerry is the same solid color all-around. I’d assumed he had to be custom-painted- I haven’t seen a single Jerry or almost-Jerry that’s the same solid color he is on the internet besides his OG stock photo (since, as you can see on mine, the metal and plastic parts are always different colors), but it’s not a well-documented series of models, and according to Dogman he’s seen ones like him IRL. Here’s the stock images used for Jerry. See also, his wheelchair, a LAWC001 (that one’s credit to Germa).

mr. dickens

K6 Telephone box. Not much more to say, there aren’t a massive amount of red UK telephone box models.

and with that, i've reached the 30-image limit per post. i'll continue this in a reblog, or you can view the rest of them at the google doc i've set up here!

#dialtown

85 notes · View notes

atlasthegreatest · 6 months ago

Text

Breaking the Chains / Natasha Romanoff x Brother!Male Reader

Which, the Avengers embark on a mission to dismantle a sinister facility—a male version of the Red Room, designed to turn young men into weapons. Natasha Romanoff leads the charge, determined to save her younger brother— Y/n, who has been trapped in this program for years.

Word count: 2191

Warnings: PTSD. Red Room.

A/n: This was requested by an anon. I hope you like it!

The facility was crumbling around them, fire and dust mixing into the heavy air. The sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed in the background, but Natasha Romanoff’s focus was singular. Her feet moved with purpose as she scanned the darkened hallway. She knew what to look for—the same signs she once wore on her face and carried in her posture.

In this mission, the Avengers were not after weapons or secrets. They were after people—boys who had been subjected to something eerily familiar to Natasha. A male counterpart to the Red Room, hidden deep in the underbelly of the world. They had lived in the shadows for years, unnoticed, until an intercepted transmission tipped the Avengers off to the existence of this twisted program.

She pushed through the shattered remnants of a metal door and stepped into a cold, dimly lit cell block. A dozen pairs of frightened eyes met hers, boys barely in their teens and men no older than twenty-five.

Natasha scanned each face until she found the one she had been looking for: Y/n.

He sat huddled in the far corner of the cell, knees drawn to his chest, body folded in on itself as if trying to disappear into the cracked concrete wall behind him. His clothes hung loosely from his thin frame, and his hands trembled as they gripped his knees.

“Hey,” Natasha whispered, kneeling in front of him.

At first, Y/n didn’t respond. The years of training had taught him to suppress everything—fear, trust, and hope. But when he finally lifted his gaze, recognition flickered in his eyes. Y/n knew her, though not personally. She had been the ghost story among the instructors. The Black Widow—traitor to the cause, the one who escaped.

“I’ve got you,” Natasha said gently, her gloved hand hovering over Y/n's but not touching, waiting for him to make the first move. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Y/n flinched slightly at the sound of her voice but didn’t pull away when she rested a hand lightly on his arm. Her touch was steady—grounding.

“It’s over,” she said, her voice low and sure, like an unbreakable promise. “No more orders. No more missions.”

Y/n's lips parted, but no words came out. It was hard to believe it was real after everything. Freedom was a foreign concept, a dream too fragile to trust. But Natasha didn’t rush him. She crouched there, keeping her voice steady and calm as the chaos raged behind her.

“I know it’s scary,” she admitted. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m here, and so are the others.”

When he didn’t resist, Natasha helped him to his feet. Y/n was shaky, each step slow, as if his body had forgotten what it was like to move without orders directing his every action. Natasha kept a careful hold on her arm—not tight, just enough to remind him she was there.

Together, they made their way through the collapsing facility, the flickering lights casting erratic shadows on the walls. Outside, the Avengers had cleared the area, and a Quinjet waited, its ramp lowered. Steve Rogers gave a tight nod to Natasha as she guided Y/n aboard, but the others knew better than to approach.

Natasha’s expression warned them all: Give him space.

————————-

The Avengers’ compound was vast, bright, and open—everything the cold, sterile facility had not been. But for Y/n, it was too much. Too big, too noisy, too unfamiliar.

Y/n rarely left the room they had set up for him, and when he did, it was always with Natasha at his side. The others tried to welcome him gently—Bruce offered books, Steve always nodded with quiet reassurance, and even Tony kept his quips subdued. But it was Natasha who knew how to reach him, because she had been where he was.

She didn’t push. When the others asked too many questions, Natasha would step in, redirecting the conversation with a subtle ease. She became Y/n's anchor, a quiet, constant presence that didn’t demand anything from him.

At night, when the nightmares came—and they always did—Natasha was there. The first time Y/n woke up gasping, covered in cold sweat, he thought she might be angry at being disturbed. But instead, she sat on the edge of his bed, her voice calm and low.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

When Y/n couldn’t sleep, she stayed up with him. Some nights, she talked about her own past, sharing bits and pieces she thought he might understand. Other nights, the two of them sat in silence, watching the night bleed into dawn.

She never asked him to talk about what happened—not until Y/n was ready.

————————-

It was weeks before Y/n said more than a few words at a time. The trauma ran deep, and trust was a hard-earned currency. But Natasha noticed the small changes. The way he started sitting with the others in the common room, though he always kept a little distance. The way his gaze softened when Sam told a joke or when Clint teased him about beating him at chess.

One afternoon, while sitting with Natasha on the balcony, Y/n surprised himself by speaking.

“They made us fight each other,” He said quietly, his voice brittle and uneven. “If you won, you got food. If you lost… you didn’t.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. She just nodded, her gaze steady. “I know.”

“They told us it made us stronger,” he added, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Made us perfect.”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They were wrong.”

For a moment, Y/n looked out over the horizon, the sky painted in hues of gold and pink. He felt the weight of her words settle in his chest—not just the words, but the way she said them, with the conviction of someone who knew exactly what he’d been through.

“You’re not what they made you,” Natasha said softly. “You’re more than that.”

Y/n swallowed hard, emotions swelling in his throat, but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the need to shove them down. Natasha’s presence was a reminder that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

————————-

Day by day, the Avengers helped Y/n find pieces of himself that he thought had been lost forever. Steve taught him how to cook—simple things, like pancakes and scrambled eggs. Sam dragged him into a movie marathon, making Y/n laugh for the first time in what felt like forever.

And Natasha? Natasha stayed by his side through all of it, giving him the space to heal at his own pace.

One evening, after a quiet dinner with the team, Y/n found yourself sitting beside Natasha on the couch, Clint sprawled out on the floor in front of them.

“See?” Natasha said, nudging Y/n's shoulder lightly. “They’re not so bad.”

Y/n gave a small, tentative smile. It felt strange on his face, but not unwelcome.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice soft but genuine. “They’re not.”

Natasha smiled too—gentle, patient, and proud. And for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt like maybe, just maybe, he belonged.

————————-

The Avengers became a rhythm—steady, sometimes chaotic, but reliable. Y/n was still learning how to navigate the whirl of personalities and noise, but Natasha was always a steady guide. She seemed to know exactly when to push and when to pull back, letting him stumble without ever letting him fall.

The nightmares didn’t stop, but Y/n got better at managing them. On nights when the darkness crept too close, he didn’t feel ashamed to knock softly on Natasha’s door. Sometimes, the two of them talked. Other times, Y/n sat quietly on the floor beside her bed until sleep returned. It didn’t matter—Natasha was patient, always patient.

But adjusting to life with the Avengers was harder than it looked from the outside. Even though they gave him space, their camaraderie felt foreign. Trusting them—really trusting them—was an uphill battle, but Natasha reassured him that it was okay to take his time.

“You don’t have to be anyone other than yourself,” she had said. “They’ll wait.”

————————-

It was Sam who cracked Y/n's defenses first, though it took him weeks of gentle persistence. He had a way of being both laid-back and direct, not giving him much room to overthink. One afternoon, Y/n found himself sitting across from him at the compound’s kitchen island, awkwardly holding a controller as he taught Y/n how to play some old-school racing game.

“Don’t worry,” Sam grinned. “I’ll go easy on you.”

He didn’t. Y/n lost every race, but he didn’t mind. For once, losing didn’t come with consequences. Sam’s laugh was loud and infectious, and before Y/n realized it, he found himself chuckling along.

“See?” Sam said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’ve got a sense of humor in there somewhere.”

It was a small moment, but it was the first time Y/n’d felt… normal.

————————-

Training sessions with Steve Rogers were a different kind of therapy. He never barked orders or pushed Y/n beyond his limits. Instead, he treated each session like a lesson in self-control—teaching him to use his skills in ways that didn’t make him feel like a weapon.

“Strength is more than just force,” Steve would say. “It’s about knowing when not to fight.”

At first, it was hard to fight the reflex to be perfect, to push through every ache and bruise just to meet some invisible standard. But Steve never expected perfection. If Y/n faltered, he’d just nod and say, “Good. Now let’s try that again.”

One day, after a sparring match, Y/n hesitated as Steve packed up the training mats. “Thanks,” he muttered, the word feeling foreign but genuine.

Steve gave him that easy, reassuring smile of his. “Anytime.”

————————-

It was during one of Tony’s infamous pizza nights that Y/n realized how far he’d come. The team gathered in the common room, laughing and teasing each other over slices of greasy pepperoni. Y/n sat between Natasha and Clint, feeling oddly at ease even though he hadn’t said much all night.

At some point, Tony tried to rope him into a debate about who the best James Bond was. Y/n blinked, unsure if he was joking or not.

“C’mon, kid,” Tony said, grinning. “Tell me you’ve got an opinion on this. You have to.”

Before he could answer, Natasha smirked. “He’s still deciding if he likes any of us, Stark. Don’t scare him off with your movie rants.”

The team burst out laughing, and to Y/n's surprise, he found himself grinning too. Not because he had to, but because it felt right.

Natasha glanced at her brother from the corner of her eye, her expression soft and knowing. She didn’t say anything, but her small smile told him she was proud—and she realized he was too.

Bonus chapter:

Not every day was easy. Some mornings, the weight of the past dragged Y/n down like lead in his chest. Y/n still flinched at unexpected noises. Some nights, the nightmares left him breathless and paralyzed. But with Natasha, it didn’t feel like he had to face it alone.

One particularly bad night, Y/n couldn’t keep it all bottled up anymore. It was late—well past midnight—when the panic took over. Y/n found himself in Natasha’s room, pacing back and forth as he tried to control his breathing.

“They made us hurt each other,” he whispered, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop them. “Every day, every mission. If you hesitated, they punished you. They—”

Y/n's voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, furious at himself for breaking down. But Natasha didn’t look at Y/n with pity. She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“They wanted you to believe it was the only way,” Natasha said softly. “But it’s not.”

The anger, the shame, the guilt—it all poured out in a rush, and Natasha let him feel every bit of it without judgment. When Y/n finally sank to the floor, exhausted and drained, she sat beside him.

“You’re not what they made you,” she repeated gently. “And you’re not alone.”

————————-

Months passed, and slowly, Y/n found himself carving out a place among the Avengers. It wasn’t perfect—he still had hard days, and some wounds ran too deep to ever fully heal. But he was learning that it was okay to not be okay all the time.

Natasha stayed close, always ready to catch him if he stumbled. But she also gave him room to grow. Y/n started spending more time with the others—training with Steve, playing video games with Sam, and even laughing at Tony’s terrible jokes. They weren’t just teammates anymore. They were friends.

And one day, as the team gathered for another chaotic dinner, Y/n realized something that hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken: he wasn’t just surviving. He was living.

The thought was strange, almost surreal, but when Natasha met his gaze across the table and gave him a subtle, knowing nod, Y/n knew it was real.

He was home.

Any grammar mistakes will be fixed later

#mcu #natasha romanoff x reader #male reader #sibling angst #steve rogers #tony stark #clint barton #thor odinson #bruce banner #wanda maximoff

126 notes · View notes

cameronspecial · 1 year ago

Note

I wanted to ask if you could write something with rafe where reader does selfharm and he finds out? Maybe with a soft version of rafe

Not Going Anywhere

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: SELF-HARM and Talks of DEPRESSION (Please don't read if these are a trigger).

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.1K

A/N: If you or anyone you know are experiencing depression, then please know you are not alone and there are people who can help. The internet has information on the best places for you to go to in your country. Not tagging anyone just in case this is a trigger for anyone on my tag list.

Masterlist

It isn’t for attention. That is one assumption most people make whenever they see the scars. It’s the reason why she hides them on her hips. She doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing it because no one sees her naked, not even her boyfriend. The only times the marks see the light of day are when she changes or showers. She makes sure the cuts made can be hidden by her underwear and any panties or bikini bottoms she buys need to pass that test as well.

No matter how wrong she knows it is, she can’t help but hold the cold sharp blade against the tough skin. It is resting on top of a barely healing scar because she has no other place for it. Her breath hitches as she pulls the Exacto knife across her, going a little farther than the mark already made. Tears are running down her face. Her eyes blur as she repeats the motion below the blooming red line. Her breath is uneven and hitches every time the metal touches her skin. In some sick way, the pain gives her a small relief. It gives her a reason.

Most people wonder why someone would cause harm to themselves. They would guess that the despair is caused by a lack of food, shelter, money, clothes or love. However, Y/N doesn’t have that issue. How could she when she is a kook? No, she has never felt hunger or fear and that is the cause of the turmoil inside of her head. Nonetheless, ever since she entered teenhood, she would experience these months-long periods of extreme sadness. She would do her best to hide them from everyone by pushing herself to get out of bed and go to activities that she would normally enjoy. She would make sure to cry when no one else was at home and to track her family members’ phones to verify she was alone. It was a secret she kept so deep within her that she started to question why she felt this way. That is when the true problems began. She felt guilty for feeling this despair without a reason and it was furthered by the secrets she had to keep, so she began to self-harm as her reason. In her brain, partly because of what society has told her, she needed a reason for why she was melancholy because there are people in the world who were dealt much tougher times in life.

So, that is how she finds herself standing in front of the mirror, holding down the right side of her underwear and dragging an Exacto knife along her skin. She has fallen into one of her episodes and this time, it is the worst one to date. She has never pressed so hard into her skin with the blade. It has never bled this much. She curses as the blood begins to seep into the cotton of her underwear. Her attention is on stopping the red from staining her clothes, so she doesn’t hear the front door open.

Rafe whistles whilst he uses his copy of the key to open Y/N’s front door. People thought it was too early when they exchanged house keys after only six months of dating. They didn’t though. It felt like the next step when she told him that she was saving herself for marriage. They found a different way to reach a new level of intimacy and it worked for them. Her house is eerily quiet and dark. Normally, she keeps the hallway lights on when she is home and if she is watching TV/listening to music, it is so loud that it could make a deaf person hear. He doesn’t let the lack of normality stop him from making his way to her bedroom, thinking nothing that her door is closed. He uses the doorknob to push it open and he is surprised to see her standing in front of the mirror with her hands pressing against her hip. It takes him a second to process that blood stains her hand. His shock turns to worry as he rushes to her side. He trips over something in his attempt to get to her and looks down to see a bloody Exacto knife, like the kind she uses to cut things for her art. He kicks it away and removes her hand from her side. He curses at the amount of blood. This needs stitches.

“My love, what happened?” he asks, hoping the theory he has isn’t true. He sees the tears running down her face and the way her mouth opens and closes. She has no idea how to answer. The hiccups of her crying make it even harder. Instead of waiting for an answer, Rafe washes his hands and gets the first aid kit in her bathroom. He uses the bandage wrap inside it to catch the blood, instructing her to use it to apply pressure whilst he guides her to his car. The drive to the hospital is silent.

———

Y/N told the medical practitioner the truth as to how she got the cuts and scars. She couldn’t lie with Rafe in the room. He had offered to step out, except she asked him to stay. She was tired of lying. It only added to her exhaustion. Y/N didn’t have to say much before the doctor excused herself to get a hospital psychiatrist. Rafe said nothing as she described the anguish she felt. He felt a sharp stab to his heart at every word she said, criticizing himself for not seeing the mental pain his girlfriend was in.

With the doctor gone, he speaks up. “Is there anything I can do right now that can help you feel more comfortable?” She appreciates that he doesn’t assume that there is an easy fix to this or that at the moment there is something quick he can do to make her feel better. His focus on her comfort causes a flutter in her stomach. She nods, “Can you just hold me?” He joins her on the hospital bed and pulls her to his side. The buzz of the lights is the sole thing that can be heard for a while. “This isn’t your fault,” she clarifies, concerned that he might think it. He kisses her temple, “I know. Thank you for trusting me enough to be in the room when you told the doctor what happened. This isn’t your fault either and you are so brave for asking for help. If you want, I will be here to help you every step of the way.” A different kind of relief comes over her. She feels a glimmer of hope that she doesn’t have to do this alone. “I want you here,” she whispers, pressing her face into his side. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks imagine #outer banks x reader

285 notes · View notes

finchyclarkemd · 2 months ago

Text

Through rose-tinted glasses

~Angst~

Harry was different. That was the first thing you told yourself. From the moment you met him, he had this way of making the world feel brighter, like everything was an adventure just waiting to unfold. His laughter was reckless, his words smooth, his touch electric. When he looked at you, it felt like you were the only person in the universe.

“You’re special,” he told you once, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. And you believed him.

So you ignored the little things. The way he always showed up late, grinning like it didn’t matter. Time doesn’t exist when I’m with you, love. The way he forgot the small promises—I’ll call you tonight, I’ll be there, I swear—only to laugh them off when you reminded him. You know I’m bad at this stuff. The way he got jealous too easily, pulling you closer when someone so much as glanced at you, his grip just a little too tight. I just love you too much, that’s all.

Your friends warned you. Are you sure this is love? But they didn’t see him the way you did. They didn’t see the boy who kissed your knuckles like you were royalty, who told you he dreamed of forever with you. They didn’t see the moments that made you stay. But love isn’t just the good moments, is it?

You learned that the night he raised his voice, his words sharp enough to cut. You’re too sensitive. The first time he made you feel like you were the problem. You learned that when he started pulling away, only to reel you back in when you tried to leave. You know I can’t do this without you. And one day, you woke up and saw it—the way the red flags had always been there, waving wildly, demanding your attention. You had just been looking at them through rose-tinted glasses, mistaking warning signs for something softer, something safer.

But now, the glasses were off. And Harry? Harry was just a boy who had never been different at all. You had only wanted him to be. You almost left.

You stood by the door, fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the handle, heart hammering like it already knew what you should do. But then—his voice.

“Please, don’t go.”

And just like that, you stayed. Because leaving meant admitting that it had all been a lie. That you had ignored the signs, convinced yourself that love meant waiting, enduring. That the boy who once made you feel like the world was magic had been handing you illusions all along. But if you stayed—if you gave him one more chance—then maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t been wrong about him.

So you stayed. And for a while, things got better. Harry held you closer, answered your messages faster, told you he would change. He looked at you with those familiar eyes, the ones that once made you feel like the most important person in the world, and swore, I can’t lose you. And you believed him. Because love is about forgiveness, right? About weathering storms, about understanding that no one is perfect.

But then the storms kept coming. The red flags didn’t disappear—they just shifted, changed shape, disguised themselves as love.

He still forgot plans, but now, when you brought it up, he sighed. “You know how busy I am.”

He still pulled away when things got serious, but now, he blamed you. “You’re overthinking again.”

He still hurt you, but now, the apologies came with tired frustration. “Why do you always make me the bad guy?”

And you started to wonder if you were the problem. If you were asking for too much, expecting too much, holding onto a version of him that didn’t exist anymore—or maybe never had. But you stayed. Because leaving meant losing. Leaving meant admitting defeat. Leaving meant starting over, and God, the thought of that was more terrifying than anything else.

So you stayed. And you told yourself that love was supposed to be hard. That maybe, if you just loved him a little better, he’d finally love you the way you deserved.

You tell yourself it’s not that bad. Because if it were, you would have left by now. Right?

Sure, Harry doesn’t always listen. Sometimes, when you talk, his eyes glaze over, his fingers tapping distractedly on his phone. But everyone gets distracted. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.

And yes, he cancels plans last minute—again—but this time, he says he feels awful about it. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before rushing out the door. You nod, tell him it’s okay. Because you don’t want to be that person—the one who nags, who expects too much.

He loves you. He says it all the time. I love you, you know that, right? And you do. So why does it still feel like you’re constantly waiting for something?

Something more. Something real.

There are good days, of course. The ones that keep you here. Days when he laughs with you the way he used to, when he pulls you into his arms and whispers, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

And in those moments, you forget the doubt, the exhaustion. You tell yourself that love is about patience, about pushing through the hard times. But deep down, you know the truth. The red flags are still there. You’ve just learned how to look past them, how to explain them away. How to live with them. Because leaving means starting over. It means facing the fact that you stayed too long, that you ignored what was right in front of you.

So you stay. And the worst part? You don’t even know if you’re waiting for things to get better—or just waiting for yourself to finally walk away.

You don’t recognise yourself anymore. You catch glimpses sometimes—in the reflection of a café window, in the bathroom mirror, in the tired smile you force when your friends ask if you’re okay. There’s someone there who looks like you, but they don’t glow the way they used to. Their shoulders sag a little more. Their laughter is quieter. Their eyes don’t shine like they once did.

But you don’t say anything. You don’t even let yourself think it too loudly. Because thinking about it means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means admitting it. And if you admit it, then you have to do something about it. And you’re not ready for that.

So you stay.

Harry still loves you—he says it all the time. I love you, I love you, I love you. If he says it enough, it must be true. And if it’s true, then this—this empty feeling, this constant waiting, this ache that never fully goes away—it must be normal.

Some nights, you lie awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while he sleeps peacefully next to you. You wonder how he can rest so easily while your mind spins with all the things you’ll never say. That you feel lonely, even when he’s right there. That you’re tired of fighting for a version of him that only exists in your memories. That love shouldn’t feel like something you have to earn.

But the words never leave your lips. Instead, you wake up in the morning, roll over to find him already on his phone, scrolling like you’re not even there. He doesn’t say good morning. He doesn’t kiss your forehead like he used to.

But then, later, he wraps his arms around you from behind while you’re making coffee and murmurs, “You know I love you, right?”

And just like that, you forget. Or maybe you just let yourself pretend. Because staying is easier than leaving. And you don’t know how to stop loving someone who doesn’t know how to love you back.

It happens on a night like any other. You’re in the car with Harry, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly. The air between you is thick, heavy with the weight of another argument. You can’t even remember how it started—something small, something stupid. But with Harry, it always spirals.

“I don’t understand why you always have to make things difficult,” he mutters, jaw clenched.

You swallow hard. “I just wanted you to follow through for once, Harry. You promised—”

“Oh my God, you and your promises.” He lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. “You act like I don’t do enough for you. Like I don’t love you.”

The word love is thrown like a weapon.

You grip your arms, nails digging into your skin to ground yourself. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” His voice rises, sharp enough to cut. His foot presses harder on the accelerator.

Your stomach twists. “Harry, slow down.”

But he doesn’t. If anything, the car speeds up. The streetlights blur past, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“Jesus, you’re so dramatic,” he snaps, but he doesn’t ease up. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel.

Your breath comes faster now, panic clawing up your throat. “Harry, please.”

And then—red light. For a split second, time slows. The glow of brake lights ahead, the screech of tires, the sharp gasp you don’t realise is coming from your own mouth.

Harry slams the brakes just in time. The car lurches, your body jerks forward before the seatbelt yanks you back. Your hands are shaking.

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Harry exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Relax. It wasn’t that bad.”

You stare at him, your chest heaving. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge the way your fingers are trembling, how your entire body feels like it’s still moving even though the car is still.

It takes you a moment to realise—he doesn’t care. He scared you. He could’ve hurt you. And he doesn’t care. Something in you cracks. The rose-tinted glasses slip a little more, and for the first time, you wonder—is this really love? Or is this just how it ends?

Something shifted that night. You don’t bring it up again—what would be the point? Harry would just roll his eyes, call you dramatic, make you feel like you imagined it. But something inside you has changed. You see it now. All of it.

You see it when he ignores your messages for hours but expects you to answer his within minutes. When he makes a joke at your expense in front of his friends, and when you don’t laugh, he sighs. Oh, come on, don’t be so sensitive. You see it in the way he forgets things that matter to you, but you remember every little thing about him—his coffee order, his favourite song, the way he likes his pillows arranged. You see it when he pulls you close after a fight, kisses your temple, murmurs, I don’t want to lose you, but never actually changes. You see it in the exhaustion that follows you everywhere. The way you hold your breath around him, afraid of saying the wrong thing. The way your heart doesn’t leap when you get a message from him anymore—it just sinks, bracing for whatever mood he’s in today. And most of all, you see yourself.

The person you used to be. The person you should be. Someone who laughed freely, who felt loved instead of tolerated, who didn’t have to beg to be chosen. You see her in old pictures, in memories before Harry. And you miss her. You miss yourself more than you miss him. That’s how you know. The glasses aren’t just slipping anymore. They’re shattering.

The decision comes quietly. It’s not some grand confrontation or dramatic goodbye. There’s no slammed door or final, tearful speech. It’s just a moment of clarity, a slow, quiet realisation: You don’t want to live like this anymore.

You don’t want to keep waiting for the love that was promised to you but never showed up. You don’t want to keep convincing yourself that things will get better when you know, deep down, they won’t. You realise that love shouldn’t feel like a constant game of trying to measure up, trying to stay patient, trying to prove that you deserve more. Love shouldn’t be a struggle. It shouldn’t feel like you’re carrying the weight of someone else’s neglect while they pretend everything is fine.

And so, one day, as you sit in the apartment you’ve shared for so long, you start packing. Slowly, carefully, quietly.

Harry is out, as he so often is—distracted by something that isn’t you. It’s easier this way. You don’t want to say anything right now, don’t want the argument or the justification. You just want to go. You look around the room one last time. The photographs on the walls, the little things you’ve accumulated together—somewhere along the way, these things became your life. But they aren’t anymore. You take a breath and walk out the door.

The weight in your chest lifts with every step, every moment that takes you further away from the life you built with him. You walk through the door of the apartment, step into the world outside, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you breathe.

You don’t know what comes next. You don’t know how long it’ll take to fully untangle yourself from the years of him. But you know this: you deserve to feel free. You deserve to feel loved—not in the way he could love you when it was convenient for him, but in the way that makes you whole.

And maybe you’ll be scared. Maybe there will be days when you miss him, when the loneliness creeps back in. But you know now that you can stand on your own. You can love yourself. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like you finally see things clearly.

—————————————————————————————————

Slightly angsty one today, many apologies for that! My friend sent the prompt so also many thanks to her! Also, my first Harry fic?!

Tags-

@tyna-19

@themdera

#harrylewis #wroetoshaw #harry lewis #w2s #harry lewis x reader #w2s x reader #arthur hill #arthur frederick #george clarke #uk youtubers #james marriott #willne #harry w2s #w2s imagine #w2s fic

120 notes · View notes