#this is better than anything I ever imagined

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.

[quarterlifekitty]

Promethean

fuckboy!Soap x Shy!Reader x Ghost (college!au) p.2 here’s part 1

Uhh warning soap isn’t in this chapter and reader isn’t acting very shy rn lol

Simon managed to drag you, shocked and still on shaky legs, into his surprisingly clean car and across town to a little cafe. The guy with eye bags behind the counter starts making his order as soon as he comes in the door— must be a regular.

At the counter he points to a couple of items in the display case, before prompting you— you stutter out your go-to, and Simon whips out a beat-up debit card before you can think to pull out your wallet.

The largest size of earl grey almost looks normal in his large hand, a plate of pastries in his other mitt. You grab your own drink and follow where he tilts his head in gesture.

When you sit, he pushes the plate towards you. Like he’s dropping a fresh kill at your doorstep—a courting gift. Eat. Be provided for, sensitive doe. You pick up a danish, if only to ease the clench of his fist on the table. He pulls the black surgical mask down to sip his tea in a way that’s almost hilariously delicate given his permanent scowl.

You couldn’t have sat in silence for more than 10 minutes. But it feels like a lot longer.

“Simon. What are we doing here?” You probe quietly. Saying his name when you’ve never actually been introduced to each other feels wrong. Like you’ve stolen a piece of him that he hasn’t given freely.

“He never takes you out,” he grunts. As if that explains anything.

“It’s not… what we have isn’t like that.”

——

Simon chews on your overly diplomatic response for a minute. That’s what it must be, chewing— why else would he grind his teeth together when his tongue is still wet with his favorite soothing beverage?

You’re kind. Kinder than the mutt deserves.

“But you want it to be.” He says it with an almost biblical level of finality. Your pastry making the plate clink against the table as you drop it back down.

“What would you know about what I want?”

“You’re an easy read. S’how y’got yourself in this situation. Soap’s not exactly a rocket scientist when it comes to chattin’ up birds, you’re jus’ an open book.”

Simon shamelessly stares at your lips as they quirk in anger— so unused to vitriol. It’s gorgeous.

“So he’s using me. I know. Is that what this was about? Taking me on a pity date to let me down gently? Or did you just wanna see if you could have a go as well?”

Seeing you like this. It’s something else. He’s seen you mope around so many times, silently begging for crumbs that will never be tossed your way. It’s even harder to pull his gaze from you, now that you’re hissing. He wants to dig his teeth into your heart shoulder and rip out the bruise Johnny left you with.

Soap is his best friend.

“He’s a dickhead. You don’t need him. You’ll find something better.”

Simon has never been what he would call “something better”. Not in any sense. But this might be the first time he’s wanted to be.

“I won’t,” you say with the lower half of your face hidden by the sipping of your drink. As if it’s quenched your fire, and all that leaves you is vapor. “I’m not… the type.”

He gets it. Really, he does. He’s not the type either— or so he’s thought. You’re making him wonder if he’s imagined that about himself— the same way you’ve clearly imagined it about yourself.

“What’s the rest of your day look like?”

“…Nothing set in stone.” The not that it’s any of your fucking business goes unspoken, but is plain to see in the air between you.

“Lemme take you around. On a date. Be mine for today. If y’hate it, I’ll drop you back at yours and the next time you come round, I’ll mind my business and keep the door closed.” Well, that’s the most you’ve ever heard him say in one go. And it begs a question.

“What happens if I like it? You’ll fuck me in a different room of the same frat house?” Your unimpressed look makes him feel ravenous. She-wolf is threatening to turn her eyes from the display. Rejection. Not an option. “Or maybe you’ll ask me to go steady,” you huff under your breath like it’s a bad joke.

“If y’like it, then you’ll stay mine, and y’won’t fuckin’ want for anything. You’re supposed to be worshipped, not begging for scraps at a mutt’s door.”

He really didn’t mean to say it like that. He meant to bite his tongue. He’s trying not to think of how hot it would be if his intensity scared you into pissing yourself. He’s trying not to let himself show through the lines. It’s not working. Any of it.

The venomous bile that spills from behind his teeth reminds him that his eloquence is just one of many reasons why he’s single. Why he should be muzzled instead of kept. He doesn’t know why he’s taking it upon himself to do this. Selfishness, maybe. There’s plenty of better men he could’ve put up to the task, easy. The man who wants to feel blood on the back of his throat makes a terrible savior.

He feels like he can see your pupils dilate. You pick up your danish again and take a bite. You hold it out for him to try. It’s a test. You don’t think someone with eyes like his can handle doing cutesy, saccharine things. Like what couples do. That must be it.

He tries not to think of his teeth going past the flakey flesh of the pastry and sinking into your fingers. When his tongue meets the butter between the layers, he tries not to think of the salt sweet flavor of your sweat and tears. A seed from the blackberry jam gets thoughtlessly crushed between his molars— he hopes the bitterness will suddenly wake him up and he won’t be a beast crying for love at the heart of the world anymore.

It doesn’t.

[rmview]

they beg to be taken back, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of how the stray kids boys realize they can’t live without you, and come to beg you for a second chance!

contents — angst, mentions of fights, possible reconciliation.

bang ♢ chan

bang chan had always been composed, the leader who held everyone together. but when you broke up with him, the cracks in his armor showed. he respected your decision and convinced himself that it was for the best, despite the emptiness growing unbearable.

he wasn’t himself since and the people around him began to notice. the usual spark in his eyes dimmed, and the weight of your absence felt suffocating. he replayed the last argument over and over in his head, agonizing over what he could’ve done differently. but as much as he respected your decision, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to try, just one more time, to fight for what you both had.

it was late when he showed up at your doorstep, his hand hovering over the doorbell. when you answered, you were more than surprised to see him standing there, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he was carrying the weight of the world. his hair was disheveled, eyes rimmed red. he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“chan? what are you doing here?” the nickname slipped from your lips almost too easily and you suppressed the urge to recoil. being around him — being his, was too easy. even with the two months apart, one look into his eyes was all it took for everything to come rushing back.

“i… i needed to see you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly and his australian accent slightly thicker, which was a sign of his nervousness. “i know you said that it’s over, but i can’t accept it — not without trying to make things right.”

you felt something in your chest lurch, and for a few moments you were rendered speechless. a large part of you wanted to forget the fight and what lead up to it, but the smaller part of you kept reminding you of how alone he made you feel despite being together. “we’ve already talked about this. you need to let me go. i... i don’t want to go back to feeling the way i did.”

he shook his head, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “i can’t just let you go,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “i know i messed up. i wasn’t there for you when you needed me most, i treated you like another responsibility, and i hate myself for it. but please, give me a chance to prove that i can do better. i can’t lose you like this.”

“chan…” you looked away, your heart breaking at the vulnerability in his voice. your own eyes blurred with tears and you tried to blink them away.

“i know i’m asking a lot,” he continued, taking a tentative step closer. his hands itched with the need to reach out for your waist; the feeling of your skin under his palms a muscle memory. “but i love you. i love you more than anything, and i can’t imagine my life without you in it. tell me what i need to do, and i’ll do it. just… don’t give up on us.”

his desperation was raw and unfiltered, and it was clear that he’d spent every waking moment thinking about this moment. whether you took him back or not, he was determined to fight for you until the very end.

felix ♢

felix was a wreck after the breakup. the ever-present sunshine in his personality dimmed, replaced by a quiet sadness that the others noticed but didn’t know how to fix. he replayed the moments leading up to your decision endlessly, wondering where he went wrong. no matter how hard he tried to respect your choice and acknowledge his mistakes, his heart refused to let it go.

one rainy evening, he found himself standing in the reception office of your workplace while soaked to the bone. he didn’t care that the receptionist was eyeing him in annoyance for dripping on the floors, or that he looked homeless from his red-rimmed eyes and masked face. when you finally made your way down after a call from your superiors, you were shocked.

“felix? what the hell?” you whisper-yelled, your voice laced with concern despite the shock as you grasped his arms to lead him to the bathrooms instead of the ac-blasting reception so he wouldn’t get sick.

“i had to see you,” he said, his voice trembling. both from the cold and his overwhelming feelings. “i couldn’t just… let it end like that.”

you sighed, grasping his freezing hands in yours and holding it under the hot air of the hand drier, not caring that you were in the men’s room. felix couldn’t care less either as he momentarily basked in the feeling of your soft hands in his after so long. “i know i hurt you, and i hate myself for it. but i can’t let you go without telling you how much you mean to me.”

“and you thought this was the smartest way to do it? by getting yourself sick?” you shook your head, trying to keep your emotions in check. he broke your heart, you tried to remind yourself to keep yourself steely. it didn’t work.

“i know i made mistakes,” he continued, his voice breaking as he sniffled and you avoided his gaze and chalked it up to the cold. “i wasn’t there for you the way i should have been. but you… you’re everything to me. you’re the reason i smile, the reason i wake up in the morning. please, tell me how to fix this.”

his vulnerability was heart-wrenching and you felt your own eyes blur through your silence. felix didn’t look away from you the entire time, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “i’ll do anything, anything to make things right. just… don’t walk away from me. from us.”

as the rain continued to pour outside, felix stood there, baring his soul to you. he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness — he was offering every piece of himself, hoping it would be enough to convince you to take him back.

lee ♢ know

lee know was stubborn by nature, and after the breakup, he tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone. he put on a brave face around the others, burying himself in practice and work. taking on excess time to keep his mind off you worked for a while, but even then every time he went home to the empty silence of his apartment, your absence hit him like a freight train.

his members began to notice his stubbornness and attempt to dismiss your relationship, giving him the space he needed as they hoped he’d work through it. but it began to become clear he was taking the ostrich’s way out — burying his head in the sand and pretending everything was fine.

it took weeks for him to swallow his pride and realize he didn’t want to deal with the emptiness anymore. the fight was so stupid and you were the love of his life, so why weren’t you together right now?

he wasn’t one to beg, but losing you was something he slowly realized he couldn’t bear. and so one evening after heavy contemplation, he found himself standing outside your apartment door, clutching his phone in one hand and a small bouquet of your favorite flowers in the other.

when you opened the door, you paused and your eyes widened in surprise. your treacherous heart missed a beat and you attempted to school your expression to normal. “minho? what are you doing here?”

“i, uh, i needed to see you,” he said, his usual cool demeanor replaced with a hesitance you rarely saw.

your mind flashed with the hurtful words he threw at you during the argument and you crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “i thought we agreed that separating was for the best.”

“maybe i thought so at first,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm. “but i don’t think i can do this anymore. i can’t pretend that i’m okay being without you because i’m not.”

“minho…” you started, looking away as you didn’t know what to say.

“i know i don’t say it enough,” he interrupted, his gaze dropping to the ground. “but i love you. i loved you then, and i love you now. and i hate that i let you go without fighting for you. i hate that i was so stupid.”

“you hurt me,” you said, a slight wobble in your voice that you attempted to mask with by clearing your throat softly. but the hurt in your eyes was hard to miss. “i can’t just forget that.”

“i know,” he said, stepping closer. he put the flowers down on the floor by your feet as he took your hands in his, his palms warm. “and i don’t expect you to. but i want to make it up to you. i’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. because i mean it when i say i won’t make the same mistakes again.”

he squeezed your palms softly, bringing your fingers up to his lips. “i know i’m not the best at showing how much you mean to me. but you do — more than anything. and if there’s even the smallest part of you that still feels the same way, please… give me another chance.”

it wasn’t easy for lee know to open up like this, but the thought of losing you for good outweighed his fear of vulnerability and hesitance. whether or not you decided to take him back, he was determined to show you just how much you meant to him.

hyun ♢ jin

hyunjin wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the breakup managed to shatter the carefully built walls around his emotions. he threw himself into his art and practice, hoping it would drown out the ache in his chest. but no matter how many brushstrokes he painted or routines he perfected, nothing could fill the void you’d left behind.

while hoping to take a walk on evening , hyunjin mindlessly ended up walking into your favorite park, the place where you’d spent countless nights talking about dreams and fears. as usual, you were there sitting on the same bench you’d share, a book on your lap but your mind and gaze were elsewhere.

hyunjin stood there for a few moments, unable to look away until your wandering gaze settled on him. you paused, startled to see him there, his usually confident posture replaced by a tentative nervousness as he slowly walked to you.

“hyunjin?” you looked up at him, unsure if you should address him in public since your relationship was over. he was dressed in black, a mask covering the bottom half of his face, but you recognized him immediately.

he hesitated for aa moment before he sat down beside you, a small bittersweet smile tugging at his lips even though you couldn’t see it. “i wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he admitted.

“i didn’t know you’d be here either,” you replied cautiously, fidgeting with your book in your lap. would you have come if you knew? maybe, maybe not.

he took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto you even though you wouldn’t look back at him. “i just... i needed to see you. i can’t keep pretending i’m okay with this when i’m not.”

“hyunjin, we’ve already talked about this…”

“i know,” he interrupted, his voice heavy with emotion. “but i can’t let it end like this. i know i hurt you really bad, and i hate myself for it every day. i thought i was protecting you from this life and me, but all i did was push you away.”

your fingers softly tightened around the book, trying to calm yourself against the raw emotion in his voice. “it’s not that simple.”

“i know it’s not,” he said, scooting slightly closer. he couldn’t take his eyes off you. you were so pretty. “but i love you. i’ve always loved you, even when i was too scared to show it. and if there’s even a small part of you that still cares about me and what we had, then please… let me try to fix this.”

his voice broke as he added, “i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if i have to. just… don’t give up on us. not yet.”

you finally looked up at him and your breath hitched at the proximity. the vulnerability in hyunjin’s eyes was almost too much for you to bear. he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness — he was offering every piece of himself, hoping it would be enough to convince you to give him one last chance. he wouldn’t lose you again.

i.n ♢

jeongin had never experienced heartbreak like this before. the breakup ended up hitting him harder than he ever thought possible. he spent days replaying the fight you both had in his head, wondering how he could’ve done things differently. his hyungs tried their best to cheer him up, but their efforts only seemed to highlight the emptiness he felt without you.

you were his first relationship, his first kiss, his first love and the woman he thought he’d marry some day. he’d questioned his success as an idol, he’d question his talents — but the lifetime of your relationship was one thing he never had to question. so to have that one dream shattered was more than the average heartbreak. jeongin would probably never date again.

only nine days had passed since you left, and after those 200 hours, jeongin couldn’t take it anymore. he knew your schedule in and out, and he knew exactly where you’d be on a weekend evening at 5.

he showed up at your favorite café, the place where you’d spent countless afternoons together and took a seat at the very booth you’d always sit at, counting down the minutes to when you’ll show up.

so when you walked in and spotted him sitting at your usual table, his nervous smile and the familiar warmth in his eyes caught you off guard.

“jeongin?” you asked cautiously as you approached, looking around the almost empty area. “what are you doing here?”

he stood up quickly, his hands fidgeting as he spoke, wanting to reach out to you. “hi. i… i wasn’t sure if you’d come here today, but i had to take the chance.”

you hesitated, unsure of what to say. it had barely been over a week since your breakup. “what do you want?”

“i want to apologize,” he said earnestly, his voice quiet but steady. he had already made up his mind. “and to ask for another chance.”

“jeongin, we already talked about this,” you replied, shaking your head softly. the argument was still fresh in your mind and you didn’t plan to give in anytime soon. yet one look into his puppy-like eyes was all it took. damn.

“i know that,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “but i can’t just let it end the way it did. i know i hurt you, and i know i wasn’t the boyfriend you deserved, but i want to make it right. i need to make it right.”

you sighed, hesitantly sitting down across from him. “it’s not that easy.”

“i know it’s not,” jeongin said, his gaze earnest. he was not going to leave without you. “but i love you. and i’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you. i’ve been thinking about everything i did wrong, and i promise, i’ll be better. just… don’t shut me out completely. you don’t have to take me back now, but know i’m not going to let this be the end of us.”

his voice softened as he added, “i know i’m asking for a lot, but please… let me show you how much you mean to me. even if it seems a little too late.”

you found yourself softening against your will. jeongin’s sincerity was palpable, and the quiet determination in his eyes made it clear that he wasn’t giving up on you. whether or not you decided to take him back, he was willing to do whatever it took to make amends.

han ♢

han had always been known for his bright energy, and the way he could light up a room with his laughter. but ever since the breakup, his spark was gone and it became glaringly obvious. the jokes came less frequently, and the music he created sounded hollow, even to him. he missed you, missed the comfort of your presence and the way you always seemed to understand him when no one else could.

his group members had tried to give him the time and space he needed, since your relationship was long-term and impactful. you had been by han’s side since before stray kids, and the loss of your presence in his life was something all 7 of them combined couldn’t match up to.

the moment han decided he couldn’t stay away any longer, he abandoned the practice session and rushed straight to your place without even thinking it through. the journey was a blur and his body ran on instinct until he was standing outside your door.

his hands fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie as he rehearsed what he wanted to say for a few minutes before knocking once he was semi-confident of what to say and had plastered a small nervous smile on his lips.

when you opened the door, his smile faltered at the sight of you. “hey,” he said softly, his voice tinged with hesitance, looking over the sight of you in your pajamas.

“han? what are you doing here?” you paused in shock, not expecting his presence out of all things.

“i… i couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground. he forgot what he planned to say. “i know i don’t have any right to be here after what happened and what i said, but i needed to talk to you.”

you looked over his sweaty and disheveled appearance as if he ran here, and crossed your arms, looking away. “we already talked, han. what’s left to say?”

“a lot,” he said quickly, his voice trembling slightly — from being out of breath, or from the prospect of losing you, he wasn’t sure. “i know i messed up real bad. i know i didn’t always handle things the way i should’ve, but i can’t —” he paused, swallowing hard. “i can’t lose you.”

you sighed, trying to keep your composure. you knew his words were true. “you realize that now? after all that was said and done?”

“i know what i said,” he said, stepping closer. “but i need you to know how sorry i am. i didn’t realize how much i was taking you for granted until you were gone. and now… now i feel like i’m missing a part of myself. you, and what we had, none of that can ever be replaced. you were the one, and i was so stupid for letting you go like that.”

“han…”

“i’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” he continued, his voice cracking. “but i just want one chance to show you that i can be better. please, just give me that chance. i won’t screw up again.”

his vulnerability was raw and unguarded, and the tears welling up in his eyes mirrored the ache in your chest. his presence only made you realize what you were missing. han wasn’t one to beg, but for you, he’d put his pride aside if it meant that he could win you back.

seung ♢ min

seungmin prided himself on his ability to stay composed, but the breakup had shaken him to his core. he replayed your last conversation over and over, analyzing every word, every tone, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. the silence in his life without you was deafening, and no amount of logic could convince his heart to move on.

he knew he had no right to approach you or ask for forgiveness after his neglect, but damn was it hard to get past your absence in his daily life. meals, practice and sleeping alone felt void — like a puzzle piece was missing, leaving the actions feeling inadequate.

it took him a month to realize he couldn’t go on without you, weeks to decide how he was going to approach you, and another handful of days to work up the courage and find himself standing outside your door. his heart was pounding in his chest and his hands felt sweaty.

when you opened your front door, you were startled to see seungmin there, his usual calm demeanor replaced with an uncharacteristic hesitance and unease. “seungmin? what are you doing here?”

“i…” he hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor as he suddenly felt a wave of unpreparedness. “i needed to talk to you.”

you were surprised but crossed your arms and kept your expression guarded, equally as hesitant. “we’ve already said everything that needed to be said. why now?”

“no,” he said firmly, meeting your gaze. a troubled look in his eyes. seungmin wasn’t sure if he felt like crying, or throwing up. “i didn’t say enough. i didn’t fight for you the way i should have, and i can’t let it end like this.”

“seungmin…” you frowned softly

“i know i made mistakes,” he interrupted, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “i know i wasn’t always there for you the way i should’ve been. but i love you. and i can’t just let you walk away without trying to make things right.”

you sighed, looking away. “it’s not that simple. you hurt me.”

“i know,” he said, his voice softening. “and i hate myself for it. but i want to make it up to you. i’ll do whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes. i just need you to give me a chance.”

when you didn’t respond immediately, he took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “i’m not asking you to forget everything. i’m just asking for the chance to prove that i can be better—that i can be the person you deserve.”

the quiet determination in his voice was unlike anything you’d heard from him before. it was clear that seungmin wasn’t just asking for forgiveness—he was willing to fight for you, no matter how long it took.

chang ♢ bin

changbin wasn’t used to feeling helpless, but after the breakup, he felt like his world had been turned upside down. he threw himself into his music, trying to channel his emotions into lyrics, but even that didn’t offer the relief he was hoping for. the studio felt empty without you. his group mates tried to cheer him up, but nothing could replace your touch, the sound of your laugh or the way you’d encourage him after a long day.

it didn’t take long before he realized he couldn’t let you go. your presence couldn’t be replaced by practice or writing, and every heart wrenching feeling being poured into his file of unreleased songs. it had reached a point where he had gotten tired of the separation and ended up impulsively making his way to your apartment one evening.

changbin’s heart was pounding as he worked up the courage to knock, freezing in surprise when you suddenly opened the door in that purple shirt of yours that you always wore to grocery shop. he stared at you quietly for a few moments, watching how your expression shifted from surprise to guardedness.

“changbin? what are you doing here?” you spoke softly, your gaze flickering around the hall to make sure no neighbor was out.

he hesitated, feeling extremely unprepared despite replaying the conversation in his mind the whole ride here, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i just needed to see you,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“bin, we’ve already talked about this,” you began the nickname slipping too easily, but he shook his head.

“no, i need you to listen,” he said, his voice firm but he had to clear his throat to stay composed. “i know i messed up. really bad. i know i didn’t always handle things the way i should’ve, but i can’t lose you. i don’t know how to be without you.”

you sighed, fidgeting slightly as you looked over his disheveled hair and troubled expression. he wouldn’t meet your eyes either. “it’s not that simple, changbin. you can’t just show up after what happened and expect everything to be okay.”

“i know that,” he said, his dark eyes pleading as he ran his palm over his face. he wasn’t one to beg but if he left this without knowing you were his again, he didn’t know what he’d do. “but i’m willing to do whatever it takes to fix this. i’ll change. i’ll be better. just tell me what you need, and i’ll make it happen.”

you looked away, trying to maintain your resolve, but his words slowly chipped away at your defenses. he was the best you’d ever had, until he wasn’t. “why now, changbin? why couldn’t you do this before and how am i supposed to believe you’ve changed?”

“because i was scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, looking up at you as he reached out to grasp your hands in his. “i was scared of failing you, or of not being enough. but i realized i’m more scared of losing you forever. i wouldn’t be able to bear that.”

his voice trembled and he nearly found himself in tears, leaning his forehead against yours. “please, give me another chance. let me prove that i can be the person you deserve.”

notes: something about writing sad shit and horny shit really makes me tingle. anybody interested in an individual smut fic?

[bonbonly]

No bon its fine, i do also see oscar as the sweetest thing, thats why i maybe thought he always forgives you for not paying him with sex, until one day, after like 6 months of not doing anything, snaps and just comes to you and gives yoh an ultimatum either you ride his cock or leave entirely

anon you absolute slut i love you for this, because for the longest time i couldn't even see oscar as a sugar daddy and now im seeing the vision, you genius i am going to pull you onto my lap and make out with you for this ;alsdkjfasldkfja;sldkfjasd;lf LMFAO bon's thoughts (18+)

sugar!daddy oscar piastri who really isn't that entirely older than you. he understand how university life is, and he helps you sometimes. he asks some of his buddies for opportunities for you, and he definitely sends you big checks to help you buy whatever you need, and whatever you want. but there are some days where he really really wants to touch you, just to know what it's like to be inside you. you're absolutely stunning, you're always smiling at him and so he feels awkward bringing this up into a conversation because you seem content, everything's working out fine and he feels a bit too selfish for wanting to ask this of you. so he lets it slide. he's not your boyfriend, necessarily, so he keeps his boundaries and nods his head whenever you talk about sex to him. it's a normal topic, you say, but you're unaware that he's biting his knuckles not because it's a habit of his, but because his cock cannot stop craving to be inside your sweet cunt.

and you can imagine months later when he overhears a phone call with your friends about how one of your classmates invited you to the library to study only to eat you out, oscar's standing there in shock because all this time he was waiting and waiting only to realize that you had just completely ignored him. if you wanted to have sex with someone, he was right there for you! you're in his bedroom, giggling with your friends about masturbating to some porn videos you found online and that's his final straw. when you come down to tell him that you were heading back to your dorm, you see him sitting there with crossed arms and a glare on his face.

"what's wrong?" you ask.

"i'll tell you what's wrong," oscar scoffs, "here's how this is going to work, because i've lost all my patience. either you come over here and ride my cock that's been aching for you for months, or you step out this door to get back to your dorm and you never come back. everything stops between us."

and you raise an eyebrow, a grin on your face when you realize your sugar daddy's feeling jealous that you weren't giving him the attention he deserves. so like the good girl that you are, you straddle him, taking off your clothes and sinking down onto his cock which causes the both of you to moan out loud. all restrain is out the window, the man has his arms wrapped around you just in case you try to leave him without having his cum inside you, and he's thrusting his hips upward to meet your bounces. he's having you cum again and cum, relishing in the feeling of your walls clenching around his cock that just keeps gifting you wave after wave.

"fuck, from now on, you wanna fuck someone you tell me," he groans, "and when i want to have my dick inside you, you better have your cunt spread wide for me. oh my," he throws his head back, slapping your ass as you continue to ride him. you nod your head, telling him that you'll never leave him unattended ever again. he's wrapped around your finger, permanently.

[robo-writing]

hihi friend <3333 requesting something a little more different bc as someone who loves a good breeding kink (in form of dirty talk and dirty talk only!!) i still do not EVER want kids and cannot fathom the whole birth process. can i ask for what logan’s reaction would be a reader who doesn’t want kids?

maybe they’re not that established in their relationship and they’re fooling around (awink) and when logan brings out the breeding talk she just kinda panics and pushes him off/uses her safe word because she does NOT want kids

like i said kinda different but ur one of my fav logan writers and i can’t find anything like this so i wanted to request it 🫠 🫶🏼

As someone who also doesn’t want kids but has a massive breeding kink, real. (Also FAVORITE???? EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK)

Logan with an s/o who doesn’t want kids!

✦ To be entirely honest, Logan never thought of himself as a fatherly type, hell, he never thought of himself even staying in a relationship long enough to even have kids.

✦ You however, are the exception.

✦ He can see himself growing old for once, more importantly, he can see himself growing old with you.

✦ So is it surprising that somewhere along the line instead of just you and him, he started imagining a kid hanging off you too?

✦ He wouldn’t even know how to bring it up, and he’s still of the belief that he’d be a god awful father

✦ But if you’d have him, he’d try his damndest to be the best father a kids ever gonna have

✦ He doesn’t tell you that he’s even thought of having a kid, too afraid to bring it up in case you get scared

✦ But one night it accidentally slips out while he’s got you pinned under him

✦ It really was an accident, you just sounded so good and you were squeezing his cock just perfectly—

✦ Something inside him snaps, tears it’s way to the forefront of his mind, eyes fixated where his cock almost bulges against your stomach—

✦ Right where you’d be carrying his kid

✦ He bows over you, practically covers you with his body, head bent and panting into your ear like a wild animal.

✦ He’s not totally aware of himself, almost as if he’s a spectator; he feels everything, maybe even too much.

✦ You’re scratching at his back, moaning his name so pretty, begging him for more, more, don’t stop, please—

✦ It was an accident when he holds you by the hips, growls in your ear—not gonna stop, not until I’ve put a kid in you.

✦ You’re always the most beautiful thing he’s laid eyes on but for that moment, when you locked your legs and begged him to breed you, you looked like Aphrodite herself. The way you milked him for all he’s worth, he’s not sure he’ll ever reach a high like that again.

✦ The next morning he wakes up beside you, a dopey smile on his face when he sees the evidence of your love-making on every inch of you.

✦ His hickeys, fresh and dark, painted across your neck, all the way to your collarbone.

✦ Quite simply, you look like you got attacked

✦ However, even better than those was the proof of his love, your cum-stained thighs, just slightly spread apart as you slept.

✦ He won’t lie, it took him more than a bit of self-control not to take you again after seeing that.

✦ Lucky for him, your eyes fluttered open before he could pursue that train of thought.

“G’mornin’” you groan, stretching your very sore body. When you feel the remnants of last nights affairs on your skin it’s as if a switch is flipped, the slight frown on your face, the hesitant look you give as you quickly waddle to the bathroom—he did something wrong, he just doesn’t know what yet.

He waits until after the waters stopped, giving you a peace offering in the form of his t-shirts. It overshadows you, but it’ll do.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks nervously. Logan’s never been good at talking much, but he tries his best when it comes to you.

“No, no,” you deny, but it’s written on your face. You can barely look at him, fiddling with the ends of his shirt.

“You sure? Because you ran out of bed like a bat out of hell.”

Again, you can’t seem to keep your eyes on him. “It’s not you per se, I mean…”

“Say it,” he insists. “I can handle it.”

A pause. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

Even the mention of last night makes his body tingle, the remains of each and every memory fresh in his mind. There’s a lop-sided smile on his face when he answers, lackadaisical even. “I said a LOT of things last night darling, you’re gonna have to be specific here.”

You bit your lips nervously. “What you said about being pregnant.”

Oh, he thinks, and now the shoes finally dropped. At the time you seemed enthusiastic, but looking at you now…you look scared out of your mind.

He’s quick to move closer, inviting you to sit beside him with a couple taps to the bed. The moment you do he’s got you in his arms, making sure he can feel you relax before he says a word.

“Darling, be honest with me, do you want to have kids?”

You tense in his hold, both dread and fear evident in your voice. “I don’t know? Maybe in the future?”

“Maybe ain’t an answer.” He says, stroking your hair. “No need to lie.”

You should’ve known Logan would see right through you. You shake your head with a sigh, unwilling to look at him in fear of the disappointment you’re certain is painted on his features.

“…Not really, no. But if you wanted them—“

“Stop, don’t finish that,” he sighs. “If you don’t want kids, then that’s it. No kids.”

Shock, relief, a flurry of emotions take hold of you when you pull away, staring him down for any hint of dishonesty. Your heart soars when you don’t find any.

“Are you sure? Because it didn’t seem that way last night,” you stutter, and he’s quick to soothe your worries.

A quick peck to your lips, and he makes himself crystal clear. “Listen to me, I’m not gonna force ya to do something you don’t wanna do. If you don’t want kids then there’s nothing to worry about, I’m not an asshole.”

Your eyes almost water, the weight of fear lifting off your shoulders as you weakly chuckle. “Y’know, the amount of times I’ve had this conversation—it always ends in a break up. This is…really refreshing, honestly.”

“You’ve been dating a bunch of assholes,” he taunts, kissing your temple. “Don’t worry though, you’ve got me.”

“And you’re not an asshole?” You chuckle, leaning forward to kiss him.

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “Not to you, at least.”

As he does so, he makes it a point to pull you closer, bury his face into your neck and inhale. “Even if you don’t want kids, I still get to breed ya, right?”

[woso-story]

The Weight Of Love And Loss - Part Four

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Part One Two Three

The morning of the meeting, your nerves felt like they were eating you alive. Every step toward the café felt heavier than the last, as though the gravity of your decision was pulling you back. For days, you’d debated whether to come at all. You’d imagined every possible outcome: Alexia apologizing, Alexia blaming you, Alexia trying to win you back. But no matter how much you rehearsed your responses, nothing prepared you for the reality of seeing her again.

The café was quiet as you approached. It was early, not many people around. Through the glass, you could see Alexia already sitting at your old table, her back slightly hunched, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug.

For a moment, you stopped in your tracks. Memories of the two of you flooded your mind—happy days spent in this exact spot, laughing, dreaming, planning your future together. The air had always been warm with love back then. But now? Now it felt like that love was gone, leaving only bitterness and heartbreak behind.

You inhaled deeply and pushed open the door.

---

The bell above the door jingled softly, drawing Alexia’s attention. She looked up, her eyes meeting yours instantly, and she stood, as if she wasn’t sure whether to stay seated or greet you. She hesitated before giving a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hi,” she said quietly. Her voice was small, unsure, and it tugged at your heart in a way you weren’t ready for.

“Hi,” you replied curtly. No warmth, no familiarity. Just the distance you’d carefully built since the day you walked out of her apartment.

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” she offered, almost nervously.

You shook your head. “No. Let’s just get this over with.”

The words were sharp, but you needed them to be. You needed to protect yourself, to keep the walls you’d built from crumbling the moment she looked at you with those pleading eyes.

Alexia flinched slightly but nodded, sitting back down. You followed, keeping your distance, your arms crossed defensively as you waited for her to start.

---

The silence between you stretched on painfully. Alexia fidgeted with her mug, her eyes darting between you and the table. You resisted the urge to fill the void, to make it easier for her. This was her meeting, her chance to explain. You weren’t going to make it easier for her.

Finally, you sighed, irritation creeping into your voice. “If you’re not going to say anything, I’m leaving. I don’t have time to sit here in silence.”

“No—wait,” she blurted out, her voice breaking slightly. She looked up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But I need to try.”

---

Alexia took a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly together as if trying to hold herself together. “I’m sorry for everything. For the way I treated you. For shutting you out. For not listening. I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to focus on getting better, but...I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you in the process.”

You stayed silent, your expression unreadable.

“When I got injured, I felt like everything I’d worked for my whole life was slipping away,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Football isn’t just a job for me—it’s who I am. And losing that...I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was angry, scared, lost. And instead of letting you help me, I pushed you away. I thought I could handle it on my own. But I couldn’t.”

Her voice broke completely now, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear, I didn’t. But I did, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I made you feel like you didn’t matter, because you do. You always did. You’re...you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I ruined it.”

---

Her words hit you harder than you expected. For months, you’d begged her to open up, to tell you how she felt. And now, here she was, pouring her heart out—but it was too late.

“You’re right,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “You did ruin it.”

Alexia flinched as if you’d slapped her, but you didn’t stop.

“I tried, Alexia. I tried so hard to be there for you, to support you, to love you. But you didn’t let me. Every time I tried to talk to you, you shut me out. Every time I needed you, you weren’t there. And do you know how that felt? To feel like I was invisible? Like I didn’t matter?”

Tears were streaming down your face now, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. “You broke my heart, Alexia. Piece by piece, over months. And I can’t just forget that.”

---

Alexia sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking as she tried to compose herself. “I know,” she whispered. “I know I messed up. But...please. Please give me another chance. I’ll do better. I’ll change. Just...don’t give up on us.”

You shook your head, your heart aching at the sight of her so broken. “It’s not that simple, Alexia. You hurt me. And I don’t think I can trust you not to do it again.”

Her face crumpled, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob.

“I think we need time,” you continued, your voice shaking. “Time to heal. Separately.”

Alexia’s tears fell freely now, her shoulders shaking as she cried. “I can’t do this without you,” she whispered. “You’re my rock. You always have been.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Your rock? I felt more like your punching bag these last few months. I took every hit, Alexia. Every argument, every hurtful comment, every time you brushed me off. I took it all. And I broke because of it.”

She sobbed quietly, her hands trembling as she reached for yours. “I’ll fix it. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just...don’t leave me.”

You took her hands in yours, your heart aching at the sight of her so broken. “You need help, Alexia. Real help. Talk to a sports psychologist. Work through everything you’re feeling. Because I can’t be the one to fix this for you. I tried, and it nearly destroyed me.”

Her tears fell harder, but she nodded slowly, her grip on your hands tightening.

After a moment Alexia’s sobs quieted, and she wiped at her face with shaking hands. “So...that’s it?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“For now,” you said softly. “You need time to heal. And so do I. We can’t do that together.”

She nodded slowly, her tears falling silently now. “Is there still a chance for us? Someday?”

You hesitated, your heart breaking all over again. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “But if it’s meant to be, we’ll find our way back to each other. For now, we have to let go.”

Her face crumpled, but she managed a small, shaky smile. “Okay,” she whispered.

You stood, your heart heavy as you looked at her one last time. “Take care of yourself, Alexia,” you said gently.

“You too,” she replied, her voice trembling.

And with that, you walked away, leaving behind the woman you once thought you’d spend forever with.

As you stepped out into the crisp morning air, a single thought ran through your mind: Maybe someday.

But for now, you needed to heal. Alone.

[kazumikissu]

CRYBABY !

tutor!scaramouche x fem!reader

✧ — making you cry is part of the learning process!

— nsfw, university au, scaramouche has dacryphilia, spanking, sex with an object, humiliation, reader is the stereotypical sorority girl for the plot, not beta read | 1,378 words

no amount of pleading from different subject professors could ever get scaramouche to tutor. with pay or not, the last thing he wanted to eat on his place was a stupid student who can't fend for themselves in a field where mental strength and intellect mattered over beauty and fashion. he cared little to how you even passed the opening exams and got accepted into a high-demanding university like this, the exact same one scaramouche attends, unfortunate for his luck.

if that wasn't enough, you took the same program as scaramouche did, leading you to share a few too many classes together—too much for what he would consider his liking. you're no more than brain-dead during lecrure hours, having evaded from conversing with you one-too-many times. a no-good partygoer in his eyes, with a face caked with layers of make-up and an IQ as little as your personality.

if he could, scaramouche would've gladly ignored your existence for the rest of his years and acted like you never existed first thing. yet he could only bet on his luck for the nth time he's turned down his professor's request in tutoring you. when his phone rung to his mother's number, no longer pleading, but demanding scaramouche just for the extra points he'll get after a hell of a session with you—or at least that's what he'd like to imagine being with you for a few many hours.

after a cacophony of cursing over the line, he ends up in front of your doorstep, fingers ticking by his side as he finds himself to be less and less interested in entertaining your stupidity, all by the passing minute.

yet scaramouche couldn't find too many complaints now that this session brought you draped over his lap, teary eyed and snot down your nostrils. "how many times are you going to get this question wrong, stupid bitch?" a tone as sharp as the slap he drives against the plush of your ass, stinging your reddening flesh a prominent red. a shade addictive, the darker it gets, the better he saw it.

"s…scara, m'sorry!" drool dripped down the corner of your lips as sniffles left your lungs, the tips of your fingers quivering with an electricity that goes through your veins, buzzing with every harsh smack from scaramouche. "I don't know what… what the question means…"

words fumble out your lips as slippery as a rock in a river, tongue smooth on the roof of your mouth as you took in a heavy gulp. there was little to no mercy in scaramouche's piercing gaze, however, yet he was heavily entertained with the stupid little delight he had draped over his lap. "oh, but wouldn't this be the sixth time i'd have to explain it to you? are you that much of an imbecile?" another slap bounced against the walls of your room, cries coming louder than words with the parting of your lips.

"the only thing you're good at is opening your legs. the professor might as well make you the class whore, if he wants you to be so useful. i don't see anything that can nurture you in the brain if not between your legs," scaramouche has mocked you more times you've spoken a coherent sentence over the time he's been with you. but, unfortunately, pain came little from all your crying. rather, a show of pleasure, as it seemed your lower legs were weeping wetter than your eyes were spilling out tears.

scaramouche has never seen anything more pathetic. well, maybe his mother trying to reconcile with him after years off adding pressure to heavy his plate, but this was another category. you were another category, and one he surprisingly enjoys. "stop squirming, shitface," he hissed, brows knitted as one hand held you down, the other finally straying away from your ass, reaching for something.

a something that had your eyes widen looking back, twirling a pencil enticingly between his fingers. "what, cat got your tongue again, dumbo bitch?" that bite never left his tone as scaramouche brought his hand back, now right between your legs as you're left restrained in horror. "move and I'll drive the tip of this until the lead is flush against your thigh bone, okay? i'll make my own hole to fuck with if you don't stop pissing me off."

that threat had you frozen immediately, the air in your lungs thinning within seconds of anticipation. your heartbeat was assaulting your eardrums with every little breath you started to heave, a shudder breaking through as you felt the eraser side of the pencil trace the outer of your labia with deliberance. slowly, mockingly, as if scaramouche is taunting you—and he is.

the blunt surface pressed against the pearl that peeked between your slit, making you suck in a breath before scaramouche does it again, squishing your clit with every toe you curl from the sensation. your back arched an angle you didn't know you could curve at, the moment he pushed the slender wood into you, with the intent to seek out that spot that made your vision start to blur at the edges. well, if they weren't already.

with how turned on you got by a spanking, cloud 9 was closer to your reach with how loose your mind has gotten. and throughout, scaramouche found a sick sense simmer inside his stomach. perhaps, a sense of satisfaction… or a something that wells his ego at the sight of you so stupid. perfectly fucked-out type of stupid, and he's yet to start! "you're getting off to this? fucking disgusting." he swirled the pencil inside of you, purposely rubbing every wall and nudging at every crevice. "had the professor's known you'd be so whorish, you're better off being a prostitute than live out a life where you start business and make money.

"because, unfortunately for you, the main foundation of a company should be the founder's brains. but you? you're only a waste of meat," scaramouche's tone lowers in volume, a taunt underlying each hurtful words, meant to make you sniffle louder than the last time. make you cry more vibrantly, where your voice is bouncing off the walls, moans and cries with the sound of your pussy slick as the cherry on top. "then again, you're not so bad. you're a waste, but certainly a… pleasant looking one."

the backhanded compliment made the lower of your stomach hot, accompanied with the persistent push of the pencil's blunt tip inside you, aiming at your g-stop with impeccable precision. you always loved to flaunt your looks, anyway, what could a superflouos of talent stand for if there's already a pretty face catching everyone's attention?

"scaramouche," his name bubbles at the surface of your tongue, forming words become a much more even difficult feat—had it been earlier when he punished you by spanking and making you read, you would've failed by a landslide. scaramouche's name was the only coherent thing you could manage out your drooling lips, and even then, it was still muffled by the sound of sex in the air. "i'm gonna… scara, 'm gonna cum," the words squeezed out your lungs the same time as your pussy clenched around the intruding object, velvet walls contracting like it's seeking for more. and more did scaramouche give, drilling the pencil fully into you after a click of his tongue.

only then did you finally feel the object kiss your cervix, causing you to immediately sieze across his lap. finger clenched inwards, burning onto the palm of your hand to the point your knuckles go white. back arching further up that scaramouche's internally impressed you haven't broken the curve of your spine yet, and the tense curls of your toes with your knees throwing at the air in pleasure. "holy shit," scaramouche grunts, pausing the movements of his wrist, fingers slipping as they kept their hold on the pencil sheathed fully in you. his whole arm was soaked beyond his bewilderment, but that quickly shifted into something else.

manifesting a smirk on the corner of his lip, scaramouche hummed. "you're really a dirty fucking bitch. but that's only good for me, yeah? let's see how much more times i can make you fucking squirt." certainly more times that you can get a good grade for your subjects on your own—or lack of thereof—but only the loud stretch of the evening will tell.

a/n; um... don't do this at home unless your pencil is clean, i guess? keep your kitty infection-free ❤��😝 i'm not actually sure if i wrote this properly so uh boombayah!!!

[n0cturnalp1g]

The Dragon, The Bitch, and the Sheer Audacity

Summary: Prince Daemon Targaryen was in a familiar predicament/ But this time aroundit wasn't him that was avoiding his wife, it was his wife doing everything she could to avoid him. Characters: Daemon Targaryen x Female!Reader!Hightower. Gwayne Higtower Word Count: 1,040 Chapter Warnings: Not Edited. Just got inspired to write a short chapter because of @just-some-random-blogger Thank you for the commentary, really made my day when i read it!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Prince Daemon Targaryen was cursed with the consequence of his own actions. He stared at the empty bed of his marital chambers. Yesterday he had married you and forcefully made you his wife, but he wasn’t much of a monster to force himself onto you–once again he finds himself not consummating his second marriage.

“Where is she?” Daemon had questioned the servant trying to busy themselves with cleaning the mess in the room.

“She is with her sister, the Queen, your Grace.” The mousy servant spoke, fear all the more evident in her eyes–he remembers her to be one of the servants helping with tending to his new wife last night, the verbal lashing they’ve found themselves into and cups and daggers being thrown at one another after. “They are praying in the Septs.”

Daemon couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the notion of the Sevens. Of the devout faith his new wife had because of your own family. One of the few flaws he was willing to overlook at this moment. But he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been better if you had married in the tradition of his house, he could already imagine Otto and his spawns frothing at the mouth at the possibility.

“Tell the dragonkeepers to prepare Caraxes for flight, and ensure that the saddle will be big enough for myself and my wife.”

The eyes of the servant widened but did not voice her reaction out loud as she bowed and left Daemon to his own thoughts–a dangerous thing to do at this moment. It didn’t take long for him to also order to have his wife be brought  to the dragonpit, maybe a semblance of the reality of your new life would do you some good.

His eyes lingered on the mess that still remained in the room. His eyes zoning in on the familiar cloth that was stained in blood–blood cut from his own hand instead of what everyone perceived to be your maiden blood. It was better that way, for everyone to believe a consummation that has already transpired than an avoidance that was all too certain that came between them.

He sighed, slouching his head in frustration.

But somehow, anything that has to do with his own wife means he will no longer know peace. Chaos was now a constant for the Rogue Prince when it comes to his Wretched wife.

“Your Grace.” A guard has interrupted the momentary peace of his chambers.

“What?”

“Your Lady wife has been requested to return to Oldtown to assist Lord Hightower.”

“Of course she was.” He muttered under his breath already knowing the mess his day would be with his wife and everyone that involved the Hightower name.

All your life you had always believed yourself that there was no such thing as a God, and even more so multiple one that would ever place you in such a predicament. But here you were. Newly married, unconsummated and much preferring the presence of your younger sister than your new dragon husband–until her brother had requested her to return back to Oldtown.

“How easy it is for our Uncle to kick me out of Oldtown and demand me right back because of his own incompetence.”

Gwayne spoke your name gently but there was an evident warning in his tone. With nothing but the clothes on your back, you had joined your brother as you were demanded to return back to Oldtown as you were the only one capable of dealing with report reviewing–who knew your insistence of studying more than what was required of you would end with you in this predicament.

The pride of a lord is his ultimate downfall. You know all too well and made good use of it in your time under your Uncle’s ward. You’ve nearly burned down his tower as he tried to prove a point and failed to do so.

One of the only things that brought you immense pleasure was the small little fact that you made sure not to inform your husband of your departure. It brought a glimpse of satisfaction knowing that you were able to one up him and insist upon yourself that you still had control on yourself and your own autonomy.

“I’m afraid of asking why you are smiling, so I will not ask.”

“Nothing that needs your concern at the moment, brother.” You reassured, galloping your horse further.

The sooner you arrive in Oldtown, the sooner you are ensured that you will be further away from your tyrant of a husband.

For the next few days, you and your younger brother travelled by horse from King’s Landing to Oldtown. The presence of your younger brother brought a momentary peace, away from the judgement of your father and sister and away from the control that was not bestowed upon your husband since your marriage to him.

“I’m actually surprised your husband allowed you to travel away from King’s Landing, just a day after your marriage.”

You said nothing as soon as your eyes lingered onto the tower you had known all your life. As many memories of pain and turbulence you’ve endured here, it was a home that you always wanted instead of King’s Landing. You wanted this, the peace and tranquility away from the politics of the throne.

Now you were smack dab in the middle of it all.

“Home sweet home.” You muttered under your breath welcomed with the cautious eyes of the numerous guards lingering at the gate.

But neither you nor your brother could have ever expected that instead of your Uncle Ormund waiting with contempt for you, the sight of a large ugly dragon and equally large and abhorrent rider would come waiting for them both in Oldtown.

“Do you expect you can leave the Keep without informing your Lord Husband, My Dear wife?” Daemon Targaryen smirked, the swagger of a man that was constantly given what he wanted.

Behind him was his dragon, the vicious Blood Wyrm that brought fear and power to his family–and this sense of entitlement that knows no bounds in this day and age.

“And just a day after you wed me, you’re already running away, Dear Wife?”

[tyurshoe]

Radioapple roleplay starter/Beginning Fic

Scene: Club Consent, Pentagram City

The pulsating beat of Club Consent reverberated through the smoky air, mingling with the vibrant neon lights that illuminated the chaos of the dance floor. Pentagram City’s most notorious denizens swayed and stumbled, their laughter and chaos perfectly fitting the club’s decadent ambiance.

At a large round table tucked into one of the club’s shadowy alcoves, the Hazbin Hotel gang sat with drinks in hand. Charlie, her ever-optimistic smile wide, was chatting animatedly with Vaggie and Niffty about the club’s decor, while Angel Dust lounged lazily across a plush bench, a martini dangling precariously from his clawed fingers. Husk grumbled quietly into his whiskey glass, keeping one ear on the conversation in case Angel pushed his luck, and Cherri Bomb was already leaning half across the table to swipe a sip from someone else’s drink.

In the middle of the group, Lucifer Morningstar sat with effortless poise, his devilish grin exuding charisma and dominance. Alastor, seated just beside him, couldn’t help but steal glances at the King of Hell, his usual unsettling grin faltering every so often into something far more genuine—and vulnerable.

For Alastor, this evening was both a torment and an opportunity. He would never have set foot in such a raucous establishment if it weren’t for Lucifer’s presence. After months of trying to show his affection in subtle ways—always fetching Lucifer’s preferred vintage wine, offering to handle troublesome souls, weaving compliments into their conversations—he still hadn’t managed to make his feelings clear. Tonight, he resolved, would be different.

But so far, the opportunity eluded him.

“So, Luci!” Angel Dust purred, leaning forward and propping his chin on his hand. “What’s a big shot like you doin’ slummin’ it with us lowly sinners tonight, huh?”

Lucifer chuckled, his voice smooth as silk. “Well, Angel, even a King needs his entertainment. And who better to amuse me than such a… colorful group?”

The table burst into laughter—except for Alastor, whose eyes narrowed briefly.

“Yes, colorful indeed!” Alastor interjected, his radio-smooth voice cutting through the noise. “And speaking of entertainment, I was just about to ask—”

“Honestly,” Charlie interrupted, “I can’t believe you’d call this ‘slumming it,’ Angel. This place is great! Look at all the decorations! Aren’t they stunning, Dad?” She turned her radiant smile toward Lucifer, cutting off whatever Alastor had been about to say.

Lucifer smirked indulgently. “It does have its charms, my dear. Though I’ve seen more impressive gatherings in my day.”

Alastor’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his drink. He leaned forward, determined to regain the conversational thread. “Well, I imagine few could match the grandeur of your gatherings, Lucifer. Tell me, do you—”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet none of ‘em had Angel on the pole!” Angel cackled, tipping his glass toward Lucifer. “You ever throw a party where a spider demon steals the spotlight?”

Lucifer laughed, shaking his head. “That’s certainly a unique image.”

“I’ve got a whole routine I can show you later,” Angel teased, ignoring Husk’s groan.

Alastor’s jaw twitched, though his grin remained fixed. “Ahem, as I was saying—”

“Alastor,” Vaggie snapped, cutting him off. “Can’t you let someone else talk for two minutes?”

Charlie, ever the peacemaker, gave an awkward laugh. “Oh, come on, Vaggie, Alastor doesn’t mean anything by it!”

But Alastor didn’t respond to her. His eyes were focused entirely on Lucifer, who had shifted his attention to Niffty, currently chattering about the club’s history.

The deer demon sank back in his chair, his shoulders stiff despite the nonchalant air he projected. His usual confidence felt hollow, his attempts to capture Lucifer’s attention crumbling under the weight of the group’s chatter.

“Well,” Alastor muttered under his breath, his grin faltering again, “this is proving to be a most invigorating evening.”

He reached for his drink, sipping the rich liquor in silence, his crimson gaze lingering on Lucifer. The King of Hell hadn’t even noticed.

For the rest of the group, the night was a blur of drinks, laughter, and chaos. But for Alastor, the evening felt like a radio station stuck on static. All he could do was sit there, pretending he wasn’t yearning for a moment alone with the one person in the room who seemed entirely out of reach.

Ten Likes = Continue

[marciaillust]

hey, i hope you're doing great! i feel this may be unorthodox, but i really wanted to reach out to extend my engagement?— awe?— solidarity?— (some variant of those, anyways) with your most recent "workposting" art. i don't normally do this. I've maybe sent 3 asks in my whole life. there's no pressure to respond to this, as i mostly just wanted to cheer you on. also, I'm really sorry this is so long.

i only just recently landed my very first freelance art job, at a start-up company dedicated to making comics + DND inspired art content. I've always felt that "Its nothing to call home about", and so i really resonated with your feelings regarding your work for Brawl Stars. I felt kind of ashamed of my job, that its just a small start up— that I'm not enough and that i should be trying harder, or something like that. Specifically i resonated with your comment of "presenting brawl stars art feels like showing my anime girl oc to an art teacher" and i don't think i could have solidified any better.

Anyways. all's to say. I really found your work quite jaw-dropping. I was shocked when i read it was for Brawl Stars. I didn't know anything about it, but when i did some research i was even more amazed. they're really, really compositionally beautiful... i mean, i know its just "work" to you ultimately, but it really does feel lively, and everything about it makes it feel like you care. I think sometimes you're just able to tell when an artist genuinely cares about their work; about its end outcome. there's so many intricacies. and a lot of attention to detail. you kept the style that was necessary of you but i also can feel the warmth and the care of the artist behind it— its not corporate, or stale, it doesn't come across as "just work".

since you mentioned League, i genuinely do think it serves an equal purpose and weight to what League of Legends would produce. from a biased standpoint, i would actually value your work more. Its not even that its "more obtainable"/"more realistic" but that there's genuinely more feeling to it. Compositionally/artistically, yeah, League makes great stuff, but occasionally, the feeling or the sense of warmth and care from the creator of the art is lost along the way. I value seeing the artist within their own art a lot, which is why I've admitted to a degree of bias. either way. what you put out there is really gorgeous, and crazy impressive.

I know a stranger with a dumb, fandom-oriented art blog cant solve the self-indited art elitism (you and me both, man💀) and that you've already received plenty of love/reblogs saying similar things, but i wanted to extend my feelings anyways. Its really heart-warming, i guess. It brings me hopefulness, and deep adoration for the craft. I'm not very good with words. Anyways. don't undersell yourself. seeing your work meant more to me than you can imagine. I'm obviously nowhere near your skill level, but it meant more to me as an aspiration. i think that regardless of who you work for, your work is really valuable and downright incredible. because you bring that sense of warmth, care, time, and patience regardless of the media it portrays. and you're able to do that while being objectively talented— utilizing great compositions, colour pallets, shading, characterization, mood, etc. That is more valuable. That is much much cooler than working for Riot. imo.

Initially, i also wanted to ask you some questions about how you assembled your portfolio, if you went to school, (if so) what it did/didn't provide for you going into the art field, and just how you landed the job in general. But i respect you and your time, and wouldnt want to be a burden or anything. If you ever have time for it, i would love to ask them, among others, and we can chat in DM if you'd prefer. Absolutely no pressure. Im happy just watching from the sidelines. I dont anticipate anything from you to begin with! I just hope youll know how influential your post was to read & see, to someone like me!

Oh man. I. How. Where do I even start except

This is one of the most uplifting, touching and encouraging messages I received in my life. I read it thrice. And I still can't believe how full of love it is. This is such high praise, I want you to know I will cherish it and carry it with me for a long long time. It's not often that an artist gets to learn how their art is perceived, not to mention in such a positive light. It really means a lot to me.

It makes me so happy to hear that my work illustrations retain a piece of me that is visible to others. I myself can't see it, but I imagine my closeness to the matter at hand heavily impacts my ability to see objectively at all. There was a time where I was worried that work was overriding the me that makes my art mine, that I was becoming a corporate rendering machine and that what I did at work (the shape language and style) was bleeding into my personal art. There is a part of me that is now breathing easier after reading your message. I would love to answer any questions you have, it's the least I can do to repay you! Feel free to send an ask or even an email, I'll try to be as thorough as I can be with my answers. I wish you happy holidays! Take care! And again thank you so much for taking the time to write this message!

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

I guess since I always write about X-Men when drunk, let me talk to you about Scott Summers.

Now look, Scott has a lot of haters, many of them my friends. I even agree with them. There's no easy way to take in Scott Summers. Because more than anything, Scott Summers is a question.

What do you do when they take it from you?

The answer can be many things. If you're Xavier, the answer is, you deny people their childhood. Scott, you're a child soldier by 13. You have just survived a traumatic plane crash in which your family seemingly all died. If you look at people, they die too, and it's your fault. You wear a literal filter to interact with everyone. Sometimes they tell you they're mad and you don't understand. The filter isn't thick enough. Xavier pats your head and tells you this is how it is. You have to be better. You have to be better than them. You have to be better than everybody.

If you're Magneto, the answer is your life. He had everything taken away from him so thoroughly, so long ago, that you, Scott, can't even fathom it. He's introduced to you while stealing nuclear warheads to threaten people who hate you. Every word Xavier has ever told you stings in your brain, like a worm. This is wrong. This is the enemy. He's doing it wrong. He's getting a bad grade at being a mutant. These feelings will poke at you for the rest of your life. You will come to disagree with them. By the time you're 40, you couldn't imagine a more steadfast ally than Magneto. He gets it, you see. No one else gets it like Max does.

If you're Jean Grey, the answer is fire. Create fire. Look for fire. Date a guy who can shoot fire from his eyes. Who can spit fire from his mouth and raise the dead with his words. Who can stand before the apocalypse and burn, burn as hard as fire can burn, as hot as a volcano, enough that the police are involved, that the Avengers are involved, that the gods are involved. Burn and burn and turn to ash and burn further until they stop telling you you're worthless. They never will. But Scott will never be one of them. He would rather burn everlasting than tell you you're less than what you think you are.

If you're Emma, it's kill them from the inside. Become part of the problem to make the problem go away. Meet the problem in their house. Fuck the problem. Buy the problem. Kill the problem by giving them a stroke. Emma thinks you, Scott, could be so much more. You could end the problem in a day, two days tops. You could rally them and radicalize them and make them see how insidious the problem is. But you never would. You tried, and it didn't agree to you. It got weird. You got weird.

If you're Logan, the answer is drinking. You drink and you try to forget, but you never do. You can't. You hang out with this guy, this beautiful, certain, consistent man, and you can't forget what you've lost, but you can make new memories. You can be someone else. You can put on a robe and lay down on a lazy chair and drink near Scott, overlooking the Earth, and you can think, I never want to forget this. I never want to not be here, with Scott, looking over everything. Feeling like I do, doing the things I do, having the relationship I do with him. But eventually it all goes away again, and you remember, right, I'm a violent person, I'm made for battle, I don't deserve love, I don't deserve Scott, I don't deserve anything. I deserve the woods. The wolves. The simplicity. The desire to forget, but never quite getting there. If you're Logan, you don't actually have an answer. Your whole life is a question without an answer.

And then you're Scott. You wonder what you should do when they take it from you. You're surrounded by people radicalized by their choices on how to react to that. You're radicalized by your mistakes. You're radicalized by the fights, the torture, the betrayal, the time in space, the time in hell, the time suffering. Every year of your life was the worst year of your life. Everything you've ever done is a thing to be mocked and used as a standard at the same time. No one knows who you are aside from the guy to listen to. You're 40. You're a father. You're tired. Your first instinct upon being given everything was gathering your family and moving; to the moon, even, where no one could hurt you. And then they took that away from you, too.

So, what do you do?

There's only really one answer.

You sigh, you put on the suit, you do some voice training, you call some friends. You do a speech. You suppress the feeling that it's futile, because that feeling is the oppressor, too. And you say it, like you've said it a thousand times, like you'll say it a thousand times more, like you were made to say, like you were taught to say, like your entire legacy will revolve around how you say this single phrase.

You will say this from your chest. You will say this when no one else is around and no one else is listening. You will say it because it's the right thing to say, and god damn it, at the end of the day, you will never acquiesce. You will never compromise. You will, in fact, always say it, for the rest of your life and beyond. When you're dead and buried and not coming back on the regular, people will still talk about how right you were when you said it, how righteous you sounded when you said it, and how certain you were when you said it.

You say it when they're attacking, you say it when you're attacking, you say it as a defense, you say it as a response, you say it as every figure of importance in your life has given way to compromise or disappointment; as everyone has left you, and has moved on, and has decided oppression doesn't equal a life poorly lived, and has asked you to lose their number because they can't do this anymore, it has taken too much from them and they don't want this to be their lives.

You say you understand, you lose their number, you stop relying on them, and you start saying it to others. Sometimes to people who are too young, but they get it. This is the only appropriate reaction, after all. You were Scott and you were 13 years old when you were a soldier. They can do that, too.

What do you do when they take everything away from you?

Scott Summers sighs and fills his chest with air.

When they take it all from you, Cyclops says "To me, my X-Men."

[spotsandsocks]

Hiiiii Spotty 💕💕💕

🎅+fireplace

-❤️🪐

Hello my friend… let’s see what fireplace cooked up in my head 😉 just short of 600 words here we go.

Buck had been walking right behind him, close enough so they kept bumping into each other. He’d been talking too, nineteen to the dozen about the history of Christmas cards of all things and why it’s sad they’re falling out of fashion, but he’s not doing either of those things anymore. Eddie’s taken at least four more steps than Buck has back into the room, he can tell because his back feels colder without the ever present warmth of Buck’s body. He’s also stopped talking, mid sentence, not much stops Buck when he’s on a roll so Eddie knows something is wrong. Twisting round ready to investigate he’s surprised by the expression on Buck’s face, he looks like he’s about to cry.

It’s hard to imagine what’s caused the sudden swing in emotion, Eddie closes the gap quickly, rests his hands on the swell of Buck’s impressive biceps, catching hold of his watery eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Buck isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at something behind him.

“What’s that?”

Looking over his shoulder in the direction indicated Eddie can’t see anything that would make Buck cry.

“What’s what?”

“That!” Buck pulls away from him and moves to his fireplace and suddenly it’s clear. He answers the question, it’s not a particularly hard one anyway.

“It’s a stocking.”

“Why’s it got my name on it?”

Another easy and fairly obvious answer.

“Because it’s your stocking.”

“Mine?”

A quick flash of blue then Buck refocuses on his stocking, pinned to Eddie’s mantle. His fingers are tracing the embroidered letters gently. Buck is far too focused to notice the expression on Eddie’s face which is lucky, he knows that all his complicated feelings about Buck are on display right now but Eddie allows himself the moment, he’ll put it all away again in a second but right now he can let his heart break a little at Buck’s shock and sadness and quiet joy that he’s got a place in Eddie’s home, that he’s finally found somewhere to belong.

It hurts to know why it means so much to him, to find a stocking with his name here in Eddie’s house. Eddie hates what Buck's parents did to him, he deserves better, so much more, so much love.

Eddie takes a breath and wipes his face clear of most of the love he has for this man, leaving only the acceptable parts on display.

“Not many other Buck’s around here are there?”

The tone is light and teasing, his friend probably can’t handle much more right now, maybe one day soon he’ll tell him everything else, how much he means to him, how much he wants with, but not right now.

There’s almost no warning when arms are flung around him, forceful enough to make him stagger backwards a little. He always forgets that Buck’s surprisingly fast for someone so large. Engulfed in a strong embrace it’s pure instinct to lift his own arms and hold on tightly too. Buck hugs him tight, head buried into the crook of his neck, words whispered there too.

“Thank you.”

The two words are quiet but full of emotion. Eddie indulges himself just a little, presses his lips to Buck’s curls and whispers back. “This is your home, Buck, you belong here, with me.”

Arms tighten, both Buck’s and his and Eddie sees no reason to let go anytime soon. Buck’s stocking is on his fireplace and Buck is in his arms and everything is just as it should be.

Yes I know more fluff! Hope you liked it 😊

[tubbytarchia]

Honestly, the whole idea that "if you criticize scott you're homophobic" is so terribly problematic. Basically giving him blanket clearance to do anything or say anything and if you criticize it, well, you're just homophobic. I can't imagine that's a good mindset to have as a person, let alone to see someone having as an impressionable young person.

I'm sure scott is a lovely guy in person but seeing how he acts online, frequently as a holier-than-thou type character, and looking down at others, like saying he interrupted a canon event by preventing scar and jimmy from pairing, is just upsetting. I find myself as the same as character joel in the life series, rooting for his death.

Something else that has really irritated me in the life series is how often he gifts deaths to other people. He did it so much in limited life. He literally gave every one of his deaths in secret life to someone else. And he acted so smarmy about it, too, like "oh I am taking this precious life and graciously giving it to you because otherwise I might never die to anything".

I was really happy when most of scott's deaths in wild life happened out of his control, like yes you are exactly the same as everyone else. Stop trying to act otherwise. Anywise thanks for being open about criticism. I don't know if I ever thought about toxic positivity until I saw you talking about it!

Oh I have so many thoughts on Scott's self-sacrificial nature. The toxic positivity is much more prominent on twitter but does still rear its ugly head on tumblr too. Especially concerning Scott's character, which I agree with you on. Him giving up his lives is doubly interesting and in the same vein frustrating to me because half the time it doesn't necessarily even leave the recipient better off

Gem did not want to kill him in SL, but because he has a martyr complex, he made it happen anyway, disregarding Gem's hesitancy. I'm sorry but to me, in that moment he was thinking about himself first and Gem second, which is how I think he regards every single one of his sacrifices. Especially when you contrast that with the Mounders, where Pearl rooted for Bdubs (and Joel but mostly Bdubs) and suggested herself being killed for Bdubs once things got dicey, but it never coming to it. Pearl so deeply wanted for Bdubs to win, and Bdubs, although not very confident, wanted to as well for Pearl. There was never any pressure involved in that unlike Scott's last minute and frankly kind of random sacrifice. He wasn't that low on hearts and Gem would have stood a much better chance against Pearl and Scar with him by his side

In Wild Life, Pearl didn't feel good about taking Scott's life, and Scott basically said he was doing it to quell Pearl. Something also about the fact that Pearl wanted to decide how to do it, just as some remnant of control when she really didn't have any for almost the entirity of Wild Life

In Limited Life, Scott was ready to give up that life he'd promised Jimmy, but then used it to try and coax Jimmy into telling him he loved him. And Jimmy has had a few other people give up their lives for him, Bdubs out of selflessness and Ren out of a promise for an allyship. And yet the only sacrifice Jimmy has even referenced after the fact, is the one Joel had planned but didn't even succeed with. That holds more importance to Jimmy than Scott's sacrifice, which I think says something

And of course, Scott blowing himself up in Double Life. Because Pearl deserved the win more than he did, he says without giving Pearl much opportunity to speak, taking control of the ending that was supposed to belong to Pearl

It's all very interesting to analyse, his character is super intricate and unique in this sense, but it does unfortunately become more frustrating paired with his unchanging selective framing of events and putting down of other characters through no wrongdoing of their own etc

[clarkeyhill]

English Love Affair | George Clarke part 3

The next day, I met George for coffee. He’d texted me that morning, asking if I was free, and after everything that had happened the previous night the welcoming vibe he gave off and well, the bodyguard act too, I couldn’t say no. his protectiveness making me feel safe in a way I hadn’t expected.

When I arrived, George was already seated at a corner table, a latte in front of him. He greeted me with a warm smile that reached his eyes, his presence instantly soothing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

“Better,” I admitted, sitting down across from him. “Thanks to you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But I wanted to talk about last night. I hope I didn’t overstep"

“You didn’t overstep,” I assured him. “It made me feel safe" you admitted

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I just… I care, you know? More than I realized.”

His words hung in the air, and I felt a shift in his demeanor—something softer, yet more intense.

“There’s something I need to say,” he continued, his voice steady. “I think you’re incredible. Smart, funny, kind… and, well, I find you really attractive. I’d like to get to know you better—properly.”

My heart skipped a beat as his words settled over me. Before I could respond, he added, “How about dinner? Something special. Let me take you to The Shard tomorrow night.”

“The Shard?” I repeated, taken aback by the grandeur of the offer.

He grinned, a little sheepishly. “Go big or go home, right?”

I hesitated for a moment, the whirlwind of emotions making it hard to think straight. But the way he looked at me—hopeful, yet not demanding—made my decision easy.

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

-

The next evening, I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting the red dress I’d chosen for the occasion. It was elegant yet understated, a perfect balance of posh and casual. Silver jewelry glinted against my skin, and I felt a surge of confidence as I grabbed my clutch and headed out the door.

When I arrived at The Shard, George was waiting for me in the lobby, dressed in a tailored suit that made him look even more handsome than I remembered. His eyes lit up as he saw me, and he let out a low whistle.

“You look stunning,” he said, offering me his arm.

“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I teased, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

Dinner was a dream. The view from The Shard was breathtaking, the city glittering beneath us as we talked and laughed over exquisite food and wine. George was charming, attentive, and full of stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt.

As the meal wound down, he leaned back in his chair, his expression turning serious

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.

“Okay,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous.

He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since I met you. I know last night was complicated, but there’s something about you that I can’t shake. You’re beautiful, and I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to… share something more intimate with you.”

I froze, his words catching me completely off guard.

“I’m talking about something physical,” he continued, his eyes searching mine. “But not just physical. I want to explore that with you, if you’re open to it. I promise, if you say yes, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll show you things you’ve never even dreamed of.”

My heart raced as I processed his proposal. The honesty in his voice, the glint of desire in his eyes, it was overwhelming.

“I’ve never…” I began, my voice faltering. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”

His eyes softened, but the intensity remained. “That doesn’t matter to me. What matters is what you want. If you’re curious, if you’re willing to trust me, I’ll make sure you feel nothing but pleasure.”

The air between us was electric, charged with a mix of uncertainty and anticipation. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, fears, and desires I hadn’t even fully acknowledged before.

So, do I accept? Or do I walk away from the unknown?

-

🫶🏻

[daflangstlairde-art]

"she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands" 5,334 words

Part 2 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. — Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer wasn't sad when first Horror and then Dust ditched their operation.

It didn't happen fast, nor at the same time, but it happened. It wasn't a shock. And he wasn't sad. He wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't be. 

As he stalked the halls of the dark castle, he felt nothing. 

It was emptier than ever. 

There was no longer Horror to cook warm soup and to splinter wood with a cleaver. He was introduced to some universe of farmboys. He left. He cared for his own universe, which remained alive. 

There was no longer Dust to shadow him because company was better than the emptiness. He was harder for those Stars to convince, but apparently, Underfell admired violence and strength. Apparently, he was being “rehabilitated”. 

And, well! We all know how Nightmare was. He had always been above them. Killer could linger in his company only if allowed. 

There was... nobody. 

Nobody. 

Just massive, spanning walls of dark, cold stone. The rare slits of light only enough to illuminate the particles of dust in the air, really. It was all abandoned. Silent and dead. Empty. 

Desolate. 

Familiar. 

...Haha. Hahahah. 

How funny. 

Killer kept ending up in dead ends. 

—

He sat at the kitchen table. 

He laid down on his bed. 

He wandered the halls.

Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness.

Bored. 

Killer wasn't sad. Killer couldn't be sad. Sadness was... it was a sincere emotion. 

Killer was drowning in the dark, dark depths. 

Killer felt emptier than ever.

It's like he wasn't even real. 

—

“If you don't get your act straight, you’ll keep messing everything up.” Nightmare growled, tentacles holding Killer aloft and pinned to the wall by his throat. 

Missions were boring. It was the same, all the same. Hurting and ruining and sometimes killing. All alone. All repetitive. 

But Killer was Nightmare’s one loyal tool left. The only one. 

Of course the Stars tried to break him too. Of course they offered many things that... probably sounded appealing to others. Like forgiveness, or help, or freedom. 

Killer didn't care about those. Killer didn't care about the Stars. He didn't even know what their deal was! He had never particularly cared, and only really knew the most vague of details. Because none of it mattered to him. 

Nightmare was the only thing that mattered. He was all Killer had. All. 

...And Killer was all Nightmare had left. 

Killer chuckled low, even as the restriction around his throat tightened painfully. 

“Anything for you baby,” he teased, because it drove Nightmare up the wall with annoyance. It earned Killer the prize of pain, just like he wanted it to. He was discovering being provocative and crude made people react hilariously. 

Missions were a fog. He lacked drive, he lacked interest, he lacked attention. On missions, heck, in everyday life, Killer was in a fugue state. 

But he didn't need a brain! He just had to do as told.

Nightmare says kill, you kill. 

—

“Why are you still fighting for him?!” Blue yelled, trying to keep up in parrying each of Killer’s violent slashes. “He doesn't care about you! He– he’s awful to you! I don't understand you!” 

Killer just started laughing in his face. 

Slash, stab, attack and attack and attack. Again, and again, and again and again, repeat upon repeat. 

All the same. All meaningless. All horrible. 

—

“I heard them talking about some ‘Cross’ guy,” Killer mentioned, twirling a knife, its point against his fingertip. 

Nightmare paused in his irritated pacing, and for a moment Killer was sure he would get another “Shut the hell up while I’m thinking” for his generous efforts to help his boss. 

Instead,

“...Cross, huh?” Nightmare hummed, considering. 

—

They beat the Stars to it and now, once again, after weeks and weeks of emptiness, there was finally someone else in the castle. 

And Cross was even fun to poke fun at! 

“What’s got you so angsty?” Killer teased, tailing the guy into the kitchen. 

“Leave me alone,” Cross dismissed him all huffy. He had this stoic attitude going on. Not very fun, except when Killer got it to crack. He was still exploring which buttons gave him the best reactions — honestly, he didn't know much about this Cross guy, and didn't care particularly to learn about his tragic backstory or whatever. 

“I don't think I will,” Killer hummed, as Cross started searching through the cabinets. 

“Is this place just empty?” Cross muttered to himself. 

“Like my soul,” Killer joked. Ah, a classic. 

Cross gave him a flat look and continued searching. “Where is all the food?” 

“Oh the guy who did that left,” Killer replied. 

“Did... food?” Cross turned around to look at him. 

“Yeah, that was his thing,”

“And you... what, don't?” 

Killer shrugged. “Nope, I'm not into it,” he chuckled, and Cross groaned. 

“Why are you like this?” he demanded, exasperated. “Aren't you, I don't know, uh, in a–” and then he seemed to reconsider his words. Frowning. “...What is the deal with you and Nightmare?”

Killer started laughing so hard he teared up.

Cross disregarded him.

—

Knock-knock-knock at the door. Cheerful as ever. Waiting for the multiple locks on the inside to be unlocked, even when Killer could've just used a shortcut right in. That's to signify he’s coming with no violent intent, or whatever. Well. Minor violent intent maybe, haha.

The door opened, and immediately Red grimaced. 

“H–!” 

“DUST!” Red yelled to the inside of the house. “NIGHTMARE’S BITCH IS AT THE DOOR!” 

“What?” called muffled from inside. 

“ONE OF Y’ FUCKIN’ MANIAC FRIENDS!” 

Killer laughed. Maybe someone else would've been hurt. He wasn't. Both of those statements were delightfully true.

—

There was one little problem. A little thorn in Killer’s side. Not enough to change his modus operandi — again, emotionless and uncaring — but enough to be noticeable. Enough to be annoying. 

“Cross, you're in charge of this mission,” Nightmare stated. 

“Yes sir.” 

That thorn was called Cross and Killer might just hate him. 

Before Killer could stop gaping and reply, Nightmare was already gone, leaving them in some random forest (not unusual, not important). 

“Let's go.” Cross turned to walk in some direction for some reason. 

“What– do you know where we are??” Killer sputtered, waving his knife. 

“No.” Cross didn't even look at him, like he was better or something. 

That wouldn't do. 

Killer grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. 

“Then why are you ‘in charge’?” he asked, so very friendly.

“Because I don't fuck off to do whatever I want every time?” Cross raised a brow ridge. Ohohoo, some spunk in him today! “Because I'm an actually good henchman and don't talk back constantly?” 

Oh the nerve of this guy. Heh. Heheheh! Hilarious! 

In fact, Killer was chuckling. He was laughing. He was hysterical. 

“You?” he gasped. “Whatever gets you off, puppet boy!”

Because there were a few easy answers to Cross’ question from awhile ago. 

What was their relationship? Easy. 

Killer was Nightmare’s. His yes-man, his victim, his tool, his loyal toy, his lackey, the only one who stayed. His bitch, to put it oh-so-elegantly. Everybody knew that. 

—

“What have you done with Cross?!” Dream demanded, parrying Killer’s attacks beat for beat. That guy was not to be underestimated, which Killer was admittedly guilty of! What could he say? These positive, soft types never went for the kill — how can you be truly afraid of them? 

It's not like he felt much fear, anyway. That was reserved for a special someone. 

“Horrible things!” Killer exclaimed, laughing. “He's suffering as we speak!” 

“What?!” Dream exclaimed, horrified.

(Cross was probably just sleeping. There wasn't much else to do when you're stuck at the castle and need to pass the time.) 

“Terrible!” Killer nodded, dodging to the side and using the movement to try shanking Dream. It was evaded. 

“Where is he?!” 

“Where do you think?” Killer teased. “Same as always! He's not some treasure to be hidden,” 

“Oh,” Dream was caught off guard by that. Probably wasn't expecting it. That meant he also wasn't expecting the knife Killer stabbed into his shoulder, haha. 

—

Killer’s gotta give it to the Stars. Having experience with Horror and Dust, they retrieved Cross pretty efficiently this time. 

—

Killer’s skull slammed into the wall behind him so hard the pain reverberated through it and echoed throughout his body. He groaned, a gutteral drawn out sound. The tentacle that’d grabbed him by the throat now also lifted him off his feet by it, in that uncomfortable way where Killer’s body dangled and felt like it’s about to drop away from his head. 

“HOW DID THEY KNOW HE WAS HERE?” Nightmare demanded, shoving rage and disgust and fear into Killer’s soul like it's nothing, like it doesn't drown him. 

“How am– I supposed– to know?” Killer choked out, grinning, hands clutching onto the tentacle in a poor attempt to hold himself up a little, to loosen the pressure. He was barely able to think through the onslaught of horror and misery. It was like a diseased, starving, feral animal clawing at his body. Unrelenting with you're horrible disgusting scum you're going to die die die you are going to SUFFER there is no escape you– 

“You useless tool!” Nightmare pulled him away from the hard stone wall, only to slam him against it, and again and again and again until Killer was crying out with the pain. Everything was ringing with the building concussion. It was a little difficult to hear whatever Nightmare was saying through it, pardon Killer’s manners, but it sounded something like “This is your fault, isn't it?!” 

In case it wasn't clear, Nightmare was really pissed. This whole weakening of his forces seemed to be really getting to him. How sad. 

Killer blinked against the shapes swimming in his vision. He could feel that hateful substance trickling, leaking even, from his eyes down his face. Warm. No, it was cold. He could never quite decide. The probably-blood oozing down the back of his skull was certifiably warm, however. 

“That’s very– presumptuous of you–” he struggled out, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain and the merciless barrage of rancid emotions. Grin widening. “I can see you’re– angry, baby– are you hhngh on your period?” 

Nightmare was livid. Killer started laughing, even as there were great efforts being put to choking him out. 

“Shut. Up.” Nightmare said, cold and reverberating off the walls until it surrounds you. He lowered Killer down slowly, but didn't let go of him — it was just so Killer wasn't held aloft anymore, but rather, Nightmare, with all his engulfing darkness, loomed over him. “Need I remind you betrayal. Isn't. Tolerated?” 

Killer couldn't help but snort and cackle at that, past the rancid, cloying smell of death from Nightmare’s general aura.

“Betrayal?” he exclaimed. “Me? Please. You and I both know I'm all you really have.” 

There was the kicker. 

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. 

But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. 

He was the only one truly allied with Nightmare. Not through force or violence or threats, none of that — because he wanted to be. Because Killer was an empty husk of a being and adored the force and the violence and the threats and the fear. A living wound that only exists when it's bleeding. 

Nightmare knew that Killer knew that. But Killer knew that Nightmare knew it too. They both knew where they stood. They both knew Nightmare could leverage whatever suffering he wanted against Killer and that Killer would only enjoy it the worse it is. Killer only did as told when he enjoyed it, because he wanted to. He misbehaved for the very same reason. 

Killer was so ruined through his own fault. There was nowhere further Nightmare could ruin him. Nightmare couldn't hurt him because Killer hurt himself, and Nightmare was just the most intense, most effective, most convenient way to do it. 

That's why Nightmare’s glare narrowed. That's why the tentacle holding Killer’s neck loosened, letting him exhale and inhale deeply. 

“You're not as clever as you think you are, loudmouth.” Nightmare spoke slowly. Promising danger. He always carried out his promises. He was cute like that. 

...Except. 

Except it wasn't what Killer expected. It wasn't sickening, merciless violence. It wasn't choking suffering. It wasn't burning agony. It wasn't animalistic fear. 

It was... white. 

Just white. 

Endless, shapeless white. 

All it took was a moment for Killer to be brought there, and a second one for Nightmare to be gone, and then it was just Killer and the endless white abyss. 

He exhaled, standing amidst it all. It was so much larger than anything that could be conceived, and yet. And yet it was empty. 

Hah. Hahahah. 

Like his soul. 

...It was always... a strange experience. The way the emotion would rise, like a tidal wave. A split second explosion of anger-hate-fear-despair at the devouring vastness, at the fact that he was just ditched there. When Nightmare knew he despised the emptiness. Or, rather, precisely because he knew how much Killer hated it. 

And just as quickly it would be gone. Like a sudden electrical surge that blew out the fuse. And he was numb as ever. All the feelings he may have felt about this just the lingering buzz in the non-air. Only serving to make him even more aware of the nothing that remained, that lingered. 

Killer couldn’t parse whether being stranded in the Antivoid was a worse or better hell than the Void. He supposed it didn’t particularly matter. 

He sat down on the concept of a “ground”. 

He didn’t even have a shadow. It was all empty. It was all nothing. 

He didn’t have the energy to laugh. He laid down, staring up at the whiteness (as opposed to the whiteness to the side, or even: the whiteness down below). 

—

Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture. 

It’s... familiar. In the worst of ways, You hate “familiar”. You hate the staleness, the sameness, the stillness. It’s all the same, for hours upon hours upon hours. 

Haha. Funny how you keep ending up in dead ends. 

It’s more barren than your own universe. It’s more repetitive and deprived than hundreds of repetitions of the same goddamn day remembered with crystal clarity. It’s not warm and it’s not cold. It’s not nice, and it’s not even painful.

If the Antivoid was painful, that would’ve been a mercy to you.

The emptiness devours you whole. It rips you up piece by piece. Slow and deliberate, unbothered by the passage of time, which makes sense, because it’s not like time changes anything at all around here. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It couldn't have been that long, but it already feels like weeks. The void spaces have that effect on people. It’s by definition. Here, eternity is stored in every second. 

You sleep, mostly, to pass the time. 

When you’re awake, you self-destruct. Your mind is starved and desperate, looking for something something something to grasp but there is nothing. It’s just you. You engrave your own bones with sharp points. You claw at your being. You seek and seek and seek and you find nothing but yourself, until your self is indistinguishable from the nothing as well. 

You feel like screaming just to hear something, but nothingness has no voice.

—

You wake up. Again. All the same every time. Repetitions for eternity. You despise abstract concepts, except you don’t, because emptiness doesn’t contain emotions. 

...Except. 

“Good thing it’s not Error who found you first!” Ink jokes, standing over you all cheery. He’s... he’s colorful.

It takes you several moments to remember that, conceptually, you have a body, and you leap to your feet. 

“Woah there buddy!” exclamation mark in his eye, Ink stumbles back so you don’t ram your head into his accidentally, but that triggers some desperation in you and you grab him by the scarf and yank him back. 

The feeling of something material in your hand, something that isn’t you, is like a shock. Except you still feel nothing. You just stare at the bunched up fabric. 

Ink remains in place, a little awkward. In a position showing he’s unsure what you’re up to, whether to be prepared for an attack. You consider attacking. You feel nothing about the concept.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Ink draws out, regaining his nonchalant cheer with a blink. “Yyyoou okay there...?” 

How are you supposed to answer that? The question strikes you as absurd. Nonsensical. You laugh even though you feel no amusement. That’s normal for you. 

“...Right,” Ink clears his throat. “Sssooo whatcha up to? Where’s Nightmare?” he asks, mostly curious. Ink has always struck you as a weirdo freak, something off about his reactions, but you’ve never thought about it too deeply. 

You shrug. You’re still holding his scarf. You’re unsure why. You don’t particularly care and he doesn’t seem to mind it either, so. No reason to stop. 

(He’s real he’s tangible he’s something different he’s something something something–)

“Well I’m just passing by, I’ll be out in a–” 

“If you so much as think about leaving I’ll stab you through the spine.” you immediately counter, calmly threatening. 

“Awww if you wanted company you could’ve just said so!” Ink takes it in stride, and again, off reactions. It’s the most interesting thing that has happened in what feels like eternity so you latch onto it. 

“You’re weird.” you point out. 

Ink laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot! Part of having a creative nature,” he strikes a pose all cheeky, eye light in the shape of a sparkle. You’re still holding him by the scarf. “Soooo what have you been up to??” he asks, rocking back and forth on his feet all silly. 

You gesture around with a flat expression. “Nothing,” 

Ink snorts. “How long have you been here?” he prods you (literally, with a finger, which you allow because he’s physical and here and real).

You shrugs. “Not like I can keep track,” you huff. 

“Yeesh. You gotta be careful with that one, spend too long and the glitching disease will get to you,” Ink says like he’s joking, except that is literally a fact. People go insane and corrupted in the void spaces. 

You consider demanding from Ink to get you out of here. 

...You remember you have nowhere to go. 

You remember how livid Nightmare was. And how much more powerful he is than you. And how he owns your soul. And how if he wants you to be here, here you will be, so there’s not really a point to it. Everything always ends up like this for you, huh? Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. That’s how your existence has always been, and how it always will be. 

“Need me to get you somewhere?” Ink offers, lifting his brush, like he was on a similar train of thought but departed a few stations earlier.

“...I’ve stabbed you several times,” you point out like an echo of amusement, because Ink is best described as quirky. And again, considering circumstances, it’s currently the most interesting thing in your life. What a tragedy. 

“Yeah...?” Ink prompts with a question mark in his eye, like he isn't seeing how that relates to his question at all. 

You tilt your head. 

“Why do you want to help me?” you ask, because the closest thing to emotion you have right now is curiosity-fascination. Though that doesn't say much, considering it just as distant as everything else. “We're enemies, or something,”

“Oh!” Ink exclaims. “Oh I don't really care,” he shrugs. “I mean, I guess that's the narrative, yeah! But it's not like I hate you personally or something,” he chuckles. 

Weirdo freak. 

You've never cared to learn anything about the Stars. You realize you barely even know their tragic backstories. You still don't particularly care, but Ink is a natural yapper, so maybe you can use him to fill the silence.

(Until he leaves, of course. Until you are left alone. You are always left alone.)

“You don't find my actions abhorrent? Not how I've killed hundreds? Not how I enjoy torturing others?” you seek for the buttons to press, grinning. You recall that yeah, Ink is a lot more difficult to get a rise out of compared to the other two, who are so openly emotional. 

“I mean,” Ink scratches his skill. “On one hand, a good story needs villains. On the other hand, the best narratives are about how good triumphs in the end, and so you need someone to be that component as well. In that sense, I am against it!” he concludes. “Although works that explore dark endings are also fascinating and have their own merit,” he considers. “Like tragedies, or darkgrim stories. They–” he starts rambling, distracted by the topic. 

It's interesting for maybe a second. It quickly stops being so. You can't bring yourself to care about whatever he's talking about, or to want to.

You consider attacking him, again. But then he might leave, depending on whether he has something else to do instead or not. 

“Are the other two coming around?” you interrupt, though Ink doesn't seem offended that you completely ignored his spiel. 

“Hm? Uh, I don't think so, why?” he asks in turn. Damn, that means they have no business around here. Though, after a brief pause, Ink’s eyes widen and he exclaims a “Wait!” 

He tries to pull away but you hold onto the fabric of his scarf tighter, summoning a knife in a kind reminder of your threat. Ink lifts his palms placatingly, chuckling. 

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere!” he assures. “I’ll just call them over too and then we can all... talk!” 

Oh. 

That meant he was going to seize the opportunity to try and “reason” with you like they did with Horror and Dust. Again. Like you didn't laugh in their faces every previous time. Respect for the persistence? 

“You do realize that won't work, right?” you generously point it out to Ink. 

He blinks.

“I’m not betraying Nightmare,” you snort. 

Ink tilts his head. “Why?”

He asks it so simply. No “You know he doesn't love you, right?”, no “But he's awful to you!”, none of that. Maybe that's why you answer him. 

“Because,” you say, almost amused, shrugging. You're unsure how to finish that. You're unsure how to explain, so you just say the truth — “I don't care about anything else,” 

Ink is looking at you curiously now, his previous idea of calling for backup seemingly forgotten, which is typical for him. 

He sits on the ground. He pats the ground in an invite. You sit down too, mostly because you're still holding his scarf. 

“Nothing? Really?” Ink asks, pulling his leg closer to rest his chin on his knee. 

“Nope!” 

“You don't have a family?” 

You burst out laughing. You pretend to wipe a tear, even.

“What? Do you know nothing?” you exclaim, cackling. 

Ink is just staring at you with question marks. 

“Know what?��� he asks. What an idiot. You'd roll your eyes if you had any. At best, you manage to mimick the action. 

“I killed them all,” you say easily. “Many, many times,” 

“...Oh. Right.” Ink seems to remember. “But why??” 

Huh. Apparently Killer wasn't the only one who couldn't give a flying fuck to learn anything about his supposed enemies. 

Killer sighs dreamily, “To listen to their sweet sweet cries of pain,”

Ink grimaces. “Oh. Really??? You come from a twist on the original timeline though, right?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “The classic version of Sans is not like that,” 

“Clearly I'm not the classic version of Sans,” Killer pointed out flatly, and to emphasize the point, he gestured to his soul. You know. The one that is nothing like a monster’s or a human’s. 

“Oooohhhhh,” Ink nodded along, hand reaching forward– Killer flinched. Body immediately strung tight, ready for the barrage of suffering that always followed when his soul was grasped and squeezed and– 

But he was so baffled by the action, he let it happen. 

Ink pulled his hand back, however, staring at his face. 

Killer snorted, and moved his hand to offer his soul, that wretched thing. It's not like he cared if anyone did anything to it. Or hurt it. 

(His soul. His being. His self. The essence and shape of his existence condensed into one. The most vulnerable part of you. The most you part of you.)

“Go on,” you shrug. “Not like I care,” 

Ink hesitantly reaches out a hand to prod the cursed thing. It feels just as uncomfortable and bad as you'd imagine, to have your soul poked. He pulls his hand back. 

“...Well,” Ink starts, “at least you have one?” he offers, chuckling. “Better than nothing!” 

You tilt your head. That's a strange way to say that.

“What, you don't?” 

“Nope!” Ink says as easily as you would.

It's your turn to blink and stare. At his neutrally cheerful grin.

And suddenly... it does make sense. The sense of emptiness behind half his expressions. The lack of care where others would have at least some. The odd view of the world. His flat affect, even if it was a positive one.

...Huh. 

Ink was telling the truth. He was soulless. 

You raise a hand to where yours returned to the middle of your chest. Always sitting in front of it. Always bare. Detached from the rest of you. 

“...How?” 

“Just never had one,” Ink shrugs.

You can only think of one other soulless creature — that yellow flower. 

But... it doesn't make sense. The wretched flower reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. You reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. 

Yet here Ink was. Playing as one of the so-called “good guys”. 

“Then how do you feel?” you press the issue. 

“Oh? I’m good!” Ink says cheerfully. 

“No– how do you feel feelings if you're soulless?” you huff.

“Huh? Oh!” Ink exclaims, and then takes out one of those colorful vials he carries on a sash everywhere he goes. “I don’t! Not naturally, anyway. I have these to help me!” he shakes the little vial — yellow, barely anything remaining inside. They're all in different quantities.

You frown. “What? How? Are they magic?” you reach to take the vial but Ink pulls it back. Now that's interesting.

“Sort of?” Ink squints at the vial. “They correspond to different emotions, but I think they only work on me,” 

...Of course. 

You let go of his scarf. 

You consider fighting him to snatch one of the vials and try it anyway. You know it's pointless, however.

The disappointment is crushing. You feel like a drug addict who was just handed a bag overflowing with white powder only to discover it's flour. 

“You should leave before I dice you into dust.”

The disappointment is crushing. 

Hah. Hahahah. As if. As if it could be as easy as drinking some paint. Of course not. When has your life ever been easy? No, you are doomed to be like this forever. You knew this. It's downright hilarious you thought (hoped), even for less than a moment, that there could be anything else. 

It's so funny you're chuckling.

It's so funny you're laughing. 

When Ink leaves, you're still howling with laughter, black liquid streaming down your face.

—

The quiet around here was deafening. It was starting to make Killer hyperaware of every quiet rustle of clothing from every little movement. Several times he caught himself starting to talk to himself, trying to fill the quiet with jokes or something. But that was a slippery slope, so he shut the hell up. If he didn't talk, hopefully nothing would start replying. He refused to get corrupted by the glitches. 

Luckily — and that is a weird descriptor — Ink returned. For some known-only-to-him reason. 

“Why the hell are you back?” Killer asked, not bothering to get up this time. Just laying on his back. He's here on a vacay. 

“Well!” Ink said, and judging by the changing direction of his voice, he was moving around. “The empty white is literal torture, isn't it?” he chuckled.

“What would you know,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes. Wasn't Ink some almighty creator? He could just hurl some ink around and it wouldn't be white anymore.

Ink laughed. “Oh trust me, I know,” 

Killer felt like he was missing something. 

“Can't you just, I don't know, paint it?” 

“Yep! That's what I'm doing right now!” Ink explained cheerfully. Killer pushed himself up to look, now.

Huh. Yeah. Ink was going around with his brush, using the white space as a big canvas. Killer squinted, unable to decipher what exactly he was drawing, besides some colors and shapes. Red and pink, blue in different shades, yada yada. 

“...What is it,” Killer observed Ink’s movements, walking around him, deliberate but free flowing. 

“Just whatever feels right,” Ink shrugged. “The different hues have different, you know, vibes, depending on how you mix them, how you use them against one another– oh can you step to the side there?” 

He did, getting to his feet and stepping aside.

“Thanks!” Ink said, filling in the spot. 

Killer squinted, still trying to figure out what it all was. The warm colors looked like a flame maybe...? 

He kept watching Ink work for a few more moments. It was weird, to be alone with someone, without a constant background thrum of negativity. Killer couldn't call it pleasant, but... it was better than the emptiness. 

Suddenly he was hauled up and his reflexes immediately fired off, magic materializing in an immediate attack and just as soon he was dropped. 

“Wow you are jumpy!” Ink exclaimed, holding the wound that Killer cut into him. It didn't seem too deep, mostly due to Ink’s durability. He was standing on top of a short pillar of ink. 

“Don't forget who you're talking to,” Killer threatened with a low tone, grin stretching as he gripped a sharp, sharp knife in hand. 

“Whoops!” Ink didn't seem all too affected. “Don't you wanna see what it is though?” he leaned on a hand, all silly. 

...

Killer accepted being lifted up by a glob of ink, mildly curious. 

He stared at the splatter on the white ground. 

It was a moth. In shades of icy, hopeless blue. Surrounded by scorching red flames. Huh. Okay them. Pretty cool, or something. At least it was colorful. 

Ink put him back down on the ground. With his hands on his hips, he admired his own work, chuckling.

“It’s nice to fill the emptiness, don't you think?” 

Killer had never bothered caring about the Stars. He didn't care about them as people, what they felt or what they thought. 

He... never would've expected to find understanding with one of them. 

“...Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

—

.

.

.

“ARGH we’re too late?!” Dream blurted out. 

“Huh, I could've sworn he seemed to be staying here for longer,” Ink commented, much less affected. 

“The one time he and Nightmare aren’t attached at the hip–” Dream continued groaning. 

“Maybe Nightmare sensed we were planning to talk to him–?” Blue suggested, trying to investigate the nearly empty white space. All that remained were splotches from Ink’s activities. No Killer in sight. 

Dream sighed loudly, rubbing his face, greatly dejected. “That's... possible,” he breathed.

“We should've come here sooner,” Blue put his hands on his hips. 

“He wasn't very happy with the idea,” Ink shrugged. 

“It’s... we’ll have another opportunity,” Dream concluded. He had to stay positive and hopeful. “No matter how long we need to wait, we’ll figure out how to help them,” he remained determined.

[theamityelf]

What about the members of class 77? What if they were Kamukuras?

(Kamukura Wrangler AU Masterlist)

I'm glad you asked, because I do like to imagine that Nagito also gets tossed into a room with his Kamukurized classmates.

I'm imagining it happens long after Makoto meets his, because it would be weird for the scientists to start with Izuru (a Kamukura made from a talentless person), then make a batch of Kamukuras from Ultimates (already a potentially significant variable) and then vary it up again by giving those Ultimates a non-talented plaything.

How I'm imagining it plays out is, they made Izuru, they then made the 77th class into Kamukuras in the same way as Izuru (meaning, all isolated from each other with no human plaything), and then they made the 78th class as a more socialized version of the project, given each other for company and then Makoto for...I'm going to call it stress relief, lol.

After Makoto has had a while with the 78th class and changes have been seen as a result (positive and negative ones, in their eyes; they don't want the Kamukuras to be as emotional as some of them have become, but others of them have mainly just grown more agreeable or more motivated), they decide to try letting the 77th class Kamukuras socialize more. Not on the same scale as the 78th class, where they live together in a section of the labs and have a pet luckster, but maybe they get to visit each other, maybe Nagito is brought in to visit them individually, etc.

Quick overview:

Impostor- I think they might have fully lost him. Impostor is still in the labs, but you wouldn't know it. He hasn't been in his cell pretty much since they finished altering him. Sometimes he's impersonating one of the doctors, scientists, etc. Sometimes he's just straight hiding. They know he's around here somewhere, but they simply have no way to pin him down.

They do their best to make sure he can't get outside, wherever he is, but there are plenty of times where he has the opportunity to leave and just chooses not to. He's got to be sleeping somewhere, he's got to be eating something, he's got to be using the bathroom, but no one can ever catch him. They just sometimes find that half of their lunch was eaten from the faculty fridge, but there's no sign of him on the security cameras.

Teruteru- He submits to anyone's authority, always. All Kamukuras are meant to be receptive to command, to make them effective tools, and this shows in all of them to very different degrees. For Teruteru's part, he is indiscriminately ready to be used, so much so that it actually makes him useless. You can't trust a doctor who will do whatever anyone says. You certainly can't trust an assassin who would do whatever anyone says. They've decided that they can never let him out of his room and can only let a privileged few people around him. Nagito might not get to meet him.

Mahiru- Already got some characterization in the main Kamukuras AU.

In this scenario, she's very detached from Nagito and not especially interested in him, but she's willing to talk to him, and she'll avenge him if he's killed or Kamukurized.

Peko- Loyal to the Steering Committee, but knows she's smarter than them, so while she adopts their goals out of subservience to their will, she will disobey their immediate orders if she has a better idea. She doesn't consider herself or the other Kamukuras human in a meaningful way.

When Nagito is taken to meet her, she is 100% indifferent to him at first. She doesn't need to socialize or play or anything else. She's an instrument of the Steering Committee.

Hiyoko- She does not consider non-Kamukuras to be worth pretty much anything. Her long-term goal is to overthrow the scientists and let the lab be run by the Kamukuras. She doesn't particularly care about escaping the labs.

She calls Nagito worthless, when he's presented to her, but he agrees with her, and ultimately they're a dangerous pair. Hiyoko's plot to take over the labs is going to happen. (It can coincide with the 78th class's plot to flee the labs. One triggers the other; either the 78th class's escape gives the 77th class their chance to take over the labs, or the 77th class's takeover gives the 78th class their chance to escape. Izuru himself is somewhere in the mix, and who knows if all the 78th class makes it out.)

She also plans to make Nagito a Kamukura. She considers it a reward, an ascension for the human who knew his place. The others will stop her.

Ibuki- She's scratching the walls with her nails. She bites anyone who enters her cell. She speaks exclusively in a language that she made up. It has real syntactical rules and lots of false cognates to confuse people. (The other Kamukuras are able to figure out the rules of her language, if they're allowed around her.) Also sometimes she makes animal sounds. Her vibe is deliberately off-putting; the scientists are really unsettled by her. Scared, even. She laughs at them. The laughter creeps them out even more.

She's not interested in killing anyone, and won't. She actually likes to cuddle as much as she likes to bite. When Nagito visits her, he has to stay the night, because she won't let him go. After a few visits, she's willing to speak to him in Japanese every now and then. Not full conversations; just short warnings, like, "Watch your step," or commands, like, "More." (He's the one bringing most of them food, now, so maybe she's demanding larger portions. But he also eats with some of them, so she might be telling him to eat more.)

Mikan- She knows that she is a new person created from an existing person, and from this she reasons that she should be a baby. (Not quite literally, but something close.) So she analyzes people in silence, looking for someone to imprint on like a duckling on its mother. It might end up being a scientist, another Kamukura, a Steering Committee member, one of the lucksters. In the current setup, it could be Nagito, but if she waits long enough to have other options, then who's to say. It could just as easily be Izuru, Imposter, or even Sayaka. (Probably not Izuru, since he is focused on all of his successors, and she wants someone to be focused primarily on her. This is also why she might not choose Nagito.)

Once she decides who she will deliberately imprint on, she gives them her obedience and expects care in return. She'll be very clear about what specific ways she expects to be cared for; she'll directly say, "You need to tell me what to eat," or "You need to decide how my hair should look. I will let it grow until you tell me otherwise," or "You need to soothe me until I fall asleep. Do you want instructions as to how I am to be soothed?"

She will kill or maim, very casually, if it ever becomes necessary.

Nekomaru- Ngl, I feel like Nekomaru might die during the procedure, but assuming that doesn't happen, he aligns with Hiyoko. In-grouping hard. Kamukuras should band together and act in their own interest. He's protective of all Kamukuras, and it's more pragmatic than emotional, but it still causes him to act very loyally toward all the other Kamukuras. (He treats the lucksters as their pets, to whom he is indifferent but with whom he remains careful and protective.)

Unlike Hiyoko, this is purely an in-group thing; it has nothing to do with normal people being worthless. This means he doesn't care about which Kamukuras are more successful than others. Hiyoko would be very dismissive of someone like Taka; she would consider Taka a botched trial. Not as lowly as a normal person, but still a lesser Kamukura. Nekomaru doesn't feel that way. Any Kamukura is in the in-group.

Gundham- They don't know what to make of him. When they take him out of his cell, he's always staring at them and saying vague, ominous things. In his cell, he's often circling the space, trailing his fingers over the walls, or standing still in the middle of the room with his eyes closed. He usually ignores people when they walk in, whether they're bringing his food or sticking a needle in his neck.

At seemingly-random times, he actually reacts when someone walks in, instead of ignoring them. When he takes an interest in someone, he gets very close to them, examines them (like, lifting their arms and turning them around and generally handling them a lot like the scientists handle the Kamukuras), and perhaps sniffs them. This is how he treats Nagito the first time he visits. In subsequent visits, he usually ignores him. But he enjoys his company.

He's proficient in pressure points. And he's vicious when put in a position to defend himself or his interests. He feels some solidarity for other Kamukuras, but he's very solitary by nature. If pressed to express allegiance to anything or anyone, it would be Trial 1 (Izuru).

Chiaki- I just see her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, reciting prime numbers or capitol cities from the moment she wakes up until she goes to sleep. It's a game. Legit, if you handed her a video game, she'd rather recite the hexadecimal color of each pixel than actually play it normally. Some of the scientists theorize that the video games are too easy for her; others theorize that she's using repetitive behaviors to self-soothe.

She won't kill anyone. She can't be made to do much of anything. She likes Nagito. He's good enrichment, and he feeds her.

Akane- She's silent and fluid. She's just in her cell doing weird contortions or dangling from the ceiling or both at the same time. She doesn't like to be touched; whenever someone tries to approach her, she slips through their fingers and settles in a different part of the room. When she eats, she's often hovering over the plate, doing one of those push-up handstands with just her forefingers.

The scientists (and Nagito, tbh) believe that she is more inclined to engage with her physical talents than her mental ones, because she doesn't talk to them or answer questions and she's always doing strange new things with her body, but really the contortions are just kind of a means of stimming, for her, while she reflects philosophically on everything and everyone. She doesn't find it natural to sit (or stand) still while she's thinking deeply.

She will very seldom speak, but when she does, her words are impactful. The first time she speaks to Nagito, after several visits in which she's said nothing, she will shatter a lot of what he believes to be true. (And he regrets underestimating her.)

She doesn't have any particular esteem for Kamukuras or talent. In her reflections, all of that stuff has stricken her as insignificant. She's as likely to kill a person as she is to kill a fly– which could be good news for flies or bad news for humans, depending on where her meditations have taken her. Probably just good news for flies.

Fuyuhiko- He has no esteem for Kamukuras as an end product. All he sees is an experiment that, in a just world, wouldn't have been done. It's not about the perversion of nature or any of the things Taka is disgusted by; Fuyuhiko is more focused on the established ethical rules that humanity claims to value. The regulations for human experimentation that were violated, the laws that were broken, etc. Mankind has been debating what should and should not be done for centuries, and when it comes down to it, no consensus they reach matters. The powerful will violate anything sacred. It's disgusting.

In the labs, he's very despondent and resigned. He's willing to talk to Nagito. He's resigned to the fact that Nagito will probably be killed at some point soon. He's not making a move of his own until something external changes– such as the other Kamukuras taking over the lab.

Once that happens, honestly, he might go a similar direction to Mahiru: a vigilante with a drive to fix what he thinks is wrong with the world. (Which could lead to a situation where Peko has to protect the Steering Committee from him.)

Kazuichi- His surface-level goal is to be a success in the scientist's eyes, and the Steering Committee's. To be excellent and useful. Deep down, he really wants to impress the original. Trial 1. Izuru Kamukura. He's always fixating on how his performance in the various tests compares to the original. He often thinks about whether Trial 1 notices when he improves. Does Trial 1 think about them? About him?

He has an initial interest in Nagito that he quickly discards when he learns that Trial 1 has not been given a luckster to socialize with. If Trial 1 doesn't need this, then neither does he. He will be their predecessor's equal.

Sonia- Similar to Peko, she is loyal to the Steering Committee while also aware that she's smarter than them. Unlike Peko, she does not adopt their goals as her own. She considers their goals to be as much a product of their flawed minds as their orders, so she acts how she thinks will actually benefit them most, not in accordance with what they think will benefit them.

So basically, if the Steering Committee were to say, "Do this thing so we can have this outcome," Peko would do a different, smarter thing to get the outcome, while Sonia would get them a different outcome that turns out to be better. Which could be a good thing for the world as a whole. Imagine someone telling Sonia to help them take over the world and she signs them up for therapy and fixes a gas leak in their house.

This isn't to say Sonia has an intrinsic sense of morality or emotion. What she thinks is best can be based on all kinds of things.

She is politely disinterested in Nagito.