#whatever its still a horror game
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I was gonna try drawing smth cute but ended up drawing these two again help--
#dead plate game#dead plate#vince charbonneau#rody lamoree#rody x vincent#digital sketch#I'll probably make a short music video out of this#the reddd means i love youuuuuu#tw cannibalism#it's like cannibalism if he's doing the red thing right? no?#whatever its still a horror game#it was supposed to be smth else but then these two pop out of my head#my art#fanart#first art of 2024#holy shit its 2024 already wahhhhh
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"I think this is the most inhuman; and human, that I've ever felt.." MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN A YEAR. IN FIVE YEARS. A DECADE. imagine how much can happen in a century. just ONE (1). How will you grow? what phases do you find? even in 5 years, you will find patterns.
#jrwi fanart#jrwi show#jrwi suckening#jrwi suckening spoilers#jrwi the suckening#arthur bennett#HEY SO THE REALLY FUNNY THING THAT THE CHARACTER DID THAT SEEMED RLY SILLY N GOOFY IN THE MOMENT?#LIKE THE WHIPLASH BETWEEN SERIOUS N SILLY ALMOST PISSED YOU OFF? WHAT IF I FOUND A WAY TO MAKE YOU SAD ABOUT IT#this was meant to be a scribble that would be a bigger part of a bigger page.might leave it on that page.#but still. bc o that i nearly posted it onto my wacky side blog.BUT NAYY I SPENT TOO MUCH TIME N ENERGY N YOU GOTTA SEE IT#ARTHUR BENNETT DRIVES ME CRAZY. I FEEL LIKE ITS ODD FOR HIM TO BE SO TECHNOLOGICALLY OUT OF TOUCH#WHERE HAS HE BEEN. HAS HE BEEN IN WAR? IS THAT WHERE MAGNUS CAME FROM? WHERE WAS HE WHEN HE WAS WITH EDWARDS CREW?#ARTHURRR I HAVE QUESTIONS ARTTHUUURR!! HEY CAN I ALSO ASK; WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BECOME#DO YOU THINK HE HAD ANY IDEA HE WOULD VEER CLOSER AND CLOSER TO THE MONSTER HE DESPISES. ALL BC HE DESERVES IT. OR WATEVER#HE FASCINATES ME SO MUCH. TO LOOK AT THE STONE COLD STOIC FOOL FROM THE START OF THE SHOW#AND TO FIND OUT THAT HE USED TO BE A BAD BOY.. A DELINQUENT... A LIL PRANKSTER.... MY GODDD THATS ADORABLE#I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW MORE.... BUT I DOUBT THE LAST EPISODE IS GONNA ANSWER THOSE QUESTIONS..i love arthur bennett so much....#AS FOR THE ART!! i mostly used the fire alpaca watercolor brush. tbh im not a brush guy. anti aliased default pen tends to be my main game#but LATELY IM SQQQUIRMIN OUT OF AN ARTBLOCK so expirimenting like this is helping#DONT LOOK TOO HARD AT IT!! im still proud tho. colors are fun :3 im also very proud of the backgrounds#I LOVE THE CARTOON THING where the background looks all fancy n painted but the characters are solid colors#what else can i ramble abt. OH YEAH. i looked up the bikes to make sure they were time accurate tehehehe. 1913 to 2012.#almost a century apart!! isnt that neat? ALSO FUUUCK CAN I JUST MAKE A QUICK CONFESSION. DOWN HERE IN MY TAGS.#only the strongest can read my tags anwyay. SO I REALIZED WHY I LOVE ARTHUR SO MUCH. TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE#while arthur is a Stoic and Cool vampire w a knack for being playful/silly; who alsos been alive fora century thus witnessing HORRORs#THERE HAPPENS TO BE A ROBOT FROM A BAND W A TITANIUM ALLOY SPINAL COLLUMN#WHOS A Stoic and Cool ROBOT w a knack for being playful/silly; who alsos been alive fora century thus witnessing HORRORS#the fuckkkiiinnngggnn The Spine from steam powered giraffe. WHATEVER. i cant escape from my heart. i guess.#i think The Spine and Arthur could be friends. Arthur saw the band perform back when they were the Steam Man Band#EDIT: WOOPS I DIDNT REALIZE THIS WOULD END UP IN THE SPG TAG. HI GUYS DIDNT KNOW U WERE STILL ALIVE SORREE 4 THE CROSS CONTAMINATION
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horror's jacket fluff has probably accumulated so much DISGUSTINGNESS over 7 years in it that it's managed to acquire it's own signature Dog Smell (TM). however i think this would be a prime opportunity to pet him and then get some of that disgusting smell on you because for some reasons Dog Smell is just unavoidable when you pet a dog with a lot of hair
he'd hate it but awww awww whos a good boy (ノ´∀`*) whos a good boy (*≧∪≦) YOU ARE!!! awww so cute you didn't commit all those murders against innocent people you were innocent ( ̄▽ ̄)/ such a good boy!!!! (gets beheaded) (he got too embarrassed)
#forcing the dog horror agenda down people's throats#CAT DOG RABBIT TRIO I SCREAM INTO THE DISTANCE#cat and dog run circles chasing eachother around the sleeping rabbit (MURDER TIME TRIO REAL TRUST I WAS THE AIR)#THIS IS SO FUNNY TO ME. guess where the inspiration came from. THATS RIGHT (triglycercule owns a dog) (for context)#my favorite recurring theme i keep on bringing up 4 some reason is horror not wanting 2 be treated like hes feral or animalistic#he is a rational man. he can think for himself. he isn't a DOG. SO THEN STOP TREATING HIM LIKE HE'S NOTHING MORE THAN SOME CAGED CANINE#(glares at killer and dust. dust simply looks off to the side (not paying attention) and killer slightly smiles bigger (creep))#it would be SO fucking demeaning. something killer does to horror to piss him off EASILY#leave it to killer to find a way to get on horror's nerves all the time. thank god dust is much less pissy than horror 🙏#can just SEE the thought bubble of horror as a dog above dusts head#he wouldn't verbalize it (because why would he need to) but dust can see the dog parallels (truly like me)#maybe he'd say it on an off day when theyre all feeling chill and its dead silent#someone's gotta be the calm one out of the three maniacs and why not let it be the rationally insane one ‼️‼️‼️#and theyre all just like chilling. horror's organizing the pantry. killer's playing a cat game on his phone. dust's reading#and then he just says to nobody in particular. horror reminds me of a dog#it's almost as if nobody reacts when horror turns around flabbergasted??? as if nobody said anything!!!!!#because dust is still reading and killer's still on his phone!!! WHAT!!!! and horror's just like ever so slightly irritated and weirded out#but...... its a good day. its been chill. maybe he just imagined that. and he goes back to his thingy#and dust just ever so slightly smiles. killer's actually been looking at horror ever since dust said that (the blank sockets hide his gayze#and in his head hes like..... damn. dust is right tf i do see it??????#kemonomimi mtt when. when do i get to see them with animal ears and tails that i approve they would fit in????#triglycercule you have to do it yourself.WHAT!!! NO!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOO (disintegrates) (imagine that ashy baby photo)#i felt like killer typing out that second paragraph. its like i can hear his voice saying it as i type. its like i can see his smug face#killer sans#dust sans#horror sans#murder time trio#utmv#tricule hc#i mean killer and dust are mentioned in tags so its whatever DONT KILL ME DONT GUILLOTINE ME OK SORRY 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
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Not someone comparing higurashi to fnaf....please I'm dying....
#hope.txt#i dont think ive been more insulted#i get the part of like 'influential horror game series that changed the landscape irrevocably'#and also 'a lot of really weird installments added after it blew up' part#but like ryukishi is explicitly and obviously left leaning#and also higurashi at its weirdest still has more integrity and forethought and depth that whatever the fuck scott cawthon's doing
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i dont even know enough about what people are doing with sonic.exe these days to have an actual opinion on the concept itself but wow am i tired of it flooding sonic tags on like every site I DONT CAREEEEEEEE
#it feels like every once in a while sonic.exe just becomes borderline inescapable if you like sonic and then it calms down for a bit#and then it comes back i dont even follow any people who post sonic.exe i just search sonic and its everywhere BEGONEEEEE#not saying you cant keep doing whatever youre doing but thats not what im looking for in the slightest#alsowhy are they so obsessed with fleetway super sonic get him OUT of there !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#ngl i dont understand any of this i thought sonic.exe was a creepypasta about a haunted copy of a sonic game#and a decent amount of the stuff i see get labelled as sonic.exe content feels really far removed from that concept ?#like i even see actual sonic fans making sonic horror aus and slapping .exe on the end . i dont . get it#whatever man#before anyone says blacklist tags blacklisting tags doesnt stop posts from eappearing in search results anymore#so even if i blacklist the tags i still have to scroll past all that stuff#and the other sites i have in mind where ive had exe stuff show up in results are sites that dont have a blacklist feature
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the other day I was talking to an older coworker of mine who has several grandkids and said "you've probably heard of five nights at Freddy's, right? since you have young grandkids." and she's like "no what's that?" so I told her about it and she was like "OH ABSOLUTELY NOT. id never let young kids play that kind of stuff, that's too scary and violent!"
she gave me a ride home and guess what she had in her backseat that her grandson had left in there. this thing
#nerd alert#the context was i was talking about willys wonderland bc we were talking about horror movies#and she was SO APPALLED that little kids are out there playing a game about. evil murder animatronics that jump out and scare you#and im like yeah its weird man. theres a whole child horror genre now. its kinda crazy#i think its normal tho tbh like. it was very common when i was growing up for kids to sneak and try to watch horror movies#that were definitely not appropriate for them to be viewing#my stepbrother let my little brother watch childs play when he was like 8 and he had nightmares about chucky for MONTHS#im pretty sure i knew some kids in my elementary school classes that watched saw not long after it came out on VHS or whatever#we were out there singing about violently murdering barney at like 7 years of old. kids are weird!#but its still weirder now that these franchises are being marketed specifically TO children. like thats a little strange. to me
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ok well now I'm fucking pissed
#tw vent#in the tags#its never#its never the child thats the problem#its the grown ass adult that thinks she can force a child to do whatever she wants her to do#but when look at the situation and think#huh#you are simply not right and this childs feelings are valid#maybe screaming and shouting at someone younger than ten and bringing physical violence isnt right#i mean seriously#maybe that simply is not right#and maybe i want to have the chance to fucking say that#maybe i wont stay silent when a sister is turning the house into her rage room#idgaf what your age is#its js proving how fucking immature you are#im just so#im fucking pissed#im not spoiling a child by giving her the ability to not be screamed at by you#you arent a fucking high and mighty princess that can control us#and we're not shittheads for being unnaccepting of that#i have had a shitty week#i am losing my fucking voice because of this fucking sinus thing and it hurts so fucking bad#ivs just been upset period#my family wont pay attention to the fact that i can struggle without telling them#and of course theyre not gonna know im hyperfixating#they wont let me have social media liek every. single. teenager(btw#if a modern day adolescent doesnt have social media they are missing so much bullshit its not even funny)#so how tf are they gonna know i fixate on THE ONE HORROR GAME THEY HATE WITH A PASSION????#they never fucking asked#and i have to scream to be heard by this bitch ass of a sister that cant handle a child existing and doing the same shit she still does
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And that's a done deal!
(And now back to waiting for the next layer... 😢)
#it was a sloppy 7-4 but it still counted so I'll take it#even playing it multiple times that boss is such an adrenaline rush#this whole chapter was really good#easily one of the best layers as a whole#I love each and every one of the new machines (they are beautiful horrors beyond human comprehension ♥)#the mannequins are okay too (frustrating)#still a tiny bit sad that there were no new weapons or a secret level as of yet but game development takes time so its whatever#also 7-1 and 7-2 being longer levels did make them a little frustrating to p-rank but that could also be cause I went into the act rusty#genuinely curious to see if and how the final two layers will top this one#gamer moment#ultrakill#ultrakill spoilers
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i think fnaf needs to die like real bad like im not joking
#the bun talks#i shouldnt be ranting about the things i hate but god i hate fnaf#its so shit the whole community is in shambles everyone acts like kids people STILL SUPPORT SCOTT and hes STILL INVOLVED IN MAKING THINGS#FOR IT EVEN THOUGH HE ''RETIRED''#the games are all bad security breach is janky and gross and ugly the story makes no fucking sense the dlc isnt any better#the fact that today i saw someone who f/od monty say that they didnt even finish the fucking game so they dont even know if he dies like....#and now vibingleafs reimagine came out right after fnaf+ got supposedly cancelled#i just i cant. take shit no more please. please let this stupid fucking franchise die im fucking serious#please make your own thing make your own mascot horror or whatever just stop touching fnaf
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I finished Inscryption recently and, surprisingly, at the moment the one I have the most thoughts on is Luke of all characters and they are buzzing around my brain at max speed
#like god the game is overall pretty eerie (like a thriller movie) but can be verg funny as well#but if your someone like me tries to shove themselves into the MC's shoes and imagine what they must be going through in that moment#Luke's whole situation is literally one of my anxiety daydreams that keep me up at 3am#He got an creepy onimous game that no ones ever heard of and it definitely is deeper than it lets on#he tried to talk to the game developers and they immediately told him to send it back or they'll sue hi#leaving him to either hand the game over never find out what the fuck is wrong with it; or break the law and get to the bottom of this#A lady who worked for the company just shows up at his door; knows his addresses and full name and asks for the game#she felt vaugely threatening near the end of their talk and made me nervous#Luke gets exposed to horrors after horrors and deep dive lore after deep dive lore and since he doesn't have time to analyze a lot of it#hes just as lost as we are; im fact hes DEFINITELY more lost than we are#this game on a floppy disk can connect to the internet and browse his files#the game KNOWS his name and is aware that its a game and only Luke can help them#while dealing with this hes still trying to understand the lore of the game; and live with the constant knowledge that#by all means he SHOULDN'T have this game and that people are willing to break into his house to get it back#And as fucking nuts the ending was i like to think Luke felt some sort of kinship with other card players at the end;#shaking their hands as they were deleted from the game#imagine how shocked and horrified he was finding out whatever the old data was; considering he broke the floppy disk over it#he called someone to confess to all the insane things he witnessed and then he never got to have a happy ending cause he was shot dead#left alone to bleed out on the floor of his house (assumedly far away from people considering how close he lives to the forest)#how long was he there? did anyone ever find him? how long until his YouTube subscribers get really concerned?#they must have already caught on that something weird is happening but how long until it hits that something is downright wrong?#if his death gets wildly covered since he seemed like a decent youtuber; how many fans are gonna sit in dread knowing something happened#they just dont know what and they NEVER will know#it really sucks because he seemed like a genuinely nicd guy; sure he seemed to have a certain YouTuber personality but he was NICE#inscryption spoilers#inscryption#luke carder#inscryption luke
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Man, horror is so fun
#creepypastas. horror games. whatever ITS SO INTERESTING#i can watch any horror thing tbh#except analog horror that shit freaks me out in a extreme level#but its still SO FUN to think about#hope's nonsense drabbles
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got sucked into skimming playthrough of corpse party blood drive and wow it really just turns into magical secret society find the the macguffin with some vague gore visuals kinda situation
but the best part overall was this
i want i a whole thing about whatever the fuck those two have going on
#with bloodrive overall the visuals really dont serve the genre very well of they want to claim its still a horror game#and it kinda suffers from that thing that happens to every horror serise#where everyone just Knows the Rules of the curse or ghost or whatever and its more about stopping the curse#than being any form of scared#and the actual gory bits that do remain are poorly described#with the soind desgin and visuals often being off in some way#*Sound of ice popping* 'it was a sound almost akin to the surface if ice breaking'#also main character trying to be like 'ive never been so scared' when way scarier things happened to her#ANYWAYS#fucked up yuri
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attached | ghost x f!reader
i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.
type: one-shot (8.4k)
cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+
Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.
No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.
He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?
Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.
He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.
Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.
Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.
It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.
He never wins.
Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.
If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.
He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.
He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.
It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.
There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.
When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.
It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.
He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.
He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.
His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.
It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.
He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.
But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.
He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.
Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.
The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.
The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.
It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.
He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.
He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.
There are different kinds of hunters out today.
He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.
When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.
Her.
He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.
He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.
"Hello, darling."
"Bite me."
He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.
"You bitch!"
Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.
Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.
The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.
You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.
Just a man.
I hate men.
You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.
He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.
You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.
Condoms.
Bunch of pricks.
He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.
You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.
When he walks again, you follow.
The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.
You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.
He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.
You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.
But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.
He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.
It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.
You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.
He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.
He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.
Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.
When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.
It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.
He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.
They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.
He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.
He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.
He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.
He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.
"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.
He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.
The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.
Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.
It is then that he decides to keep you.
What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.
Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.
You can do the same.
You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.
You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.
You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.
He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.
He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.
"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.
It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.
He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.
You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.
Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.
He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.
You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.
He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.
The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you.
Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.
It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.
You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.
It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.
"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"
He groans. It's music.
Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.
"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."
"Need wot?"
The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.
"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."
He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.
"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.
You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.
But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.
Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.
Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.
The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.
Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.
When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.
He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.
He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.
The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.
He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.
He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.
He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.
A terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.
It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.
Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.
His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.
He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.
"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"
It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.
What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.
You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).
Another terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.
They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.
You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.
You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.
This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.
It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.
You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.
He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.
You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.
You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.
"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."
You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.
You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.
There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.
Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.
You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.
You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.
It comes up tails.
He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.
You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.
His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.
Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.
You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.
It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.
And if you're dead, then he must be, too.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley smut#dark!ghost#dark!simon
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Sit On It | L. Norris
Kinktober 7/11 - Cockwarming
Summary: Quality time, he told you, but you didn’t realize that your seat while watching a horror movie would be Lando’s cock.
warnings: 18+ smut, cockwarming ofc, dom!lando, filthy filthy words.
wc: 3.1k
kinktober masterlist
© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Lando’s voice is a low, teasing murmur against your ear as you’re seated in his lap, your back against his chest.
His breath is warm on your skin, the heat of his body pressing into yours from behind. His grip on your waist tightens as he adjusts himself beneath you, making the shift seem casual, but you know better. The slight motion causes him to sink deeper, splitting you open, every inch of him pushing against your walls, filling you so completely that it borders on overwhelming.
Your eyes are fixated on the TV screen in front of you, mirroring his line of sight, but the images and sounds barely register. Whatever horror movie he put on is a distant blur, completely overshadowed by the way he’s filling you, the dull ache of being stretched around him that threatens to unravel you with every passing second.
Lando knows exactly what he’s doing—knows that with your back pressed against his chest, you’re acutely aware of every breath he takes, every subtle twitch of his hips. The cocky smirk on his face tells you he’s in no hurry to give you what you crave.
You clench around him, your body instinctively trying to pull him even deeper, to feel every last inch of him, but his hands keep you still. His fingertips press into your skin, leaving little crescent imprints, keeping you pinned to him in a possessive hold.
“Lan…” you mutter, barely managing the single syllable, your voice trembling with frustration and the faintest hint of need.
You can feel his amusement radiating from him, the vibration of a low chuckle rumbling through his chest as he keeps you pinned against him. His hand slides possessively over your hip, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s making sure you stay exactly where he wants you—right there, on his lap, wrapped around his cock without so much as a hint of mercy.
“Not enjoying our little movie night?” he taunts, his tone dripping with mock concern as he lets his other hand wander lazily up to your lower stomach, stroking the skin just above where he’s buried inside you, making your breath hitch at the contact.
You bite down on your lower lip, trying to stifle the frustrated moan that threatens to escape. You’re almost starting to regret agreeing to this, wondering what made you think you could handle it. The moment he suggested “quality time” on the couch with a movie, you should’ve known there’d be a catch. Now, you’re trapped in a torturous game of stillness, your body pulsing with the ache of being stretched to its limit, every shift or breath causing a fresh wave of heat to coil low in your belly.
“Pass the popcorn,” Lando says suddenly, his voice maddeningly casual, as if you weren’t trembling in his arms and desperate for him to do something—anything—to give you relief.
He nods toward the coffee table, where the bowl sits just out of reach. It’s a simple request, spoken so casually it almost seems innocent, but you know better. He’s toying with you, pushing you just far enough to see how badly you’ll need to break.
For a moment, you consider protesting, but his hand tightens around your waist, guiding you forward. As you lean to grab the bowl, his cock eases out of you until only the thick tip remains nestled inside. The sudden emptiness hits like a shock, and you can’t help but clench around him, your body tightening in a desperate attempt to hold onto what little is left. The sensation is maddening, the emptiness almost unbearable as every inch that you lost leaves you aching and hollow.
You suck in a breath, reaching out for the popcorn, your fingers trembling slightly as you fumble to grasp the edge of the bowl. The second your fingers close around it, you feel his hand press firmly on your hip, guiding you back down.
His cock pushes back inside, stretching you open inch by inch until you’re completely filled again, buried to the hilt. It’s an unrelenting stretch, the sensation of being so deeply impaled that your legs start to tremble.
A small, unintentional whimper slips past your lips, your body betraying just how deeply it affects you. Lando’s smirk widens, and you can feel it against the back of your neck as he takes the bowl from your trembling hands, setting it aside.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of mock praise and raw satisfaction, his hand drifting lower to trace the curve of your inner thigh. “Did you miss having me inside you, even for those few seconds?”
You give a shaky nod, your breath hitching as you settle back into his lap, feeling the full, deep stretch of him inside you. The weight of his cock buried so completely makes your pulse quicken, every inch of him filling you to the point of delicious, unbearable pressure. You don’t trust your voice to speak, so you bite your lip and just nod again, hoping it’s enough of an answer to satisfy him.
“Thought so,” Lando murmurs, his tone dripping with that cocky satisfaction as he leans closer, letting his lips brush lightly against your ear. “Then we’ll stay just like this until the movie’s over.” He lets the words sink in, his hands settling on your hips, his fingers splayed possessively across your skin as if to ensure you don’t even think about moving.
You stiffen slightly in his grasp, realizing with a mix of frustration and need that he’s serious. The movie, still playing in the background, might as well be a world away for all you’re aware of it. You don’t even know what’s happening on screen, and other than hearing constant screams of bloody murder, your focus is completely swallowed by the way he fills you, every inch of your body screaming for him to move, to give you more. But then you hear him shuffle as he picks up the remote, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“And since you weren’t paying attention,” he continues, his tone dropping lower as his breath grazes your neck, “we’re going to start it over.”
With that, he presses the button, and the movie rewinds back to the beginning. His cock remains buried inside you, thick and unyielding. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his chest against your back, each breath you take making your body clench instinctively around him.
Lando’s hands slide up to your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles on your skin as if to soothe you, but the grip is firm enough to keep you pinned exactly where he wants you. “Relax, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, “we’ve got all night.”
You try to relax, but the fullness of him inside you is maddening, a constant reminder of how badly you need more than just his cock sitting still inside you. You draw in a deep breath, hoping it will ease the ache between your legs, but all it does is make you more aware of the way he stretches you, every inch of him throbbing against your sensitive walls. It’s a sweet kind of torture, and Lando’s not giving you any mercy.
He shifts his hips slightly, just enough to make you gasp, but not enough to truly give you what you crave. The smallest of movements sends a jolt of pleasure through you, the pressure building with every passing second.
The movie restarts, its opening scenes flickering on the screen, but your attention is glued to the sensation of being completely filled, stretched so deep it almost feels like you can’t take it. Your body is tense, your hands gripping the edges of the couch as you struggle to stay still, every muscle in your thighs quivering from the effort.
“Come on, now,” he murmurs, his fingers tightening on your waist as he feels the way you’re fighting to keep from moving. “You can do better than that.” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, a knowing edge that tells you he’s enjoying every second of this little game. His hand slides up to your chest, his touch imperceptibly light as he brushes over the curve of your breast over your shirt.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “And neither are you.” He pauses, placing a kiss on your cheek. “So just sit there and take it, sweetheart,” he adds, his lips grazing your neck. “Because you’re not getting anything else until the credits roll.”
Your pulse races as you realize just how long he plans to keep you like this. The movie stretches ahead of you, nearly two hours of being held in place, filled to the brim, with nothing to do but feel every single inch of him.
“Unless…” His voice trails off as his hands slide down to spread your legs, effortlessly hooking them over his thighs. The new position makes you gasp, every inch of him shifting deeper inside. He chuckles softly at the sound, his fingers drifting to trace slowly over your slit, teasing the sensitive skin.
“Unless you can cum just like this,” he murmurs, dipping his head close so his breath fans over your ear. “With my cock stuffed deep inside you and my fingers playing with your pretty little clit.”
He drags his fingers lower, circling your entrance where you are stretched around his cock, before moving back up to your clit, brushing against it with the lightest touch. “If you can manage that,” he continues, his tone low and husky, “I might not make you wait until the end of the movie. I might just fuck you properly right here and now.”
His fingers swirl slowly, never quite giving you the pressure you need, just enough to make you ache for more. “But if you can’t…” he adds, a mischievous glint in his eye as he meets your gaze, “then you’ll just have to stay right there, sweetheart, filled and desperate, until those credits roll.”
His fingers continue their lazy circles over your clit, the teasing touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body that only intensify the ache deep inside. His gaze locks onto yours, a sly smile tugging at his lips as he watches every twitch, every shudder of your body. “Do you want that?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. “Do you want to be my good girl and cum just like this, with my cock buried so deep inside you?”
His fingers press just a little harder against your clit, a delicious contrast to the slow, steady throb of being stretched around him. “Or…” He lets the word hang in the air, his thumb now joining the motion, brushing against your swollen bud. “Would you rather keep struggling, knowing you’re not getting anything more until this movie is over?”
The way he’s looking at you—like he already knows the answer, like he’s daring you to beg—sends a fresh wave of heat curling through your belly.
You try to find the words, but they catch in your throat, your breath coming out in shallow pants. The pleasure thrumming through your body is too much and not nearly enough all at once, and the way his fingers move so leisurely over your clit is driving you to the edge of desperation. Without thinking, you lean back against him, seeking more contact, your head falling into the crook of his neck. The heat of his skin seeps into you, grounding you even as your pulse races.
Your hand lifts to his cheek, a quiet plea in the touch as your fingers trail along his jawline.
He hums in satisfaction at the way you press against him, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he takes his time with you. His fingers slide down, teasing your entrance again, feeling the way you stretch and pulse around his cock, before drifting back up to your clit, this time with a bit more pressure. The shift is subtle, but it’s enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through you, making you gasp.
“I need words, love,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your back.
“Please, Lando,” The words slip out, breathless and unsteady, your legs trembling where they’re draped over his thighs, spread open and exposed for him.
“There we go,” he hums, “now watch the movie.” His fingers pick up a slow, deliberate rhythm, pressing down just enough to make you keen for more, but still holding back from what you truly crave.
You arch your back, pushing your hips forward as you pant against his neck, your body seeking every ounce of friction you can get. His other hand slips under your shirt, his palm finding the curve of your breast, and he rolls your nipple between his fingers, sending another wave of pleasure through you.
He returned his gaze to the TV screen, but you can feel his focus remain solely on you, his fingers working expertly between your legs. He pinches your clit, hard enough to make you jolt against him, a breathy moan escaping your lips as you body arches.
He gives a small chuckle, the vibration against your back making your skin tingle. The casualness of his attention on the movie while playing your body like an instrument is maddening, only heightening the intensity of each pulse of pleasure.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice soft with a trace of amusement. “So needy.” He rolls your clit between his fingers, the motion slow, deliberate, and oh so devastating. You can’t help the way your hips buck up, chasing the friction, desperate for more.
His other hand slips away from your tits to tighten his hold on your hips, keeping you pinned against him, your legs splayed over his lap and unable to close.
“Stay still, love,” he instructs, adding a little more pressure. The sound of the movie plays on in the background, but it feels like a distant hum, utterly irrelevant next to the sensation of his fingers circling you again and again.
Your breaths are ragged, each one catching as he changes the rhythm, just enough to keep you on edge but never quite letting you fall over it. When his hand stills altogether, you whimper, your fingers curling against his arm in a wordless plea.
He drags his lips down the side of your neck, nibbling the sensitive skin there as his fingers resume their torment, rubbing over your clit in tight, firm circles that send sparks of ecstasy coursing through your veins. You can feel your release building, that familiar tension tightening with each stroke, threatening to break at any moment.
“Beg for it,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Beg for me to let you cum.”
You can feel the subtle pulse of his cock as you clench down on it, matching the rhythm of his fingers as they torture your clit, rubbing with just the right amount of pressure.
His other hand slips up to cup your breast underneath your shirt, fingers teasing the sensitive peak. He pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers in time with the circles on your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. The double assault on your senses makes you gasp, your body trembling in his lap as he toys with you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Please,” you whimper, the word coming out breathless and broken. “Please, Lando, I need to cum.”
He hums in approval, his voice low and velvety in your ear. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his fingers working faster, rubbing your clit in tight, insistent circles that send sparks shooting down your spine. “Let me hear those pretty sounds,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction as he listens to your desperate moans, each one rising higher as you get closer to falling apart.
You can’t hold back any longer, your body arching into him as your release crashes over you, a wave of pure ecstasy that leaves you gasping for air. His fingers don’t stop, prolonging the pleasure until you’re a quivering mess, your walls clenching rhythmically around his cock as your climax wrings you dry.
The sensation of you tightening around him draws a deep, guttural groan from his throat, his breath hitching as he feels every pulse and flutter of your orgasm.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the sound rough and strained as your release squeezes him from the inside, each wave of your pleasure making his cock throb. His hand on your breast tightens instinctively, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he savors the way you come undone for him, the way your body trembles and clings to him, desperate for more even as you’re falling apart.
“That’s it, love,” he groans again, his voice thick with need, the sound vibrating against your ear. “Just like that… feel so good wrapped around me.” His hips twitch subtly, the movement causing his cock to press even deeper, making your body jolt with the lingering aftershocks as his fingers finally begin to slow, drawing out the last delicious pulses of your release.
A sudden scream from the movie startles you both, breaking the heated moment. You can’t help but chuckle, your voice still a little breathless. “I think we should turn that off,” you say, glancing toward the TV.
“Really?” Lando’s teasing tone makes you smile. “Thought you said you liked horror movies.” He’s still inside you, and you playfully clench around him, earning a low groan that rumbles through his chest.
“Not more than your cock,” you reply, arching an eyebrow as you throw the challenge back at him. “Now, are you going to properly fuck me or not?”
Without missing a beat, Lando grabs the remote and switches off the movie, the room plunging into quiet anticipation. His hands find your waist as he lifts you off his cock, leaving you momentarily empty and aching for him again. Before you can protest, he swiftly throws you over his shoulder, a hand coming down to smack your ass playfully as he heads toward the bedroom.
You laugh, the excitement bubbling up inside you as he carries you with ease, your fingers digging into his back for support. “You’d better not keep me waiting,” you warn, your voice filled with playful impatience.
“Don’t worry, love,” he replies, a grin evident in his tone. “You’re about to get everything you’ve been begging for.”
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FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT CH 1 PG 36
Infested will return on June 27th. --- Thank you to the following Ascended supporters: @chaogongoozles, @fiiresiidefrfr, @elizard4227, @grogar, Ezzoh, @susivoi, @calculuscacophony, Eros, @ivycorp, @summersdale @borrelia, @mizukiz, @sanicdetails, @combinegrunt-echo-1, Pica, @veeceear, @quackenburt, ItsmeMonarch, @memendoemori, @trans-girl-sonic, & savarsenic
Content Warnings | Store | Ko-Fi (Discord!) | Read On Comic Fury! DISCLAIMER: "Infested" is a horror comic ft. content not suitable for those under the age of 17.
A long-winded looking back on things below the cut:
The first few pages of Infested were uploaded to this blog on March 2nd, 2023 -- Over a whole year ago! I was so busy, too, that I completely missed its birthday (Sorry Infested). Looking even further back than that, the original story was was something I began writing on December 25th, 2022 (Merry Christmas).
It took two years to get to this point.
And hey, not to toot my own horn about it, but completing even one chapter of a webcomic is a big deal. Especially for me. My first webcomic, Fight/Flight, didn't get very far. I completed the prologue, started Chapter 1, and then had to drop it for a number of reasons (I didn't really agree with what baby-me had to say, politically, anymore).
This comic was born from a lot of intense feelings. The story, itself, too. Some good. Some bad.
I had been forced to move away from my hometown, and with that move, I lost the physical connection that I had to all of my friends. I lost the familiarity of a place I'd known for most of my life. I'm now stuck somewhere... Worse. It felt like a cage. Still does. Disconnected from the life I thought I would be living after college. I didn't have health insurance, either -- Got kicked off of it because of the move -- And as a result, I was off my antidepressants.
So there I was, at a pretty low point in my life. I miserable and lonely and every single day dragged on. And on. And on. And I felt so disappointed in myself. That disappointment became self-loathing, and it all kinda spiraled.
Have I mentioned that I'm a huge Sonic fan? I don't think I need to. I'd say it's pretty obvious. But for the sake of this story, I'll say it again: I'm a HUGE Sonic fan. I've been that way since 2003 with Sonic Heroes. The franchise has been in my life for over two decades. I had a monthly mail subscription to Archie's Sonic the Hedgehog. Sonic the Hedgehog was something that I truly loved more than any other piece of media. It brought me endless joy. Until I didn't.
I had dropped Sonic after Lost World was... Itself. I had already felt pretty irritated with the Meta Era, and Lost World was the final straw. The last bit of hope that the series could recover was snuffed out when Forces was released. It was over. I was done. If Sonic was truly that embarrassed by itself, if they had truly lost touch with what made the series so great, then I wouldn't waste my time any longer. I was so sure that I had to just... Grieve and move on. My beloved childhood game series was dead. Long live the king or whatever. I'd just bitterly read IDW Sonic and think about what could've been. I was lucky to have that comic, at least. Archie had been canceled, too, after all. I was lucky to have my scraps.
Then Sonic Frontiers came out. And it changed everything.
And my god, it was everything. It was everything to me. Flaws be damned, it was everything. To. Me. The spectacle. The serious tone. The vastly improved writing. Kellin Fucking Quinn. It was FUN! It was actually FUN to PLAY. He was back. I was back. Sonic pulled me by my hand out of the ocean of misery I'd fallen into, and he looked me in my eye and he said;
"Hey. You're gonna be alright."
Metaphorically speaking. Sonic The Hedgehog didn't actually literally speak to me -- And sure, okay, maybe it's a little dramatic to describe a game as this great Depression Annihilator but I'm dead serious when I say that, for that time, before I was able to get back on my meds, I was self-medicating with Sonic.
Sonic was all I was thinking about. I reread the Unleashed arc in Archie Sonic, which got me sorta realizing something, and which led to my post where I said something along the lines of "Sonic would hide a zombie bite."
Archie Sonic would, at least. Because he basically did do that in the Unleashed arc of that comic. He let that problem fester until it became an even bigger problem because, ironically, he didn't want to be a problem.
So one thing led to another. I thought more about Sonic becoming a zombie. Bada-bing, bada-boom, Infested was born.
I didn't expect it to get the attention that it did. I felt lucky when the first page I drew Rouge on (Page 6 I think?) blew up. The right people saw it at the right time. I'm extremely grateful for that.
I'm extremely grateful for all of you.
So yeah, one chapter. Woo! Here's to many more.
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impressing you!
itoshi rin attempts to tell you he likes you in questionable ways
itoshi rin x reader : fluff, crack, use of brain rot terms, dti mentioned, super bad ending i’m so sorry idk anymore school got me, not proofread + likes and reblogs are appreciated <3
growing up with itoshi rin with all his personality quirks, you were pretty sure you could expect anything and everything from him - whether that be him showing up at your house at midnight without any warnings, or him wearing your hello kitty pajamas after school for ‘fun’, or even eating frozen cheese straight out of the fridge for breakfast. but nothing could prepare you for what the hell he just asked you.
“what.” one chance for him to take back, or more so one chance for you to regain back your sanity from whatever you just swore to god he asked.
“.. i asked if you’d like to play dress to impress together.. you know because youre always playing it during class.” what the hell.
maybe the world was ending, and you look outside only to now be even more dismayed that the sun is in fact shining, the sky is perfectly blue, and there was no cloud in sight. then maybe this was all a dream after spending the previous night playing games, you pinch yourself and to your horror, you do in fact feel the pain as you nip at your own hand, almost yelping to the oblivious rin sitting beside you. or maybe your eyesight is failing you and you’re seriously deluding yourself that its rin simply after being apart from him for months, you think, removing your glasses and wiping it and nope - that was in fact rin, still wearing a blank face that youre far too used to.
“do you even have a roblox account..” you were 100% sure that whatever horror games you’ve seen him play does not involve roblox and he’s probably more likely to be a discord mod than a roblox player - credited to you friending him on steam and seeing the horror of games he has bought on that app
“.. ill make one now.” and you think maybe blue lock has actually rotted rin’s mind or maybe his friends there has corrupted the rin you once knew.
and instead of spending your math class, you know paying attention and doing the work assigned, there you were at the back row playing dress to impress with itoshi rin attempting his best but clearly not dressing to impress anyone to say the least.
and maybe this is a miracle and an awakening because you were so sure since a little kid that itoshi rin, your best friend in this entire world, do not have any weakness - whether that be in sports (for obvious reasons), in arts (getting an A even though he ‘winged it’), in games (carried you in shooting games and horror games) that maybe you’ve finally discovered his achilles heels that is apparently fashion.. and handling getting humbled by kids on roblox.
“why the hell is this kid calling my outfit skibidi toilet” if anything, in your honest reaction, you’d call me something worst than that looking at the total mess of a outfit he was wearing because why the hell is he wearing two hairs at once that do not merge at all. in fact, you’d be polite to even call whatever he’s just made an outfit in the first place because it looks like he genuinely spun a wheel and picked pieces at random.
even funnier is that you can practically see rin’s ear letting out steam - clearly upset that he’s apparently not winning the top place. if anything, you think its funnier because he doesnt even rage like this playing his competitive shooting game, or when he doesnt get a good grade for his exams, or even when he drops his ice cream when you were little, only when he plays soccer and apparently dress to impress. now maybe with his ego, or whatever he said learnt at blue lock, would be able to let him score a goal (win top place with a good outfit)
however, to his dismay, and to your expectation, he in fact does not win top places, not even top 3, by the end of the hour long math lesson.
and to him, he practically just lost the first tip that bachira told him and as he quotes “if you like someone you’ve got to like have shared interest right?” and clearly and unfortunately he just cannot get into dress to impress in the same way that you just aren’t really interested in football which he completely gets. but now he’s in doubt about his own situation and by that he means the love test percentage thing he was convinced to take by again bachihara - failing at a whooping 15% that he was meant to be your soulmate. but if there’s something he’s good at, its perseverance and he will not give up just because multiple kids in the game called him skibidi toilet
and right now he thinks hes absolutely down bad and he is only proving the allegations that he really has a crush on you when hes spending time after football practice to play dress to impress. even worse, hes looking up online guides on “cheatsheets” to get outfits, entering millions of codes to unlock hidden items, spending the entire night playing this game.
and of course, its at 4:30am when you log in only to find one person playing dress to impress and youre pretty sure this is the equivalant to a sleep paralysis demon as you blink all the sleep away in your eyes to confirm the words in front of you: itoshi rin is playing dress to impress in the middle of the night. more specifically, itoshi rin who preaches about taking care of ones body by sleeping early, eating all three meals, doing yoga every single day is ruining his sleep scheuldue for a roblox game. and as all sleep deprived people do, you send him a message to confirm that its in fact him and not a hacker.
chat
you: r u playing dti or have u not logged out of dti since class 😭😭
rin: playing
you: R U ACTLLY INTO DRESS TO IMPRESS… who r u impressing 🙏🏻🙏🏻
rin: you
and you feel your heart stop - and not because of caffeine, or another realisation that yoive forgotten to do your work right in class or winning a lucky draw from the ice cream you share with rin. but then the realisation hits and youre now instead let down because of course sleep deprived him would say such words that unfortunately made your heart pump because of all the years you’ve known him, you know that whenever he doesnt sleep well, he always becomes a different person, spouting nonsense about everything and anything as all the logic that he’s so used to melts away from his brain. and so you without thinking close your phone and leave itoshi rin on read.
and maybe its even worse that when you wake up, you realise rin sends you the number of stars he’s collected over his overnight grind that’s somehow more than the amount you’ve gathered throughout the weeks of playing dress to impress and even funnier because he’s clearly texting the wrong person.
chat
rin: (1 attachement)
rin: is this a good rank bachiara
rin: should i check if mine n y/n’s soulmate on that love website increased
you: shld be 100%
rin: from 15%?
you: i’m more accurate than it btw r u still on dti
rin: ?
rin: oh ignore
you: no lets play tgt actlly vote me 5* i need to have more stars than u
and you can’t wait to go to math class to play dress to impress with rin at the back of the class (spoiler alert: he won all the rounds somehow) now dating (he gives you five stars)
#bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#itoshi rin x reader#rin itoshi x reader#rin x reader#rin.<3#itoshi rin fluff#bllk fluff#i want to play dress to impress so bad but exams r preventing me from doing so#need someone to boost me by falsely voting me five stars every round hiiii
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