#yandere great god grove

[ange1afterdark]

Completely obsessed with the concept of the gods becoming platonic yans for the godspoke!

While Inspektra is annoyed with how they're mucking up his plans, they're still *his* deputy! King is being such a nasty pal, don't you want a new fit instead of looking like a little wannabe? You already get along so well with the bizzyboys! (You have to love him, please please please- he has to be the most important to you. All of the other gods are redundant. He's the only one you need-)

Miss Mitternacht loves all her children dearly but you, moonbeam, have found a way into her heart just like her king has. You're so kind, helping them so selflessly, oh she could cry from how sweet you are to them all. Visit whenever you'd like, alright, dearest? Miss M sure would enjoy the company..

[gloomyteddybear]

why framing matters

oneshot

cw/tw: it's more of an attempt at blackmail than anything, small-town typical 'tudes, it is now canon that 'prey! ghost popped a boner! also, homestuck ashen quadrants in a non-homestuck FF yay! and they kiss in the end!

i got the brainworms rn. straight up researching dialects for a fictinal american man written by canadians. then i remembered the bastard moved around a lot so he prolly picked up some new words

n-knee-way. continuation of 'prey!, this time MC's pov!

the two main things about small towns is that 1: everyone knows somebody. there's few enough people to share your attention to without spreading it too thin, at the very least remember their face enough to feel sympathy. so if they die it hits hard; fewer people means that the odds are higher, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

in small towns you are 1 in a 1000, while in cities the odds are rarer 1-100.000. in a such a cramped town where everyone knows everyone, to do that is either a sign that they're stupid, have an accomplice or a real attention seeker.

and 2: word travels fast; specially if it is a tragedy, gossip is like rotten carrion for the vultures--- specially reporters and journalists. however, theres a instinctual hesitation to point fingers, 'they'd never hurt a fly' can only do so much to quell distrust. yes, they'd never say you did it, still treating you like they always did, defending your innocence and sweeping accusations under the rug--- but there's still that way some people look at you, the boat rockers to be precise. they'd never say it to your face, thanks to your friends, but they know.

i-told-you-so's already curled in their tongue like trying to hide a bullet on open-not-hiding-anything hands, the anticipation made them dangerous, you just knew. the way one wrong step is all it takes--- how a frightened deer might dash its brains against a tree in the scramble to flee a predator; or worse, trigger fingers on cowards that'd flinch a 'ready, go!'-shot on the air and begin the racing stampede. mass-hysteria herd-mentality. 

your friends-acquaintances-neighbors they'd rather deny on one's guilt, at least until the truths staring straight at them... unless one's an outsider. you were born an outsider, sure you were conceived and raised here. but you'd never fit in.

but, jed, meek door-mat who was not even here for a fraction of your lifetime was accepted with open arms.

ain't that unfair? 

a boring, condescendingly soft-spoken man with one of those 'aren’t i so charming and genuine, please like me’ smiles already curling his lips, they don't know him like they knew you. he had time to perfect the act. he's a novelty-clean slate of a man.

you muttered to yourself, "what can you do? you win some, you lose some,” you shrugged in consolation, "life’s fair like that.” you clean the counter harder.

it's not his fault, rationally you know it. somebody's gotta win somebody's gotta lose. he's not the one that put the cheese in the maze, it's these 'small town neighbors' types that pinned you two against eachother (although, you admit, the bitterness is rather one-sided). you're not a sore loser--- but this...you're already on thin ice, this could shatter it. this is what it feels to come second. without the damn cheese you'd starve---but it's fine. could be worse.

so. jed-one, you-zero

then, worse comes. some nosy ghost thinks he can waltz into your special little picnic, the same ghost who've been making tensions run high with paranoia. it's already bad enough without all the pointing fingers.

but you choked him, he was smart-dumb about it. dumb in the way he stayed down and didn't react when you did, let you take your anger out on him or at least until you lose interest, you could've killed him. but smart enough to know that defending himself would make it worse. like encountering a moose or a bear. you'd crush his skull.

he popped a fear-boner. you think. maybe an actual arousal boner, that's why he groped the tiny-thin bones of your wrist instead of breaking them. and destroy the grass. that too. you judge only a bit--- figures, serial killers aren't the most well adjusted people in the world. and one with that type of crime-scenes, probably has some psychosexual issues going on.

he bumbled away from your grasp like a fresh-born fawn after. he needed-deserved that win. ghost: one, you: zero. ugh. but it was by the goodness of your heart.

a 'ring!' on the door-chime and a hoarse "hey, sorry hi." brings an end to your musings and delivers jed, who waltzes in when you're about to close for the night. sporting a shiny new turtleneck that you just know these damn granny's drool over.

jed notices you staring at the new fashion statement, he smiled self-deprecatively "i look way-too-much like a churchy in my sunday best, don't i?"

he could see the white of your eyes from all the glaring.

he winced, pursing his lips like he ate something sour "sorry- like, i also have a graveyard if that makes you feel better?" he smiles winsomely, like the brownosed lapdog he is

he makes his order and smiles, you almost stop yourself from slamming it on the counter "sorry again." he slips a crushed bill out of his messenger bag and doesn't stay for you to give him his change, at least he tips well.

when you finish closing down for the night, locking the back-door, jed was hanging out by the back entrance.

you already knew, despite his doormat demeanor he was just like you. dead eyes. he at least had the 'decency' to hide his horns.

but that didn't mean you couldn't pretend that you didn't--- act startled and hit him in your 'surprise', as a treat. it should at least cut down the sneaking-up-on behaviour straight from the bud. you're not going to encourage that kind of stuff, specially since your latest voyeur probably managed to get enough to blackmail you (but for some odd reason, despite his reputation---he didn't use it, yet.)

you swung.

you: one. jed: one. tie.

"oh fuck..." he breathlessly mutters, cradling his bloodied nose.

"jed!" you fake a gasp. and trotted towards him, fussing over him with the hem of your clothes to staunch the bleesing. not broken, good.

"there we go, it hurts still right? but don't you feel better without all that blood on your face?" you coo like you’re soothing a startled wild animal. the same way hunters soothe a rabbit in a trap, clicking their tongue and making soft, gentle sounds until they can get a good angle at it's neck. 

and that's what you did.

he sags, as if all the fight leaves his body, in that oh-so familiar way--- you'd wave it off as a fear response (fight, flight, freeze, fawn, flop), but... it scratches at a very lovely-fresh memory, raw, still. pink and new--- shoes skidding backwards to slam himself against the harsh textured wall, making you pin him down like a tack in a conspiracy-board. he fumbles around his torso- one hand still at your wrist, padding for the strap on his shoulder.

he manages to overturn his messenger bag, scattering polaroids all over the concrete. it's you!

not you red-handed during the act of burial (it makes you reconsider his identity again). but still some... not incriminating but definitely putting the last nail on line of nails on the iceberg--- just a small knock with a hammer, is enough to split that down the middle (these metaphors are getting worse and worse)--- you wont get arrested but people will take matters into their own hands.

not fully un-rightfully. because-yes, you're a serial killer, but also no: you didn't kill those guys, so you would probably get vigilante'd for the sins of- and as the ghostface.

still enough to be usable as blackmail, a tiebreaker.

you falter, and he takes the opportunity to use the gap in your hands to breathe. “do it.” he gasps.

did he want to die? "dont worry, it'll all be over soon."

"don't. want it to last." ah, no, masochism. damn, what do they feed these journalists? maybe the jokes about their tendency to get into trouble was right.

red-blue-magenta-mix lights creeps-in near the alley like the neon-sign of a shitty night club--- as if you could get burned, you instinctively press closer against that cramped little corner in the alleyway, squeezing in like you're trying to get a spot in the dark. a patrol car. not immediate danger but definitely bad. 

this was timed way too right, planned. he probably memorized their route like the chess-player he is.

you're not playing chess, though. you always preferred social-deduction games instead, the one where cheating people and lying is encouraged. the dirtiest trick of them all, you kiss him softly on the lips for good luck. you never said you were below underhanded tactics.

"don't do this to me." he growled.

you smiled, squeezed tighter until his eyes got all sleepy, and he passes out.

you run. as un-incriminating these photos of you are, these probably incriminate him instead.

your win. 

ghost-jed: two. you: two

you're evenly matched, joy, you have a playmate.

[kiwanopie]

A Lucky Find.

Pure luck, isn’t it? (Geto Suguru x fem!sorcerer!Reader)

cw: yandere if you squint. mention of misogyny and inappropriate work place relationships, graphic descriptions of curses and body horror, death by mutilation involving a curse (Not you), mention of religion, only specifics about reader is that she’s visibly very attractive and may have long hair (no descriptors though, it could be a lace) Suguru is out of his mind. You will not be called a monkey in this one.

wc: 3.9k

You’re not a very talkative assistant.

Granted sometimes you’re inclined to wonder if talking would’ve made so much of a difference to the position you’ve been put in, but you’ve never been a particularly choosy assistant either. You’re great at handling quick business, the calls your boss can’t be bothered to take - studious in your evening planning and you can quick work a coffee run like nobody's business. — You don’t complain about the thin heels they put you in, or the pencil skirts. Mired businessmen with filthy smirks and wondering eyes, or the routine baby talk you get from your degenerate boss. You don’t blink an eye at it. - You sit when you’re told to sit and bark when Mr. Minoru decides to hold that pretty little bone over your head.

“You could use a bonus, huh?”

Today it’s a back rub.

You’re silent as your nimble fingers start to press little groves in his upper back, impassive when he groans. Mr. Minoru, your boss, is a very rich man. He’s the successor of a retired tycoon who was once the successor of another and so forth. He’s an amalgamation of power and fortune and a small legion of nepotism babies that regularly walk in through those mahogany doors just ahead of his desk. An investor, you think. Most conversations he has are about money and the best way to double it; fewer are the ones where he’s actually taking the time out of his schedule to distribute it.

It’s all elite talk. Big men following big men following a perv who believes he’s god. Long outstretched legs that extend as he relaxes himself in his seat and hopes that the movement is enough to encourage you to start on his shoulders.

You like to think you got this job out of pure luck. Met the right man at the right time and stumbled over the deal of a lifetime all for the small cost of a little bit of your dignity. — Not like it was much of a trade from your part time job busing tables at that high-end restaurant. Being yelled at by bratty celebrities at a fraction of the price and coming home smelling reminiscent of a meat locker. Now you’re standing on the top floor of a penthouse suite. Smelling of expensive perfume that your boss totally didn’t break worker/boss relation code for and looking down at the entirety of Tokyo from its bay windows.

Pure luck.

The creature hooked to the upper side of his shoulder unfastens its teeth with a firm graze of your fingers. The steam it emits as it fizzles away is sour.

Mr. Minoru has a pension for starting fights with the wrong people, it seems. With bitter people - scornful people. People who hate him and can’t do anything about it, other than wish him harm or hex him in some way. — Worst are the people who don’t hate him, who envy him. Step into his office with painted smiles and clenched teeth. Who curse his name the moment they leave and leave you to deal with these little “bugs.”

Your nose twitches as its rotten smell encombers. For a moment your pretty face is twisted up in a scowl.

The massages started from an offhand graze of your fingers during a dinner at your old job. Pretty little waitress bending over him in that little work dress and running your finger down his felted coat. You apologize for your familiarity, someone must’ve spilled something on his jacket. ~ But the weight on his back is gone from just that little touch and now he’s offering you a job. You don’t regularly make a habit of helping those you’ve already deemed “afflicted.” But the fucker making goo trails on his back at the time was just disgusting enough to hinder your train of thought, and there’s no way you could’ve gone through your shift without reviling every time you passed his table.

So, now you’re his assistant - and today it’s just a back rub. Thankfully not a request to play with his hair and try not to cringe at the way he shutters from it. A subtle pat on the cheek for his good luck kiss, or a request to sit on his lap while he tells you a story he doesn’t care if you’re listening to. Because you’re quiet.

His not talkative, non-fussy, no complaints assistant.

Like always he fills the empty air in place of your silence. “Ah. By the way, princess. We’ve got a guest coming around after lunch. A real traditional fella. So, we’ll need to be on our best behavior,”

“Apparently he’s got some sort of business opportunity for me in exchange for a few investments,” He sighs when your fingers dip a little under his collar. “Says that in his big fuckin’ haori. Probably cost a few thousand bucks,”

Mr. Minoru shifts his shoulders under your firm touches. “To be completely honest, I don’t really know about it aside from the gag of seeing him in person again. Guy has this weird energy about himself that gives me the creeps. — Says he’s avant-garde. — I just think he’s a weird fuckin’ guy.”

“But,” The exhale he lets out is tempered and whisky tinted, clears out the fresh space in his chest that usually frees up when you’ve got your hands on him. “My old man likes ‘em. Says he’d be good for my health if I kept him around. At the very least build some sorta relationship with him.”

“Too bad my health’s in tip-top shape! Eh, doll-baby?” Minoru twists his head to flash you an expensive smile. Faintly defined cheekbones turning rosy when you return it like you know you’re supposed to. “Got my little guru at my side!”

And your simper, although gentle, is forced. Distantly you wonder if you’re the reason these bugs have become so habitual.

——-

This man is very ill.

Though he walks in with his head held high and a particular spring in his step, your diagnosis is that he must be terminal. He must be diseased and irremediable. In a constant state of agony and so stricken with unwellness that he can’t even think straight. You’ve seen your fair share of “bugs” and rabid disfigured animals that grow out of their hosts like fungus. Some that trail behind like lost children with broken crackling legs - a stench that only accompanies the open wounds whose maggots reach out so helplessly. Disturbing things. For all of it you’ve seen, you’re lucky to say that those cases are few and far in between.

But this,

It has many hands and many faces.

Each accompanied by its own set of teeth. Curling lips that stutter as they rise, etched in lipstick and gum; you find mint leaves hidden in the valley of its tongue, coiling as it softly sings. Watching from afar as it hobbles on its haunches like a drunken man, or of fawn newly grazed. It is steady - and constantly moving. It buzzes like a million bees and yet the man standing next to it is seemingly unaffected.

And so are you.

Your gentility becomes you as you politely bow for the man who you’ve so gracefully led to Mr. Minoru’s office. A practiced curtsy is usually enough to get your usual guests commenting under their nose at your bosses taste in assistant’s, but this man is quiet as he walks past you. So above your head that it almost feels like he doesn’t even know you exist. And that feeling is… off putting to say the least.

You close the door behind him as your boss starts on introductions.

“Ah, so you’ve met my beautiful assistant!” He reaches out his hand. “Minoru. Nice to meet you.”

The genuinity in the man’s smile fastens his eyes into slits as he steps forward to return the shake. “Geto, likewise.”

“Geto, huh? I heard the old man sent you for an investment proposition. My guess is it’s something… traditional?” Minoru gestures toward his garbs.

He’s somewhat clinical in his attempt to look lighthearted, but the sigh he blows out feels trusting. “So this isn’t selling “contemporary” huh?”

Minoru laughs and the thing beside him whimpers.

Your fingers twitch against your work skirt.

You’re a distant shadow lingering behind the conversing men as you step to your post on the far side of the office wall, heels clicking quietly when you bend to fix yourself adjacent to Mr. Minoru’s desk. — You’re not expected to listen much to the conversation, or even understand the matters on which they talk about. Just straighten your back when your boss snaps his fingers and follow obediently when he coos an order.

But even if that weren’t the case, you’d say it’d be hard to pay any attention to anything other than whatever the fuck that is hunched beside the man standing just a few feet away. Singing quietly under its breath and repeating the tune like a prayer. Fearful, shaken, pleaful, dread inducing; overlapping in its many mouths. Your fingernails quietly scrape against each other in your attempt to remain neutral but from a keen eye you’re jarred. Disquietingly moving your eyes from the two men still talking adjacent from you and then it again.

It’s looking at you.

You force down a swallow when Minoru calls your name.

“Quiet thing, isn’t she?” Your boss comments amidst the conversation as you approach them. “Could almost forget she’s here if it weren’t for the eyecandy,”

You smile at him like he’s flattering you but it’s muscle memory. “Sir?”

“Gather up those papers from your desk over there, sweetpea. And hand it to the nice man.”

You almost don’t even wanna turn your back on it.

But against your own anxieties you do as you're told. Even with your nerves frayed as they are. You keep your posture as you hastily skirt to your desk and back across the room again. Nimble, slightly shaken fingers lowering to place it in Geto-san’s hand but he doesn’t acknowledge you even when you smile. Vacant eyes. Bored of you already. —- You don’t know if you should feel more offended or alarmed. But in your curtsy before backing away you decide to split the difference and go for disturbed.

Avant-garde. This guy just gives you the fuckin’ creeps.

He works in health, apparently. From what you’ve gathered in the continuing conversation, he’s a spiritual man who offers health by spiritual means. It’s not a very groundbreaking admission, especially from a man in traditional garb, but he assures that his practices have long surpassed ground theory and have been proven to guarantee actual results. From refractory diseases, mental illness, visible injury; his methods could completely eradicate the need for traditional medicine and take the health industry by storm.

But money is a long factor, longer in the doubtful and non-spiritual. “Non-worthy.” It sounds pointed the way he slips that in, but your red flags aren’t shared with your less than convinced boss.

“Spiritual healing sounds great and all, Geto buddy. But you’re directing services to a pretty biased market.” Minoru crosses one of his legs over the other from his perched position against his desk. “Even with the facts, the money’s in objectivity. You’d get more bang for your buck just saying any Yamada worth his salt can walk in and get rid a’ his sniffles for the right price. - Religion ‘ll just turn people off.”

Geto smiles patiently. “Ah, Minoru-san, we’re not religion based. Religion promotes powerlessness. Our services come from practical people.”

You watch as the creature messily swivels on its crooked legs when he invades its space by leaning back a little. “But to insert certain biases kind of sweetens the deal, doesn’t it? People like things that make them feel special. Even the most useless people should wanna prove themselves in some way, right?”

What a crooked way of thinking.

At your quiet displeasure the mass behind Geto wheezes painfully, wincing when you lock eyes with it. Its song pitches and warbles, chops a little like it’s weeping; but even in its effort to resume its discontent is palpable.

You could almost feel acknowledged by it. By its wandering eyes and its tightened misshapen shoulders. Almost as off put as you are from its spot in the middle of the room. The more you look at it, the more it starts to evoke pity. Even in its unsightliness, it looks misplaced and afraid. - Its song breaks like a cry for mercy and the closer you look at it the more recognizable its purpose becomes.

There are knots in its balmy skin so engorged they bleed and tear. Fabric mincing over fictional scabbing and prayer beads hanging out of its gashes. Every twitch it makes reverberates ricey out of rhythm beats akin to maracas and its song, as out of key as it is, is reverential. Powerlessness. Anodyne through faith. You barely find yourself pitying the afflictions of affected people but in the context of this conversation - it’s watering eyes; you feel empathetic toward this thing and by extension Geto-san.

You assume something awful must’ve started that way of thinking.

Should you even stick your neck out for this guy? You’ve dealt with bigger, more violent ones in any case. But this creature seems peaceful. Following faithfully on its hosts haunches as it waits patiently beside him. You’ll have to be fast and unflashy about it, hopefully the stench from that thing won’t make you hurl on impulse. But if not out of mercy, it would be nice to have it out of your line of vision.

Your eyes cross it again. It’s many eyes well with anguish. You decide that at your next opportunity you’ll get rid of it promptly.

As luck would have it Mr. Minoru’s personal phone rings.

He’s quick in his apologies as he fishes it out of his pocket. Passing a smile to Geto as he quickly bows and makes the few long strides it takes to step out of the door and into the hallway, and a few short snaps in your direction as he points you to the concessionaires reserved for his clients near the door.

You’re practiced as you dip for the little fridge on your left, carefully sliding out a glassed bottle of water from the door and a plastic bag of sliced apples.

“Would you like a snack while you wait, Geto-san?”

He ignores you.

Through a quietly exasperated sigh does he slide his phone out of his hakama and pointedly decide not to acknowledge your awkward stance at the far end of the room. — You know he ignores you because the silence that otherwise permeates the spaciousness of your boss's suite is momentarily disrupted by the sound of your voice bouncing off the walls; followed again by that frigid silence.

This is the guy you’re trying to help.

Even so, your embarrassment is brushed aside in favor of making your way to the small coffee table between him and the other leather seat parallel to his. Thin pencil skirt riding a little as you take wide steps to the little spot that separates him from the empty seat - and you from the thin sliver of carpet standing between he and the now quivering mass.

You bend to place the treats gingerly beside him.

And when you rise you reach for it.

There are practiced fingers circling around your wrist before you can even touch it.

Your fear is potent enough to turn its broken hums into racking sobs as you freeze in his sudden grip. Firmly clasped onto you as he raises your arm over your head and forces you to jolt back with a stuttered breath. Faint greyed markings on the palm of your hand fade but they’re caught under his watchful eye, and through your shock you watch his expression switch.

From confusion, to intrigue, to pure excitement.

Your shock teeters on horror as his pupils dilate. “Now, just what were those pretty fingers planning on doing?”

He seems to revel at the sheer bewilderment that colors in your pretty face from where you nervously stare up at him. Doe eyes lit up by headlights, and the radiative heat of suddenly being this close to his predatory gaze. You stammer. “Wh-? Y-You know it’s-“

“Brought it with me, didn’t I?” He speaks lowly as he circles his thumb over your wrist. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your concern though, sweetheart.”

You shrink. The absurdity of intentionally carrying a burden like this is as mind boggling as it is chilling. Dread inducing, even. With the kind of bad juju that thing emits there’s no other reason to purposefully let it fester beside you than for motives deeply depraved. Deeply disturbed. The way the air around him murkens and electrifies, and a glint in his eye that makes you feel like prey. — He’s looking at you like you’re dinner right now. And something about that feels trillions of times more frightening than any typical rubbernecking.

After being treated like a ghost by this man this whole time. Now he’s looking at you like you’re a slab of meat spread out for him. Succulent and tenderized, pliant under his fingers. Your soft eyes are rigid with fear as his other hand reaches for you blithely, larger fingers dipping in your loose hair and scooping it gently forward. You glance at it from the corner of your eye.

Smoke curls around his palm.

You suppress with a quiet intake of breath.

Geto-san’s cheeks pinken as he gleefully smiles, emboldened by a genuine tinge of ardor. You do your best not to flinch but it’s futile, his chilled fingers consolingly caress your face as he tuts; and gazes at you like he’s committing you to memory.

“Be patient for me, yeah? I’ll be done in a minute.”

You can’t even begin to guess what that means.

But before you can inquire he’s shushing you with a finger up to his lips. Playfully shooing you away as Mr. Minoru’s footsteps patter closer, and you clumsily re-fit yourself into your professional mask.

“Sorry ‘bout that, pal. Forgot about another meeting I was supposed to attend a little earlier,” He pockets his phone. “No one’s fault.”

He leans against the cliff of his desk where Geto-san’s planted himself again. Minoru glances at the unopened bag of apple slices. “Ah, _____, baby. You were supposed to hand him the good stuff.”

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

“No worries.” Geto laughs airily. “How could anything look nearly as appetizing when you’ve got an assistant like that walking around?”

Your ears burn as Mr. Minoru snorts in kind. “Yeah, fair enough,”

He rolls up his sleeves. “A’right, princess. How bout you hop on over to my lounge and break open the good brandy for my guest and I. Bring us the crystal set. Can you do that?”

—-

The decanter in your hand falls with a dull thump.

There’s no… logical explanation for what you’re looking at right now — Who you’re looking at right now. In any other circumstance deep purples would be expected. Blotched boysenberries and flossy reds, dotted with strained blues. You’d expect tearing - bleeding, audible ginger snaps of tendons and extended bone. A scream even, no matter how silent; all are logically expected. Death is logically expected.

But seeing your boss stretched out like leather, not a full five minutes after leaving him alone with this man, is not.

Your eyes frantically skirt over your boss's heaving corpse from your exposed position at his closing entrance. Watching in repulsed terror as his skin tears and bruises, familiar prayer beads falling out of his flesh like stuffing. - His eyes are rolled agonizingly into the back of his head, mouth opened in a scream. His blood sizzles against the maple of his desk and you can do little but stare in horror.

You flinch as the mainline on his desk starts to go off but you’re no sooner cringing at the way his arm breaks just to reach for it. Bloody fingers pushing the receiver, and cheeks tearing just to respond.

His unchanged voice somehow makes it all the more horrifying. “Hi, Souza. Thanks for getting back to me,”

“Yeah, do me a favor,” You back into the door. “Route about ten million to Geto-san’s organization under investment. And be a dear and sign the invoice for me, would ya?”

You’re gonna be sick.

“So, you’re out of a job now, huh?” You nearly yelp.

Geto-san’s standing just over you. “I’ve got a pretty similar position opened up,” He says casually. “‘Wanna work for me?”

You can barely push out a word. Which, kind man that he is, helps you out by deciding for you. “Ah, Great! I can break you in on Sunday. Here’s my card.”

He smiles kindly as you hesitantly pluck the laminated card from his fingers. Looking at you under mirthful eyes that chill more than they comfort.

“If you’re worried about pay, I can give you double of whatever that monkey gave you. Maybe a little extra if you’re as good as he says you are.”

But before you can recoil at the thought of being stuck under the same kind of boss, with the extra caveat of being a psychopath; he adds with a hint of challenge. “That is, if you can get rid of our friend for us.”

You follow his glance to the creature wearing your boss like a hand puppet.

Do you even have a choice?

Geto-san watches with a keen eye as you warily approach the blinking, bleeding corpse behind your late boss’s desk. Heels clicking slowly against his wooden floors, skin prickling at the thought of even getting close to this thing let alone touch it. There’s a smell that you notice as you move closer. A rotten, discrepant smell that pushes as much as it pulls. Aging, airless skin, barreling toward cell death; only marginally slowed by the alkaline smell of embalming fluid. Too old. Too sour.

But there’s something about it that almost — Hypnotizes. Evokes a kind of nostalgia that almost completely disarms you. Church pews and goatskin, leather hardbacks under frilly gloves; and those damn prayer beads. You can almost hear your grandmother’s voice. The minty sweet taste of stale candies tinted by the perfume in her purse. ~ Watching worship but not understanding it. A contact high of conviction. Your boss’s blood spills and it means something sacred, something reverent. And the closer you get, the more that sacrifice feels for the better.

You flicker a glance in Geto-san’s direction. This guy had this shit on standby?

It’s clammy when your fingers finally graze its skin. Sweaty and twitching, like every touch is a pinched nerve; like every stroke stimulates. There’s movement under the first layer, a hissing under the second. It’s mania seeps off of it in droves and the more you linger on it, the more your stomach twists.

You draw back your hand and rub over the difference in texture.

The room is temporarily endowed with smoke at the snap of your fingers.

They’re both gone when the vapor quickly dissipates, blood formerly staining expensive maple now replaced with its originally polished shine. As well as his chair, his area rug, and any other evidence that could connote what truly horrific fate the man in question had suffered in this very room.

Which is enough to send Geto-san into an ecstatic flurry of applause. “H-Holy shit. Where have you been all my life?”

He’s more focused on the way the weight in your lips shift rather than that being because of a frown. Regardless, you’re still a picture despite it. “You’re gonna fit nicely. — My address is on the card. Come by nine? I’ll have breakfast ready by then.”

He turns with a relaxed lilt toward the exit. “You and I are gonna have a lot of fun.”

The door clicks as the lock disengages.

“Don’t make me come looking for you.”

reblogs are appreciated <3

[gojozballs]

Gojo x Reader "Tales & Teas"

Warnings [This Story Contains Yandere themes, Rude Remarks and Royal Sass]

Y’all, I’m obsessed with this! I had to drop everything and jump straight into it!

Materialist

Part 2

Get ready for a wild ride of sharp wit, royal secrets, and hilarious tall tales as a commoner’s stories unknowingly catch the attention of a crown prince in disguise sparking an unforgettable rivalry with sparks flying!

Y/N’s POV

It’s been two days since my last comedy show in the streets. Not that I could keep doing it every day it’s more of a hobby than a job, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the little pouch of coins it brought in. But my reality is far from glamorous. I live and work in a pleasure house, not as one of the women, thank the gods, but as a servant. Apparently, the scars on my body didn’t make me "appealing" enough for the job.

To say I was heartbroken would be the world’s biggest joke. I was ecstatic. Though being a servant here isn’t exactly a stroll through a blooming sakura grove. There are whispers, sneers, and enough passive-aggressive remarks to fill a comedy sketch.

Speaking of which, as I was scrubbing down one of the rooms freshly vacated by a … gentleman caller, Yumei's voice echoed through the hallway, sharp and dripping with condescension.

"Make sure to actually clean this time, Y/N. Last time, I almost slipped on the dust you left. Or was that just your cooking? Hard to tell."

I rolled my eyes so hard I could practically see my brain. Yumei our house’s crown jewel was in high demand, which meant her ego was inflated to the size of the emperor’s palace. I wanted so badly to say, "Loosen up, oh wait… you’re already too loosened up to be loose around me!" But I kept my mouth shut, choosing instead to snicker at my own inner wit. One day, Yumei. One day.

For now, I had to focus on surviving.

Author’s POV

Despite it being 9 PM, the streets were alive, bustling with energy. Lanterns lined the pathways, their golden glow reflecting off the polished cobblestones. Merchants hollered their wares, children dashed between crowds, and gossip swirled like the aroma of sweet buns. The reason for the chaos? An announcement from none other than the Crown Prince himself. He’d planned a grand tea party in a few days, and every vendor, seamstress, and noble in the district was scrambling to impress him.

Y/N, however, wasn’t here to fawn over royalty. She was here for the coins. And for the thrill.

Climbing onto her makeshift stage a wobbly crate that somehow hadn’t collapsed under her weight yet—she cleared her throat dramatically.

"Ahem, ahem! Attention, esteemed citizens of… wherever this is!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. Y/N had become something of a local legend, known for her sharp wit and theatrical flair.

"Now, I hear there’s a certain tea party happening soon. The Crown Prince is hosting, no less. How thrilling!"

She clasped her hands to her chest in mock reverence.

"Can you imagine the grandeur? The elegance? All those noble ladies sipping tea with their pinkies out, trying not to spill while balancing their egos on the table!"

The crowd roared with laughter.

"And the Crown Prince himself! Oh, what a sight he must be! Sitting there, all regal and mysterious, probably pondering the great mysteries of life. Like, ‘Why does tea taste better when someone else pours it?’”

The crowd cackled, a few of them clutching their stomachs.

"But let’s be honest. The real reason for the party? He’s probably trying to find a wife who won’t mind him napping through royal meetings."

Before the crowd could recover from their laughter, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Or perhaps he’s looking for someone who doesn’t need a crate to feel tall."

Gasps rippled through the audience as they turned to see the white-haired man from two nights ago. Disguised in a simple yukata, his presence was unmistakable.

Y/N placed a hand on her hip, her grin widening.

"Oh, look, everyone! The Crown Prince’s number one fan has graced us with his presence again. Tell me, are you here to defend his honor or just to practice your flattery?"

The crowd oohed and cheered, sensing another round of verbal sparring.

"I’m here to make sure the Crown Prince isn’t slandered by a storyteller who clearly missed her calling as a jester."

The crowd erupted into laughter and whistles. Y/N raised an eyebrow, refusing to back down.

"A jester, huh? That’s rich coming from someone who looks like they spend more time in front of a mirror than in battle."

The crowd hollered, clapping and stomping in delight. Gojo smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

"And yet, here I am, commanding your attention without a single prop. What’s your excuse?"

Y/N leaned forward, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, sweetie, the only thing you’re commanding is pity. But don’t worry, I’m generous enough to share the spotlight with someone who needs it more."

The crowd howled, Gojo’s smirk deepened.

"Generous, are we? Then perhaps you’ll humor me and tell us how the Crown Prince is so dazzling, even the sun feels threatened."

Y/N’s grin turned mischievous.

"Dazzling? Oh, you mean blinding. Must be all that shining arrogance. I hear the enemy wears sunglasses into battle just to cope."

The crowd’s laughter was deafening. Gojo chuckled, clearly impressed by her quick wit. Walking closer, he lowered his voice so only she could hear.

"You're a bold woman, most wouldn’t dare."

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with defiance.

"You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Otherwise, I’d have you begging for mercy."

The crowd, sensing the tension, cheered even louder as Gojo stepped forward, his posture confident.

"I’ll arrange our next meeting, storyteller. Don’t bore me."

Y/N stepped even closer, their faces mere inches apart.

"Bore you? You’ll be begging for more, just like you did tonight."

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. The crowd’s cheers faded into the background as their gazes locked. Then, with a sly grin, Gojo turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Y/N’s heart pounding in her chest.

As the night wore on, Y/N couldn’t shake the memory of his words, his smirk, and the promise of their next encounter. Little did she know, the Crown Prince wasn’t just intrigued by her wit he was utterly captivated.

Y/N's POV

In the entrance hall of the pleasure house, chaos reigned. Everyone was gushing and pushing forward, eager to hear what the royal servant had to say. Excitement crackled through the air like a midsummer storm.

“Maybe I’m invited to the grand tea!” Yumei squealed, her voice dripping with triumph. She twirled dramatically, basking in the chorus of congratulations from the other women.

I leaned against the wall, sighing to myself. I didn’t even want to listen. Whatever this was, it was none of my business or so I thought.

The royal servant, clad in a pristine uniform bearing the insignia of the royal family, cleared his throat, commanding silence. His voice rang out, smooth and authoritative.

"By the decree of His Highness, the Crown Prince of the royal family, it is hereby announced that on the day of the grand tea ceremony, you, Omori Y/N, are appointed as the official entertainer. You are granted the freedom to speak as you please, but with one condition do not bore me. These are the words of our esteemed Crown Prince himself."

Gasps rippled through the hall. My name being called was like a thunderclap in a clear sky. Yumei’s jaw dropped, her smug expression wiped clean off her face as all eyes turned to me, their shock and envy unmistakable.

I blinked, my broom slipping from my hands and clattering to the floor. "Wait, what?"

The hall erupted into shrieks of disbelief.

“Her?!” one of the girls yelped, her voice rising an octave.

“This has to be a mistake!” another wailed, clutching her chest as if the declaration had physically struck her.

Yumei’s face turned a deep shade of red, her composure crumbling as she sputtered, “How could someone like her—?”

I didn’t hear the rest. The royal servant gave me a pointed look, as if daring me to question the command. My heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on me.

Of all the things I thought would happen today, this was nowhere on the list.

[karmawonders]

Author Note: You know what they say, can’t find more content? Make it yourself, or, like, something. Idk.

as I write this my blog is still in development, making I’m things neat, sorry sorry on mobile like a fool, forgive me

This is my Genshin Self Aware AU. (SAGAU)

Warnings : Religious Themes. Swears. Injury. Joking about death. Reader generally unhappy with previous world/life. Let me know if I need to add anything.

Post// AU Contents: Totally self indulgent, platonic yanderes/worshippers, you can totally interpret it as romantic tho, it fuels my god complex aight? Shush. The beginning of my story line, basic starting the story shit. Shamelessly self indulgent, let me restate. Bit of a crackhead!reader.

This post is more open ended for head canons down the line.

Opening your eyes, the first thing you notice is how much your back hurts. As if you had crash landed into the ground, and damn, it was painful.

Sitting up, you brushed the dirt off of you, realization quickly setting in as you finished and observed your immediate surroundings.

Where the fuck are you?

Looking around the area you sat, it was a nice, almost grove area. Large trees surrounded you, the one behind you noticeably with broken branches dangling amongst the other still intact branches and leafs. A few of the branches had actually been atop of yourself till you brushed them off.

Working from the context clues, you could only assume the poor tree had graciously offered itself as your whoopee cushion. Scrunching your brows, you thought back to what you remember from before this moment.

Before finding yourself in your green surroundings, you had been tucked away in your bed, sleeping peacefully, that was until you had heard your alarm clock. A great start to a new week, the pain of yet another Monday, within your dull existence. However, instead of slugging out of your comfy and warm paradise to turn off the annoying screeches of said alarm, you found yourself tripping in the covers tangling your legs, falling out of your bed.

And instead of hitting the ground of your bedroom floor, this had happened.

Well, at least you don’t have to make the Monday morning commute.

However brief that relief was, it was quickly replaced with the fact that you had no idea where you were, how you got there, and how you are even alive.

Were you dead, this being some afterlife? You must of tripped, hit your head on the bedside table, and immediately of died from the impact. That, was an embarrassing way to go out.

You admit tho, this was nothing like the afterlife you had often seen depicted. Perhaps this was some purgatory for your sins? Its not like you were the perfect being before. Hell, you had a Tumblr account for Pete’s sake. That enough was solid evidence.

Your thoughts were quickly interrupted by a snapping branch, and you whipped your head around to see shocked eyes meeting yours.

The only thing that your brain could process as you stared at them, equally shocked as you were, was that things were about to get much more interesting.

————-

Lol leaving it open ended for headcanons and such. This could actually serve for the genshin SAGAU master list post, who knows. I’ll try to get actual content out soon lol, in headcanons cuz that’s quick.

This would of been longer except my thumbs hurt. Last time they were this sore I was trying to hatch a shiny in pokemon.

——

🌸Karma Is Out🌸

[ange1afterdark]

Capochin kidnapping adopting the godspoke...

Instead of the bizzyboys just trying to arrest you, they're trying to lure you into more and more stupidly elaborate traps (the first one was the classic box and stick with a plate of treats... Alexei ate most of them before you showed up)

Like...congrats, you now have six dads xp (seven? Including inspektra..) aren't you spoiled?

Don't worry, Cappy just wants the best for everyone! You're too young for all this God business anyway, let the professionals handle it, kid!

[ange1afterdark]

Hello, dearest! This is a yandere sideblog that will have dark content. If that makes you uncomfortable, please block! Omegaverse and forced agere (completely platonic) might also make an appearance

I will take requests, just be polite when you ask ^^

My current fandoms are: Great God Grove, Stardew Valley, and Pokémon! I'll also post ocs and concepts

I will most likely focus on platonic/famial fics, but I don't mind writing romantic as well! (You'll just have to forgive me if I'm not very well versed in it)

Thank you for stopping by, take care now! ♡

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