#you're a rotten piece of shit

[visceral-pup]

.

[moyazaika]

housewife syndrome

yandere! rockstar x fem! reader

cw; possessive + obsessive behaviour, severe mental instability, paranoia, anxiety, violence, heavy nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by a very sweet anon ♡ thank you so much for trusting me with this absolutely stunning idea. i’ve always been a fan of domestic horror, especially of the spiralling housewife variety, so it was fun to explore a new dynamic and fresh writing style. <3

"welcome home, sweetheart!" the television runs on low volume in the background as you greet your husband with a knowing smile. you run through the motions as you always do, make sure to ask with the most innocence you can muster, "how was your day?"

feroze can make out the sound of gallant applause that indicates you'd been watching reruns of last night's award ceremony.

"such a fucking drag." your husband pulls you into his arms, buries his head into the crook of your neck with a long, satisfied sigh and takes his sweet, sweet time to breathe you in. "couldn't fucking wait to come home to you, meri jaan."

his answer remains the same as it is every other day, and you can't help but smile against his lips when he pulls you in to steal a little kiss; you sigh into his mouth, and feroze is so fucking overwhelmed by gratitude for the familiarity and comfort of this little routine the two of you have seemed to settle down into so well.

"i love when you call me that," you confess; my life.

you know just as well as him that, well—it wasn't always this easy.

"yeah," feroze hums. "i know you do, baby."

you weren't always so lovely for him, were you?

-

you're quiet.

though the two of you are sitting across from each other at the dining table, your attention is clearly elsewhere. conversation is slow, if not stagnant. it's a far cry from how talkative you usually are; and though he would never fucking admit it, least of all to you, he worries, for a fraction of a second, that things are slipping.

"meri jaan?" he sets down his fork very carefully, reaches for your hands over the table.

you blink, pulled away from wherever you'd been lost in your mind and back down to this moment that stretches on before you.

"oh, sorry, my love. what was that?"

feroze watches your eyes quietly track the movement of his fingers, sliding over your wrists, lingering, momentarily, on your pulse—nice and steady—before they intertwine with your own.

your gaze lands on him, then, expectant. he drags his thumb over your knuckles, glad to find they're soft; unmarred by any labour. he loves having you here, tucked away within the walls of this home he built just for you, away from the rest of the rotten world.

such a darling girl like you deserves to have everything taken care of for you. as far as he's concerned, the only thing on your mind should be him.

which is why the silence is beginning to irritate him, now. he's not really upset with you, doesn't have a reason to be, just yet—he's just wondering what it is you're so focused on. where do you keep going back to in that head of yours, and why aren't you here with him?

is this where it all falls apart?

—again?

"rosy?" you try. "is everything alright?"

"yeah," feroze's hazel eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, endearingly patient. "i just wanted to know how your day was."

"ugh, don't remind me." you stick your tongue out. "it was so boring. i woke up so late today and didn't really do anything interesting."

"shit, i'm sorry to hear that, baby."

your husband nods towards the television, still playing from inside the living room across the hall; the screen's bright colours reflect against the glass windows that take up half the wall. though the program is muted, he can still hear the echoes from the cacophony of applause ringing loud and true.

the four hour program's been running on loop on some of the smaller channels, and you really seem to enjoy tuning in, he's noticed.

it would be more difficult not to notice this new habit of yours, really. because if he's been counting right, this is the seventh time you've seen the whole thing through to the end.

"seems like you were at least watching the music thing again."

"well, when my stunning husband won half of the awards," you shrug coyly. "how could i not?"

"flattery won't get you anywhere," feroze deigns, though neither of you mention the involuntary curl to his lips as they lift into a small, self-satisfied smile.

"huh, that's strange," you frown, pull your hands away from his own and make a show of examining the elaborately stacked engagement ring and marital band wrapped around your finger. "if i seem to remember correctly, flattery is exactly what got me this ring."

"oh," he laughs. "is that so?"

"uhuh," you nod, still admiring the rings. they're big and they're flashy and there's no fucking chance anyone could ever miss the sight of them; make the mistake of misunderstanding what they mean. you're so obviously his, and fuck, it suits you so perfectly to belong to him.

i love you, he thinks fiercely. i fucking love you.

"you've got an ego, rosy." your knowing gaze flickers back to him, accompanied by a teasing smile. "bit of a praise kink, too."

"and yet, darling wife," he'll never tire of calling you that; never really overcome the thrill that overwhelms him when he sees you adorned in the markers of his devotion and tucked away all safe and sound. "you're the only person whose words mean anything to me."

"ohh, is that so?" you taunt, "whatever happened to 'flattery won't get you anywhere?'"

feroze takes in the sight of you. you're dressed casual, donned in a baggy old shirt and a pair of his softest sweats hanging low off your hips. comfortable in your own home, as you should fucking feel, you have no makeup on, and your hair is unkempt; overdue for a shower; but fuck if he cares.

feroze decides, within a moment, that he needs you—

now.

"come here, meri jaan. i'll show you."

"you greedy, greedy man," you chastise lightly, rising from your seat. "i've just fed you dinner and you're still salivating at my table."

feroze watches you make the small effort of pushing your chair in, before turning on your heel. you pause in the doorway for a second, spare him a knowing glance over your shoulder; "well? aren't you hungry, darling husband?"

he knows that none of it evades you; the nervous bob of his adam's apple as he swallows. the way his fingers are digging into the edge of the table to keep from sinking inside of you right here. his heart is racing; his pants are tight. though you're so willing to be his now, he remembers it wasn't always this easy.

"my love." feroze grits out, "i'm fucking starving."

you disappear into the hallway, mellifluous laughter like the loveliest song, echoing off the walls—inside of his head, for fuck's sake—as your husband follows faithfully behind you when you lead him into the bedroom.

dinner goes cold on the table. you never touched your plate.

upstairs, minutes later, your husband bottoms out inside of the welcoming warmth of your sweet cunt, just as your fingers brush against the butcher's knife tucked right underneath your pillow.

-

feroze gets you to come twice before he decides he has his fill. he's rummaging through your nightstand for the contraceptives he knows you keep in there. it's got less to do with what he wants and more to do with what he believes is best for the two of you.

it's not that he doesn't want children; he dreams of them often. a little baby swaddled in the softest fabrics, wrapping its entire hand around just one of his fingers. the sound of a second pair of footsteps excitedly running down the hall every time he comes home from the studio, from tour. something more to take care of. to keep you busy.

but your husband knows you.

and though he's always been selfish, he can't risk kids until—well, until he knows you won't try to kill them.

it's taken you years to accept him. he won't undo that.

feroze, so caught up in his thoughts, only really registers the blade until it's slicing into his skin, the sharp edge of it pressing against the side of his neck with just enough pressure to draw blood.

he is disappointed, though by no means surprised, to find you on the other end wielding the knife.

he turns to face you, abandoning his search. you're holding onto the hilt of your makeshift weapon with trembling hands, and though he's suddenly overcome by exhaustion—because, baby, how many more times are you going to pull this—an involuntary shiver runs down his spine at the sight nonetheless.

"jaan," he tries to reason with you in hushed tones; oh, love. "what are you doing?"

you dig the knife in just a little deeper, and he winces; "i hate you, feroze." the words sting, though the relative lack of conviction they’re laced with serves as a promising sign of reconciliation.

"i know, baby. can you please just put the knife down so we can talk like adults?"

he glimpses the almost imperceptible change immediately.

the lines of hesitation on your face; a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. when your hold on the weapon looses just the tiniest fraction of an inch, he wastes no time in gently but firmly prying the knife from out of your trembling hands; tosses it underneath the bed where it lands out of your reach.

he’s getting better at this. gets through to you so much sooner than he used to.

you’re listening, now, aren’t you?

the thought of it makes him oddly proud.

"there we go," feroze says. you're still shaking, and though he wants so fucking desperately to pull you closer and console you—he's learnt to tread the waters carefully in times like these. you're evidently scared. obviously upset with him. he can give you a little room to breathe. “now do you want to use your words and talk to me properly?”

“i keep rewatching the awards show. every other winner had someone there with them. some girlfriend or wife they kissed before they went on stage. you’re the only one who—” you swallow, voice wavering. “i’m the only one who wasn’t there. i’m the only one who’s kept hidden away.”

“you don’t want to show me off.” the tears fall almost immediately. “you’re ashamed of me.”

there are millions of words in the english language, and millions more in his own. he’s put into words every fleeting feeling you’ve made him feel; spun both the most magnificent and mundane of emotions into beautiful songs and compelling lyrics and composed entire albums from nothing—and yet, somehow, in this moment all of it evades him.

"i spend all day stuck here w-waiting for you to come home, and when you do—i keep thinking about all those ceremonies and galas and parties you go to, rooms i can never follow you into—and i hate you. i hate you for how much you hate me—”

“i’m sorry,” feroze’s hands run up your spine, to lightly curl his fingers around the back of your neck. he tilts your head up so that you’re meeting his gaze; leaves you nowhere to look away, “meri jaan.”

his touch is so soft and so, so cold against your skin. you've always run warmer than him; but he thinks you might be burning up right now. maybe you've got a fever; or maybe you're just this delirious even without one. it doesn't fucking matter, doesn't change anything.

“i’m sorry for ever leaving you alone long enough to even think that. let me make it up to you. let me show you how much i adore you. let me build you back up again.”

“you can’t fix this,” you whisper.

he smiles, but it’s strange; doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “so you said the last time.”

-

hours later, you’re less of a sobbing wreck when he’s got you perched in his lap, and all curled up under his chin. “okay… then…” you sniff. your words are somewhat muffled as you bury your face into your husband’s chest. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t mean to hurt you, rosy. i was just scared, i-i promise.”

"i know.” his knuckles wipe away the tears drying on your cheeks. “give me a kiss, please.”

and ever the sweet wife, you do; but your lips are trembling.

fuck, that’s—

shit.

—not going to work, is it?

with a gentle but firm hand, he pushes you down onto the bed and watches you land on your back amidst the dozens of pillows that decorate the bed. even then, the softest thing here is you. he forgets that, sometimes. let this be a lesson, he thinks to himself, to keep your fragility in mind. this is only further proof that you need him more than he'd even realised.

but you picked the right man, didn’t you? because none of that scares him.

the two of you have faced far more difficult times together; this is just a little hiccup in your life as a married couple. some story you’ll look back on and laugh about, when you’re all better.

so when you look up at him with wide, wet eyes and ask, "its just—can you promise me you still love me one more time?”

feroze regards you closely. you’re so beautiful. so fucking perfect that it overwhelms him. sometimes, he wishes you could see yourself the way that he sees you. though he’s always believed that may just scare you; knowing how deep his devotion really runs. things are fine as they are now.

well, mostly.

he has decided that he will retire from music completely, but the two of you can broach that topic when you’re in a better headspace for it. it’s been a long time coming. work keeps the money coming in, and he wants to spoil you but—he wants you to be happy, above all. you don’t really know what you’re asking for right now, but he has every intention of giving you exactly what it is you wished for.

he can’t give in when you beg to come along with him—but he can come and hide away next to you in this little pocket of the world that solely belongs to the two of you.

"you drive me to madness, my love. nothing about this life means anything if i can’t keep you happy.”

the two of you never had a white wedding; because he wanted to honour your union the right way and celebrate you as his culture deigned. so, yes, he never got to read you any vows, but he'd like to think you've come to know him well enough to understand he doesn't necessarily need to say something so sacred out loud for it to hold true.

"do you understand? i love you," he lowers his forehead against yours. “till death does us apart.”

you put your heart in his hands one more time, looking so small, so vulnerable beneath him. "you promise?"

"i promise," he closes his eyes and revels in the soft, sweeping feeling of your lashes fluttering against his own. "always and forever, meri jaan."

feroze loves you, of this he's certain.

he also knows that you fucking terrify him.

it's a small price to pay, if it means keeping you—

besides, he thinks, reaching once more for the contraceptive pills on the nightstand.

—marriage is all about compromise, is it not?

[stxxrlights]

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐔𝐘...

gojo's the type of guy who always presses your face in his chest everytime he hugs you. without miss, every single time, he suffocates you subtly and you can hear his chest rumbling as he chuckles at you and kisses the top of your head.

gojo's the type of guy takes unflattering pictures of you when he catches you off guard. he has pictures of you mid sneeze, pictures of you sleeping with your mouth open and drool dribbling down your chin, unflattering angles. he has them all, all for himself to gawk at when you're not with him.

gojo's the type of guy who snatches a piece of your food everytime you go out to eat with him or if you order takeout with him. even if it's a home cooked meal, he always snatched something off your plate. justifying his actions by claiming that you're food could be poisoned and he's just looking out for you.

gojo's the type of guy who calls you all the cringy nicknames he knows. baby? babe? sweetheart? darling? forget all of those. he's calling you his pookie bear, schnookums, schmoopsie, all of those cringe unique ones just to annoy you

gojo's the type of guy who bite your nose at random times when you're alone. you could comfortably cuddling with him telling you about your day and he just decides to lean in and take a bite of your nose just because he can

gojo's the type of guy who laughs at you when something embarrassing happens to you. you fall down on the slippery stairs or floor, he's quick to laugh before helping you up. you stutter while talking to him, you're never living that down. he corrects you with the wrong pronunciation everytime you correct yourself.

gojo's the type of guy who offers you his sweets everytime he buys some. he wouldn't normally share his kikufuku with just anyone, but you're special, he wants yo share everything with you.

gojo's the type of guy who plays music on the speaker and pulls you up to dance with him. only in your pyjamas as you sway from the living to the kitchen and back with just his hand on your waist and his other holding your other hand and laughing.

gojo's the type of guy who watches all your favourite shows with you, even if they're corny and don't make any sense, he's there to watch all the episodes with you. it's the least he can do since you put up with his shit 24/7.

gojo's the type of guy who takes you out on fancy dates when he can. getting you a cute dress before all this, making sure they have you're favourite foods and drinks and spoiling you rotten. he's happy he finally has something to share his money with.

comments and reblogs are appreciated

[keferon]

Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

------------

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

---------------------------

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

[lavenderhateswritting]

Sinister!Mark x Reader

You're running. The streets are chaos and deep in your heart you understand that there is very little you can do. Running from one person to the next desperately trying to heal who you can, has taken so much out of you . You've been going for hours at this point with no end in sight. The carnage is so brutal you're having a hard time distinguishing one body from the other. When you can you lean down and heal those who are still alive and breathing and point them to the nearest safe house.

Invincible and you had never been close. He was obviously a very nice guy and you could respect him for trying to fight the good fight, but you were support. When the world went to shit you came in after to pick up the pieces so you to never really got to know him. Now you don't know if you'll be able to look him in the eyese without seeing the carnage being created by the other Invincibles around the world.

You were at home when a Mark began reeking habit on downtown Chicago. You couldn't just sit and wait for the fight to be over so you ran to the streets and tried your hardest to help where you could. Which had gotten you caught out without any backup and low on energy.

"It's okay I've got you" You told the civilian you were leaning down to heal.

"Thank you. Oh god thank you I can't feel my legs"

"I'm gonna heal you and then you're gonna have to make a run for the safe house on halsted okay" You placed your hand on his knee and felt some of your energy being sapped away as you fixed his legs.

"You're waisting your time I'm just gonna kill you both anyways." The voice made a chill run down your back.

How could you be so stupid you should have been paying attention. The sounds of destruction had been steadily geting closer, but between your fight to try and help as many people as you could and stop yourself from collapsing everything had turned to background noise. And now he was right behind you.

"Of course I guess if you wanted I could give you a head start. What do you think 10 seconds or 20? I mean it doesn't matter, but time is time." His mocking tone just added on to your hopelessness. You weren't going to make it out of here alive.

The civilian you were helping began to stumble to his street and run as fast as he could. You watched as he tripped over his feet trying his hardest to make use of his head start.

"Aww that's really cute he's actually trying. That's okay I'll make it quick." The Invincible double said. You felt him speed passed you getting dust and dirt in your eyes.

"WAIT NO!" You screamed as you tried to warn the civilian desperately trying to get away. It was to late the Invincible double already had his fist in their stomach up to the elbow.

"Haha sorry about that you just healed that guy right." He finally turned to you. He looked exactly like Invincible except his suit was black and yellow instead of blue and yellow and his smile there was something so rotten about the smile he sent you.

"Well isn't that interesting." He looked at your face and the sinister smile he had on his face began to grow. You could barely breathe and all of a sudden he was directly in front of you scanning your face so close you could feel his breath on youre skin.

"You look just like them." If it was possible his smile got even wider.

You jumped backwards desperately trying to crawl away as fast as possible. It didn't matter. He grabbed your face with a grip so hard that you could feel your jaw straining under the force.

"Now where do you think you're going love. It's been so long since I've seen this face of yours."

"Let go of me I don't know who the hell you are , but just kill me already you asshole." Your voice was shaking, but you were trying your hardest to at least die with dignity.

"Has the Mark in this universe left you to sit here just running around with that fire in you. What a fucking idiot." He finally let go of your face. You turned to make a run for it, but before you could the ground was already disappearing underneath your feet.

"You know in my universe we used to do this all the time. I'd fly you up here and then I'd fuck you above all of these worms who never stood a chance agaisnt me." He was holding you up by your shoulders and shooting into the sky. He watched your face as he spoke those words searching for some kind of reaction all you could do was scream.

"Put me down. Holy shit put me down you crazy son of a bitch." Your eyes were watering from the wind in your eyes and you were so high you could no longer see the Chicago skyline.

"Really you want me to put you down?" He was smiling still laughing at your panicking. "Ok if you say so." And then he let you go.

The ground was geting closer and closer and as you flailed your arms you were certain this would be it.

"Nah just kidding." He said as he swooped in and grabbed you a few miles above the ground.

"Why are you crying love you know I would never drop you." There were tears free flowing down your face now you.

"What do yo want from me. I don't know anything that could help you. I don't even know Invincible that well." Your voice was shot you. It felt like you ahd been screaming for hours you were drained in a way you had never felt before.

"Oh love I don't want anything from you. I never did." His faced softened into something that could almost be viewed as love. He leaned forward and you flinched back, but you couldn't go far as he placed his head in the crook of your neck.

"They took you from me. Turned you against me. Made me have to do something I would have never done If they hadn't left me with no other choice." As he was speaking his hold on you got tighter and tighter until you couled feel your bones creaking.

"But, I've been given another chance and I won't fail you this time." He turned his head against your neck and you finally felt him leave a feather light kiss on your neck.

You thought as fast as you could and finally you reached your arm up and rubbed your hand on his forearm.

"It's okay Mark. I'm right here, but you've gotta let me down you know. You've gotta let me do my job." You had no clue how the other you acted and if you're being honest you just needed to get out of here anyway you could.

"If I let you goback to work I'm just gonna have to kill you again." The saddened ex lover was gone and now it was just the mass killer again.

"Okay okay I won't go back to work then I'll go back to my apartment." You just needed to get out of his hold any way you could if you're being honest. You would have told him you were going to backflip off Sears Tower if it would have gotten him to let you go.

He pulled his head back so fast of he could have gotten whiplash you could have sworn he would have gotten it. There was maic look to his face again.

"Yeah we're going to go back to your apartment. And then we're going to watch (favorite show) and have some pizza. You're a genuis love." He kissed the top of your head and then all of a sudden you were speeding off and were in front of the door to your apartment.

You were staring at it with shaking hands and wide opened eyes. The psycho killer who had already killed one version of you and had killed a civilian diectly in front of you after destroying a city new exactly where your apartment was. That's just fucking great.

"Open the door love." His voice still had that manic edge to it as he stood behind you. You reached into your pocket and fumbled with your keys before you opened the door.

He zipped in immediately and began taking his suit off while floating off the ground.

"Woof I need a shower order the food and I'll borrow some of your clothes okay." He was peeling the bloody costume off in the middle of your fucking living room.

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head as you watched him get undressed. You were seeing parts of Invincible that you really weren't ever supposed to see and holy shit he wasn't wearing underwear. You turned your head and trying to not think about the line of hair that began below his stomach and worked its way down lower than you were ever supposed to see on him.

"I can't order food you destroyed the city remember." Why would you say that your brain was literally short circuiting right now.

"Haa yeah I did whoops guess we'll just have to make something." And then he spead off down the hall to your bathroom. Something in you wanted to keep your costume on if nothing else than just as emotional support since you were trapped in your one bedroom apartment with a fucking serial killer. But the dust and grime had begun to make your skin itch and before you knew it he was out of the bathroom and you were in it.

Sitting on the couch you turned on (favorite show). He layed his head on your lap and grabbed your hand and placed it on his head. You began to work your hands through his hair as he slowly started to loose the tension in his body. Once you finally heard his breath shllow out and tiny snores make their way past his lips you finally hung your head back. Fuck how were you gonna explain this to Cecil.

Grammar mistakes probably I speed wrote this in the middle of the night I can't tell if I wanna write about Conquest next or Batman I love old men I don't know if this really reads like Sinister he feels a little more sidistic than I've made him here

[archive-doll]

Oh, sweet neighbour.

Author Note: Finally free from this. I love it.

Johnny Mactavish x f!reader. He's your neighbour. You are his new god. First meeting.

18+ CW: the military, while not very detailed it's shit. you're pregnant, that's a warning on its own. please, tell me if I'm missing anything.

Have mercy on my grammar, English is not my first language. Enjoy.

MASTERLIST. NEXT

You were delighted the first time you understood you would have a new neighbour. The sign left in front of the old house has been hanging there since you arrived three months ago, moving with the weather. When the slight bump of your belly could easily be hidden with a larger sweater.

The nice contractor assigned to the wilderness of your county has been telling you about it when you visited your house, how you wouldn’t have any neighbours for now. It wasn’t exactly surprising; the North of Scotland is not really attractive to most people. The whole world is at least a two-hour drive, and the rain seems to never quite stop, and during the winter, electricity can go out under the strength of the wind.

So, when the nice older woman, Jenny, told you about this serious candidate who was interested in the old wooden home on the other edge of the field, you assumed it was another one, trying to find rest. And from what Jenny revealed to you, your hypothesis is rather truthful. A man older than you, who was just honourably discharged from the British Army, after being severely wounded.

Truly, she shouldn’t tell you any of it, as it is supposed to be confidential information, but who would you tell? The stray cat that slowly invades your porch? The cattle you saved from a cruel death? It reassured you, knowing this information. It was a new adventure starting, having a neighbour in this remote part of the country.  

The first time you saw the old truck, it almost made you laugh in amusement. A military man retired, driving the most vintage piece of metal you ever saw, still rolling. The dark green colour seems to turn to grey at the edge, the old thing making a noise close to a dying breath. You find it fitting, somewhat, with the description you have of him.

You are knee-deep into the renovation of your newly acquired stable. It isn’t as if your home is fully finished either, since you’re trying to do it all yourself. But it fills you with purpose, with a sense of belonging you had cruelly missed for the majority of your life, one that you yearned for so strongly it almost broke you before.  

A hammer in hand, and the humidity slithering into your rainboots, you watch with slight curiosity the man park on the other side of the river that crossed the field. You can not see anything remotely interesting from where you stand, only the silhouette of him, and quickly your attention goes back to the wall you had taken all the rotten planks out of, before sighing. Your shoulders hurt, and you know you should not do heavy work considering your current state, but it has to be done. You shift on your feet, and the features on your face change to a concentrated expression before your hand raises with a firm grip. You will go greet your new neighbour soon enough, but before that, you have work to do.  

The only time you finally found to go present yourself to this stranger was three days later. A plate filled with what you tried to be a warm apple pie; you take your time crossing the distance to their residence. You hesitated between the two of them for a long time, each of the houses had a charm you were weak too. But you decided on the old Cotswolds stone house, which is a type of habitat you typically find in England. The one you were now walking to has a wooden structure, one that makes you feel warmth, where you could drink warm chocolate inside. A beautiful house, you think.  

You take a breath, slightly anxious at the now-soon-to-be interaction, feeling your heart thumping in your chest. Question roams in your skull: Is it very smart to inform an adult man, trained to kill, that you lived alone, where no one would ever know if you were to be in danger?

Your hands shake slightly around the plate you’re holding on to, everything you were ever taught against your will, everything you sadly believe in, told you it was a bad idea. But you try, just for a moment, to cease the lessons you painfully learned that paralyse you with fear and press a foot on the first stair. The wooden creak beneath your weight, the roundness of your tummy now showing as it strained beneath your coat.  

Before you could even finish graving the steps leading to his front door, it was opening. Surprised at the motion and rather tired from the walk leading you there, your doe eyes find the hardness of a man being invaded in his privacy. It makes you waver momentarily, pregnant form stilling in its walk. The mop of hair on top of his face – rather charming, you must admit – is untidy, straying around until some dark curly strands fall on his forehead. Bright blue eyes that make your breath hitch before he analytically gazes at you in a matter of seconds. It’s rather disturbing to see the threatening presence of his disappear so vividly.

The tightness on him melts away, broad shoulders loosening as his wounded arm falls against his torso. The stance he had taken at the sound of you shift into something approachable, someone really, instead of the weapon he had been groomed to become.  

Your eyelashes flutter as he opens the door wider, taking a step on the porch, finally feeling as if the tight hold around your throat is loosening. You resume your movement and offer him a careful smile, slightly disturbed by the first sight of him that he showed you. Droplets of water fall from the edge of your hood as he approaches with firm steps, the hand not pressed into that medical scarf hold out for you to take.  

“’ello ma’am.” 

The polite and confused tone of his voice widens your smile, the gentlemanly manner putting you at ease as you accept his help, finally reaching the edge of the porch. From close, you’re quite admirative of his features, finding in his eyes a storm that seems a reflection of the sea. You do not say anything, not about the way his fingers are rough around your palm, digging there, and how his ring finger misses a knuckle.

“Hello, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Nae, nae, it’s a’right.” He stumbles on his words with a firm shake of his head, stopping your unnecessary apologies. “Didnae thought anyone would come see me.” 

“Well, I did. And I have an apple pie for you, too.” You reply with a smile, raising slightly the covered plate you were holding, which seems to pique his attention as his eyes flicker downward as if seeing it for the first time.  

Johnny, you quickly find, hushes you inside with a quickness in his tone that you think is worry, or maybe guilt for frightening you the first second you've seen him. You give a little laugh at his own expression of regret, waving a hand in the air to signify you don't mind.

The warmth of his home makes you sigh while he closes the door behind you, your eyes admiring the entryway quietly before he moves past you with a precision unsettling. In the last three minutes you’ve known him, you can see the military experience he has bleeding out from every one of his actions.  

Johnny had been ready to shoot at the intruder the second he sensed your presence. His residence here is only because the British Army made him leave. It was a consequence of betrayal, of disaster, of disarray. Never once, since he left Scotland at age sixteen, running away from the battlefield that was home, did he ever consider the possibility of coming back. But, since the only home he ever had abandoned him, the only other place he could settle on to go back to was here. The Royal Army dismissing him doesn't mean he doesn't have enemies anymore.

After years of sacrifices, weeks of torture, months of the sand and blood invading his senses, they forced him away. He did not even have the time to process it; in a coma for a month, caused by a bullet entering his skull. By some curse, he made it, though the scar hidden beneath his hair says a different story. He awakens in that room, the white lightning cutting through like a knife, unaware of anything, only for, five minutes later, a superior officer he had never seen before telling him he would never be able to come back.  

He never imagined that the neighbour Jenny told him about, would come here. Neither did he ever fantasise about how soft and gentle you would be. As he watches you, from the edge of his previously unused kitchen, microwaved dinner is all he has ever known – he is almost distraught by the sight of you.

The dark blue sweater you wear is shifting over your rounded belly each time you move slightly too far. The patch of flesh, strained there, almost feels like a hallucination. He doesn’t process any of the words escaping your lips, and really, he should be more attentive to them. But the warmth in your eyes and the lightness in your voice as you tell him of the surrounding areas, giving him intel on the closest threat around, are unfamiliar.  

It has been weeks since his discharge. Weeks of mandatory therapy established by the organisation he surrendered his life for. Of endless pain in his head, like fresh lava melting around his skull every minute of every day. Weeks of wandering aimlessly, a shell of who he once was, blown apart. Stripped away from his sole purpose in life, abducted from the only person he ever cared for since he took control of his life. Only for it all to cease, to be taken away from him. Every scar he had been the victim of over the years, over the last decade of his life, was nothing now that he was in exile. Banished from the only world he knows.  

And now, here you are. Standing in the house he bought for barely anything at all, and his mind becomes silent. He looks at you, the soft lines around your mouth as you speak to him, and everything - the past stops his restless assault. A miracle, mirage, it didn’t matter what you are. Of course, you are too perfect to be real. You, and that warm, handmade apple pie. You and your graceful hands, free of any burden in life. You, and the warmth of your soul, he is swallowed by each time you gaze his way.

Johnny is certain he must look completely unhinged, staring too hard from a few steps away. He knows he should interact with you, at least pretend to be normal as he did since he left the military base. But everything in you, every little thing that you are, renders him defenceless. From the comically large slippers he lends you, the curve of your plush thighs, to the way you simply stand there blissfully.  

Your voice takes him away from his quiet moment of salvation, and he tilts his chin down to find you closer, a piece of apple pie on a little plate he did not even know he owned.  

“You must be tired. I know comin’ all the way here isn’t easy.” 

You’re silently wondering how he drives here, with an injured arm, but don’t think on it too long. Looking at him under the light, you can almost sense his tiredness. It’s written all over his broad frame, even as he still tenses when he watches you, the harsh line of his jaw where beard starts to grow. The thunder growling in his eyes. You do not ask, do not even mention it, and settle the plate he keeps looking at on the island counter before, with a heavy sigh, sitting down. One hand comes on the valley of your back as the reprieve of the highchair lightens your troubles. 

“You alone here?” He mumbles after a moment, and you see when it comes, the crinkles around his eyes.  

There is a moment of silence, as your face hardens, once again pondering the dangerousness of it. Johnny, since you took your first step, never truly intended to hurt you. It was instinct back then, you can tell. It is still as he stays on the edge of the room, close enough to the window and the front door. The only position where he can see the other entry points and you at the same time. Even battered as he appeared to be, there is no way his training could ever be forgotten.  

“Can’t say I am.” You settle on with a hint of humour to defuse the slight tension growing in the room. 

You, peculiarly, find great pride in the way his face widens at your words, before his eyes shine, watching your hand tap on the baby bump you expose, his way. Your mouth twitches before the grin you’re trying to hide finally breaks free. It is like seeing the sun for the first time, as his broad shoulders tremble under his laugh, the sound radiant as the summer, his head tilting backwards.  

Johnny, you understand, is much like the stray animals you scour around the country. You must allow him time to judge you; to feel safe with you in his personal space and prove you would never ever hurt him. Amusingly, he reminds you of the bull you are trying to negotiate with the farmer a little further down the hill. All broad around, with an intimidating physique that leaves you breathless when he struts toward you. Who once offered food is rather fine with your presence. 

“Good one, bonnie.” He grumbles again with a chuckle, sitting down in front of you as you fill the second plate. “No one tae look after ya then?” 

“I came here so no one would.” You admit, eyes shifting down as you push the tine of your fork into the sweet apple. “Wanted a home for myself.” 

“Can understand tha'. Where ya come from then?” 

Your eyes glimmer, seeing him inhale the pie, slightly saddened by how starved he looks, groans of contentment leaving him with each bite. The decision is easy to make, even after the scare he gave you when he opened the door.

The loneliness seems to cling to him like a dead lover, like a curse that runs deep into his blood, carving his place into his bones. For a moment, he reminds you of a haunted house after the people who inhabited it died tragically, leaving only the shell of what it was before. You’ll come and offer him food. Make sure he eats, and do not let himself be swallowed by his grief. 

You let him interrogate you. He offers answers of his own in return, and while sometimes cryptic, you make do with them. For a man surely as closed as he, he already tells you enough, especially during your first meeting. The questions are relatively innocent, if you don’t think of the ramifications of it all. Why did you decide on coming to Scotland, why the house so far away from everything, Does any of your family come to visit you before – he's searching for information. But with every answer you offer him, not hiding that you came here for freedom and safety, you watch him soften around the edges. 

Your fingers stroking along your belly, you smile as you watch his face shift when he tells you all about Scotland, where you should go visit, or where to eat a good meal. With a firm tone, though, and a long stare, he informs you never to go alone by yourself, that he’ll be your guide if you wish for it. Maybe a comparison to a stray hoarding dog would have been more accurate than a bull, you decide, as you giggle.  

“Understood, Sir.” You mock with honest gratefulness, already feeling quite comfortable around him.   

There is a twitch on the corner of his eyes, a straightening flinch in his shoulders, and you immediately regret it, your eyes widening in worry as his hands curl on the kitchen island around his empty plate.

He shakes his head then, after a moment of watching, unruly curls ruggedly flowing around his face, you are not insensitive to, as he gargles a laugh. Soon, he breaks the cold air, and he tells you to at least raise your hand next time, and you giggle happily, giving him a nod in acceptance.

Well, your new neighbour might not be what you imagined, but he’s perfect as he is. Especially when he walks you back home, his hand out in offering, grasping at your fingers to help you cross the uneven ground of the field. 

@ archive-doll - all rights reserved. reposting or modifying, including translating or use on AI, is not permitted. original characters are not my own, but the stories and writing are.

line dividers by cafekitsune

[melonsodypop]

H-hi! I hope It's ok if my first request is not a smutty one? Yakuza men and what makes them feel loved? Thank you in advance!

yakuza men and the things that make them feel loved !

❀ pairing -  kazuma kiryu, goro majima, taiga saejima, shun akiyama, y0!akira nishikiyama, daigo dojima, ryuji goda/reader (all seperate)

❀ tags - fluff, angst, gender neutral reader, probably sloppy character analysis, these men all really need therapy, love languages, alcohol/smoking mentions

❀ a/n - of course non-smut requests are welcome!! stares at my college degree on the wall that focused almost entirely on how people's experiences, relationships and environments affect them and their inner wounds/ways they want to be loved... i am so ready to break these down hehehehe (also i learned how to use gradient text are u guys proud of me)

kazuma kiryu ❀ spending time with him

deceptively simple, kiryu feels the most loved when you decide to just exist near him

oftentimes he feels like he's undeserving of company or that his mere presence is a danger to his loved ones, so frankly your insistence on being close to him is going to freak him out at first

he might even start avoiding you in the early stages of a relationship - don't take it personally, it's just that he loves you so much that he's anxious about hurting you

the more and more you stick by him, the more he realizes that he doesn't have to do everything on his own

in fact, he likes not doing everything on his own, a wave of relief every time he remembers that he has someone he trusts and admires deeply at his side

it slowly heals that deep emotional wound he carries that for someone to love him means for them to be hurt

the reason i hesitate to use the word 'quality time' with him is that he doesn't even really need you to be doing something with him

just being in the same room as him, focusing on whatever you both are working on separately

he's never been one to be comfortable expressing himself in words, the silence between the two of you like a warm blanket instead of awkward

i could get into my hc that he's autistic so it's a form of parallel play to him, but i digress

if you look over at him, you'll see that there's a rare soft smile on his lips

wordlessly will walk over to you and pull you flush to his side gently, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead

"i like when you're here," he'll grumble softly to you - which in kiryu-isms, really means 'please stay by my side like this forever'

goro majima ❀ letting him vent/talk about his feelings

oh boy i have so many thoughts about majima and how hard of a time he has accepting love

he's a master at self-sabotage - he doesn't know how to process feelings of love or affection, nor does he really feel that a piece of shit like him deserves it (see: how often he tells others that they'd be better off without him)

so he often chooses to bury his feelings instead of doing something about it

it was much the same when it came to you - he loves you so much, painfully so, but there was always that annoying voice in his head that told him that that you had better things to do than spend time on a mongrel like him

he'll keep his conversations surface-level with you at first, but ask him how he feels about everything and validate what he says

it'll catch him off-guard at first, and he might even try to put up a front and say he doesn't like talking about that sappy shit

but he'll eventually start giving in, going on long rants about all the crap he had to deal with that day or his 'tragic fuckin' backstory' while you listen intently

the more you wrench his ribcage open and force him to expose his real heart to you, the more he starts falling helplessly for you

not only are you letting him acknowledge and let out the emotions he keeps bottled up close to his chest, but you're seeing every ugly, rotten part of him and you still love him

now, that doesn't mean don't hold him accountable when he's kinda being a dick

praising everything he does will just make him feel like you're putting him on a pedestal or seeing some idealized version of himself you made up in your head

which will give his brain an excuse to run out on you before he eventually disappoints you

so don't let him run - from his feelings, from accountability, from you

the mad dog doesn't like to be collared, but for the person who looks past every facade he puts up and lets him just be goro majima - he'll happily put himself on a leash if it's you who's holding it

taiga saejima ❀ giving him physical affection

for most of his life, saejima was treated like a dangerous beast due to his size and that perpetual scowl on his face

it only got worse after the ueno seiwa hit - shackled like a circus tiger as he was dragged from jail to jail, never able to escape whispers of 'the man who slayed eighteen' and 'the stone-cold hitman' that make him sound more like an urban legend monster than a man

saejima has his own pride in his strength, and for the longest time he just accepted that he was the untouchable, scary beast that everyone made him out to be

it's not until you come into his life and start to subjecting him to little casual touches of affection that he realizes how touch-starved he is

grab his hand, cuddle him, catch him off-guard with kisses to his weary face - it makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn't understand just yet

he feels silly that such small, soft things are affecting him this much at first, but every casual little touch you give him makes him feel less like the boogeyman and more like a person

the fact that you trust him enough and feel safe enough to him to attach yourself to him... he feels like he could cry

it takes a while for him to start returning your touches, but when he does he suddenly turns into the biggest teddy bear

every time he holds your cute little face or holds you protectively against his chest at night, he's taught that his hands can do more than just inflicting pain

he'll never, ever admit it out loud but he loves it the most when you hug him, your arms barely able to wrap around his thick torso but trying your best regardless

he can't help but chuckle as he feels your body meld against his, patting your head and wrapping his arm protectively around your shoulders

he knows people would gawk if they saw how cuddly he gets with you, but he can't really bring himself to care

he's not a monster, a beast, stone-cold, or a killer when he's in your arms - just a big, soft tiger

shun akiyama ❀ taking care of his physical needs

akiyama SUCKS at taking care of himself, often relying on other people (i.e. hana-chan's scoldings) to remind him to eat or get his work done

it's not like he's completely helpless, he insists - he at least keeps himself clean and well-groomed

but being homeless for as long as he was, he eventually just forgot how to attend to his needs

even now, with all the money in the world, he's still unlearning how he had to just suppress his hunger pangs when food was an uncertainty and sleeping on a regular schedule when shelter wasn't always guaranteed

his body does it unconsciously now, often attending to his paperwork for hours on end without even noticing that he's hungry or tired

he feels embarrassed when you start slipping him bentos here and there when he's so wrapped up in his work, often giving you an apologetic smile and profuse thank you's

but the fact that you cared enough to notice, and cared even more to go out and get him something to eat makes him remember why he fell for you in the first place

he might protest weakly when you pull him away from his work when you notice his eyes are getting sunken and his body's lagging behind

or roll his eyes with a smirk when you snatch a cigarette from between his lips and smush it in the nearby ashtray, reminding him that he was whining about needing to quit smoking just yesterday

but he's truly, genuinely thankful that you're forcing him to take care of himself, the fact that you're invested enough in his wellbeing to scold him

he'll be damned though if he becomes one of those boyfriends that treats you like his mother, though - he may call himself a bum, but he's not THAT much of a bum

expect to be taken care of in equal measure, akiyama insisting to pay for your meals and run your errands for you to show with his actions, not just his words, how cared for you make him feel

akira nishikiyama ❀ praising him

yeahhh i couldn't not talk about nishiki's inferiority complex and how damaged his self-esteem is

his cool-guy bravado very thinly covers up a mountain of insecurities

he doesn't really feel like he does much of anything right, too pathetic to be a scary yakuza and too cowardly to stand up for himself or what he believes in

so anytime you genuinely praise him and tell him he did a good job with something, the high he gets from it is strong enough that he could probably quit nicotine, he thinks

he preens when you compliment how stylish he looks or how well he styled his hair - he takes a LOT of pride in his appearance, probably one of the few things he doesn't really have insecurities about

he can't help but grin ear to ear when you cheer for him at karaoke, or clap and whoop when he gets a strike at the bowling alley

he admires you so, so much, and that verbal affirmation that you think just as highly of him soothes that little boy inside that never thinks he's good enough for anything or anybody

every time you compliment him, he gets so giddy that he'll grab you by the waist and start pressing kisses all over your face

"i did that for you, baby," he'll claim proudly, his eyes shining with affection

the first time he cried in front of you, he was shocked that you didn't call him a crybaby or told him to man up

you just held him gently and wiped away his tears, whispering that he did the best he could and that you were so proud of him

he absolutely crumbles when he hears that, hugging you close and crying even harder :(

it kills him (in a good way) that even when you see him at his most vulnerable, you don't think he's pathetic or weak, just someone who needs the reassurance and comfort he's been deprived of his whole life

i'm not saying you'll fix him, necessarily - but perhaps the entirety of 1 could have been avoided if someone just told him he was doing a good job

daigo dojima ❀ letting him be weak

from the moment daigo was born a dojima, he was expected to be as strong, proud, and cold as the rest of his family

even when he left the tojo clan after the ryuji incident to not have to carry that expectation anymore, he still had a gang of people who started to follow him and put them on a pedestal as their leader

and now, as the sixth chairman, he has even less opportunities to let his guard down, not with thirty thousand people looking to him as an example and his enemies lurking at all times

daigo's resolve is strong, having long since accepted his lot in life as a leader - but he can't deny that he just gets so exhausted sometimes

so when he can come home to you, who doesn't expect him to be the sixth chairman, a dojima, or hell, even a yakuza, just daigo, is when he feels the most loved

sometimes just lays his head on your lap when it's just the two of you on the couch in the living, the feeling of your fingers threading gently through his jet-black hair and just being able to relax making the stress in his muscles melt away almost instantly

his greatest peace is when you both lay down to sleep at night, holding him in your arms and whispering to him about how hard he works and to get all the rest he needs

he hums softly and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, not saying anything back as he revels in the feeling of your fingernails scraping against his scalp as your digits comb through the tresses of his hair

there's no expectations, no danger, nobody expecting him to make a decision on the spot or suppress his personal feelings for the good of many

just his darling lover who sees him for who he is, feelings and weaknesses and all, and still loves him

he knows that there's a long list of things he has to do tomorrow and put on a strong face again, but for now he lets himself cuddle in your grasp, letting your words and gentle touches soothe him to sleep

ryuji goda ❀ when he gets to show off for you

a very... simple method of affection for a very straightforward man

he's just got some somewhat dated ideas about what it means to be a man in a relationship, and a lot of them revolve around flexing how strong and skilled he is to you

nothing makes him more satisfied than seeing your eyes shine with awe when he helps you move an insanely heavy piece of furniture or when he shows you just how much whiskey he can knock back in one go

it's less of the showing off itself that makes him feel loved - he's confident in his strength and his skills so he needs no reassurance in that department

but your cutely surprised reactions and the fact that you're so openly proud to call him your boyfriend that you'd let him strut his stuff out in public to show the world how cool and strong he is... yeah, that's what makes him happy

he gets so determined to show off for you that he sometimes gets in way over his head about things he usually wouldn't give a shit about

for example, when he tried to get you the cute stuffed animal that you wanted from the ufo catcher

ryuji scoffed and told you to step aside, confident that he would get it first try

until he didn't. and didn't on the second, third, fourth, fifth tries-

he let out a string of colorful curses as he watched the claw uselessly pinch at the round little sparrow, his jaw tensed in concentration as he shoved another coin into the machine's slot

ignores your reassurances that he really didn't need to do this for you, retrying until he eventually gets the damn thing to drop in the hole

he feels stupid until he hands the round bun-chan toy to you, your eyes wide and a smile on your lips

as soon as you hug him with a squealed thank you, he laughs, patting your head and telling you that it wasn't a huge deal

ryuji's not one to usually lie, but your praise and admiration is, unsurprisingly, the BIGGEST deal to him

as he wraps his arms around your waist to walk the streets of sotenbori, showing off both you on his arm and the little plushie he won you, he knows he would move both heaven and earth if it meant it would make you proud to call him your lover

[soluversworld]

You, Serial Killer - Ren/Redacted x G.N Reader part 1~

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: You're the Corland Bay Butcher, The Serial Killer, you heard in the news, Bodies, dead, gone, You're nuts! What if, someone was helping ya back to keep you safe, Will you see through his act after all, You met him first. NOT HIM

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Violence & Gore – Mentions of knives, blood, and killing.

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

Self-Awareness of Morality – Internal conflict about killing/mercy.

Shakespearean-style Poetic Bullying – Intense self-deprecation with a dramatic, lyrical flair.

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

Why? Could be justice. Could be fun. Could be nothing at all, just a way to kill time. Could be money—blood-soaked bills stacking up in your pocket like trophies. It’s on you. But no matter the reason—you’re a fucking serial killer.

A name whispered in alleys. A face nobody remembers. A shadow in the wrong places at the

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer. The kind that gets headlines, Netflix docuseries, and edgy teenage fans who call you “misunderstood” while painting their nails black. Maybe you do it for justice (sure). Maybe for fun (closer). Maybe for nothing at all, because boredom is a worse death than whatever you dish out. Or maybe—just maybe—for money, ‘cause even murderers gotta eat.

You, though? You’re a special breed of fucked. You don’t just kill; you curate. A gallery of ruined bodies, each arranged with a shit bow and a shit-eating grin. You're the scum of the earth, and you know it. Flaunt it, really.

They’ll try to psychoanalyze you. Daddy issues, mommy issues, the whole trauma-riddled spiel. They’ll say you’re broken. That you snap at the world because the world snapped at you first. They’ll search for meaning where there is none. You don’t care to distinguish truth from the real—two entirely different beasts.

You probably fake-hate black holes because they’re cliché but would style yourself after one with a smile. Suck the light out of the room, leave nothing but a cold abyss.

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

A cute little library assistant by morning, shelving books with a saccharine smile, whispering “shhh” to old ladies and college students. By night? You’re a fucking scary-ass serial killer in a raincoat, dripping something that ain’t just rain.

Crowbar, knives—hell, anything sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. Baby, it’s your choice of weapon. You love blood. Live it, breathe it, bathe in it like it’s a second skin. Your love language? JK, no. You don’t need love when you’ve got arteries splitting open like pages in a well-loved book.

Turn the page. Who’s next?

Also—sadly—an anime fan. A shit living show called Attack on Giant owns a piece of your rotten little heart. You know it’s bad. You don’t care.

And worse? You have a fictional husband. Haruki Haruko. The timid, sympathetic, air-headed (but in a good way), people-pleaser type. Cotton candy in human form. The kind of guy who’d apologize for bleeding on your knife.

How the fuck does a blood-soaked abomination like you love a walking pink marshmallow like him?

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

You and your online friend MOTH? Howling for Haruko like a couple of rabid fangirls. CAPS LOCK ON. ESSAYS IN THE GROUP CHAT. “HE DESERVES THE WORLD” “HIS LITTLE SMILE” “I WANNA PROTECT HIM” — all while your hands are still sticky with blood.

MOTH doesn’t know you’re a killer. Shut up. They think you’re normal. That you just have “dark humor” and a really convincing way of describing knife wounds.

“omg if haruko was real i’d die for him <3”

You? Staring at your body count. Thinking, buddy, I don’t even die for me.

Life was fine. Whatever fine means for someone like you.

Then two idiots fucked up. Bad dudes. Real pieces of shit. The kind that makes even God wanna look away. They got your eyes—metaphorically or literally, who cares—and suddenly, you had a reason. An excuse.

You were already a killer. Now you’re a haunting.

They go first. Before the others. Before the side quests and the casual bloodshed. You want them to know. To feel it. The way your presence clings, the way their shadows stretch too long at night.

They look over their shoulders. They see nothing. For now.

You don’t just kill them. You ruin them.

The first one goes slow. Too slow. You take your time, peeling back skin like wrapping paper, watching them twitch, eyes rolling like marbles in their sockets. You laugh. You LAUGH. It bubbles out of you, high and breathless, like this is the funniest shit you’ve ever seen. Because it is. Because they thought they were untouchable, and now they’re meat.

The second one? Screaming. Begging. Doesn’t matter. You’re an artist, and their body is just another canvas. You make something beautiful—ugly—perfect. A mess of red and twitching limbs. Your hands are soaked, your raincoat is dripping, and you feel fucking alive.

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

You pause. The feeling lingers—someone watching, something just out of sight. But you? You just shrug.

Eh.

Not your problem. If they saw, they saw. If they didn’t, they’ll wish they had. You wipe your crowbar off on what’s left of them, let the sticky warmth seep into your gloves, and turn on your heel like this was just another Tuesday.

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

If the police are slick enough to find you? Good for them. You’ll make it fun.

You’re gone. Vanished into the night like the walking crime scene you are.

And then—he arrives.

A man, moving like he’s got all the time in the world. A black hoodie, mask pulled up just enough to hide what matters. Black hair, messy but intentional, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. And his eyes—blue. Too blue. Like the kind you’d see in angel paintings before they ruined you. Too bright. Too sweet.

If you were still there, you’d think, No fucking way.

But you’re not. And he? He’s got cleaning supplies.

Because it seems like you left.

He starts to clean. Like it’s routine. Like he’s done this before.

But you didn’t leave.

You grab him from behind—hard. Slam him down, pinning him with your weight, breath hot against his ear. He barely fights back.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snarl, pressing down harder. “What are you, some undercover cop? Finally found the killer? Corland Bay’s sweet psycho serial killer?”

His eyes—too fucking blue—widen. Stunned. Mouth slightly open, like he’s trying to form words but forgot how. And something about the way his face flushes—**soft pink, creeping up his neck—**is wrong.

You don’t notice. You press the knife against his throat. Harder.

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

Knee digging into his ribs, knife pressed against his throat, eyes narrowed. "What kind of detective—police—whatever the fuck are you?" You hiss, pressing just a little harder, feeling the faint hitch in his breath beneath the blade.

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

Like... ahhhh???!?!!?

AH—????

Your grip tightens. "The fuck is wrong with you?" You growl.

And him? His pupils are blown, his cheeks are flushed, and his breath is ragged in a way that’s not fear.

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

You press the knife a little deeper. Not enough to kill, just enough to scare. Or maybe to feel the pulse beneath the blade—fast, uneven, a little too eager.

"You’re gonna die here, you know that?" you murmur. Cute. Like this is just conversation. Like you’re talking about the weather. Another collection. Another body. You grin, sharp and mean.

But he’s still fucking flustered.

Still breathing all wrong. Eyes shining. Like he wants to say something. You peel his mask up, slow, deliberate. His fingers twitch, reaching like he’s gonna stop you—no. You shove his head back down, hard.

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

You glance around. The mess. The streaks of red. The bleach.

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

You look back down, and his eyes—too blue, too bright—are glassy, struggling to focus. He tries again to speak. You don’t care. You push his head down again—too hard.

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

Tall. 6’5”, easy. Sleeper build—lean but solid. Hands covered in marks. Scratches, burns—old, deep, childhood scars. Piercings that gleam under the shitty streetlights.

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

He was trying to clean up the mess. Your mess. The blood, the gore, the little bits of art you left behind like a signature.

A serial killer fan? A wannabe? Some poor, mentally ill fuck who thought you were some kind of idol?

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

Nice enough to clean up after you, to make sure your ass stayed off the radar. And you knocked him out.

Killing him now? Sad. Kind of a waste. But it’s tempting. The way his throat is right there, the way his too-pretty face would look even prettier painted red.

Nah.

Life’s shit. He’ll grow out of it. Probably. Or he won’t.

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

That’s the excuse you land on. Not the stupidest one you’ve made, not the worst, but damn if it isn’t pathetic. You. Showing mercy. Saint Y/N, patron of dumbasses who clean crime scenes.

You almost carry him—almost. He’s fucking heavy. Dead weight in every sense of the word, and your arms are not built for this. You drag him instead, yanking him into another alleyway, gritting your teeth at every awkward shuffle of his too-tall, too-pretty, too-stupid body.

He could wake up. Could see the sun. Could get scared, maybe. Maybe he’ll take the hint. Maybe he’ll run. Maybe he’ll get the fuck out of Corland Bay and out of your life.

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

Weird-ass serial killer fan? Some freak with a savior complex? Someone worse?

You don’t care. You won’t care.

Your work here is done. Corland Bay sleeps. So should you.

You yawn, stretch, crack your neck. Good night, dumbass.

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

A little child. Small hands, soft voice. He tries to give you a ring.

Innocent. Loved you.

And you—you looked. You can’t remember your own expression, but your face felt warm, felt happy. Like he was everything. Like he was your darling. A sweet boy.

You can’t see his face.

"Do you wanna marry me…? Angel! I'll take good care of you…"

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

Because Leon, your ass of a friend, grabs your hand, pushes the boy’s away. The ring falls. The boy stumbles.

He’s crying.

"He's a freak! I told ya! Why did you hang out with him? Look!"

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

Leon—nah. He took your hand. You let him.

And you watched.

Watched the boy cry. Watched him pick up the ring.

Your older self watched.

Watched your kid self. Watched the way your little hands twitched, how your feet stayed planted, how your mouth—silent.

You felt something. Like you wanted to remember. Like if you just reached a little further—

Then—

A sound.

Loud. Jarring. A kick to the ribs of your dream.

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

Coffee. Black, like your soul or whatever. Bitter, like your mornings.

You flip on the news. Same shit, different day.

"Yet another body was pulled from Bluemoss this morning. Authorities believe it was the work of the infamous Corland Bay Butcher—"

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

You hate it. If you were gonna be branded a legend, you’d at least give yourself a name with some style. But no. The public loves their sensationalist, overcooked horror movie bullshit.

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

It’s like that one show, Dexter. The whole Bay Harbor Butcher thing. Lame. At least Dexter got a name with a little bite—this? This sounds like something a washed-up true crime podcaster would spit out between sips of pumpkin spice.

People should’ve named you something cool. Something with presence. Something that rolls off the tongue like a whispered threat.

You sip your coffee, scalding hot, burning the tip of your tongue. Whatever. You like the pain.

The news anchor drones on, their voice that usual mix of forced solemnity and thinly veiled excitement. Because that’s what this is, right? The public eats this shit up. Blood and bodies and mystery.

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

They’re still talking about it, still digging up corpses like long-forgotten relics, still pretending they care.

But you know the truth.

People don’t care about the dead. They care about the thrill. The spectacle. The fear.

You roll your eyes and take another sip. Yeah, whatever.

You do like Dexter, though. Good show. But come on, at least his name had branding.

Moth texts. Buzz, buzz. Your phone screen lights up.

You flick open the keyboard, thumbs hovering. Moth is sweet. Thoughtful, even. Different time zones and all, but they still check in. You shoot back a quick "Thank you!" because you’re a saint.

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

"btwww! did u see the latest AoG ep?? i heard Haruko got an outfit change!!!!"

Moth

"spoil it for me. did he really change his hairstyle as well?"

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

He didn’t. Still the same. Still cute. Still sweet. Still the most lovable little cutie to ever exist.

You hammer it into the keyboard like it’s gospel.

Moth

"LMAOOO bless. also. shouldn’t u be at work rn."

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

You throw the phone. You bolt. Clothes? Shitty. Aesthetic? Somewhere between 2018 emo-core and 'I let a Tumblr gremlin dress me in the dark.'

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

You catch yourself in the mirror. Oh. Oh damn.

You look hot. Like feral raccoon meets 2018 Hot Topic cashier meets 'I definitely bite.'

Self-confidence? SKYROCKETED. You are an icon. A menace. A walking, talking Tumblr sexyperson if Tumblr had any taste.

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You can’t be feeling yourself this much and then drop a fucking uwu. That’s a war crime. That’s illegal. That’s—

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

Door swings open. The world outside assaults you with daylight. Gross.

"Oh! Hey there, Angel! Looking good!"

Violet’s standing there, all sunshine and soil-stained fingers, practically glowing in the morning light. Sickening. If it were anyone else, you’d gag. But it’s Violet. So you deal with it.

You flick your eyes to her hip, where yet another potted plant balances like a permanent attachment. Her whole apartment? Basically a jungle. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear she was growing a sentient vine army in there, plotting to take over the world with nothing but greenery and kindness.

You? Not complaining. The air always smells fresh, floral, and earthy as hell whenever she’s around—a perfect mask for the lingering traces of smoke and death clinging to you.

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

Violet grins, fishing for her keys. "Mm-hmm! This one’s a rosemary bush! Thought it’d be nice to have something useful."

Useful? You know fifty different ways to kill someone with rosemary. You smile.

"Nice."

Violet eyes you up and down, her expression turning downright delighted.

"Loving the look today, Angel! Very... 2018 Tumblr emo."

You snort. "You wound me."

"No, seriously! I kinda wanna raid your closet one day." She nudges you playfully, still grinning like she’s just discovered a hidden treasure trove of goth fashion secrets. If only she knew.

You laugh, all teeth and mischief. "Sure, sure. One day."

One day. Which means never. Because the only thing your closet is full of? Knives. Knives, crowbars, and the occasional bloodstained hoodie. Hardly the wardrobe of an alt-fashion influencer.

Then she dropped a bomb.

You blink. "Nope. Nada. Never heard of him."

Violet narrows her eyes, lips pursing. "You sure? "'Cause he seemed real familiar with you.""

Your stomach does this weird little flip, like your instincts are tapping at your ribs, whispering, Hey, maybe pay attention to this one. But you shut that feeling down real fast.

"Violet, babe, I think you dreamed this one up." You flash a grin, all casual confidence, even as your mind works overtime, flipping through the mental Rolodex of potential problems.

Tall guy? Dark hoodie? Alternative fashion? Too many belts? Jesus, what is he, a Final Fantasy character?

"No clue who that is," you repeat, a little slower this time, letting the lie settle.

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

You shrug, pretending your skin isn't crawling just a little. "Sounds like a him problem."

But in the back of your mind, you know damn well this is gonna be a you problem real soon.

"No worries, Vi. I got work now, I'll check later." You wave a dismissive hand, already stepping away.

Check later? Lmao, no. You didn’t give a shit. Who the hell would stalk you?

…Unless—

Oh.

If it was a stalker, then they were bold. And if they were bold, that meant either two things:

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

And ohhhh, baby, wouldn’t that be fun?

You bite your lip, suppressing the grin creeping up. A detective? Hunting you? Now that was hot.

Hell, maybe you'd let them catch up just for the thrill. Let them get close, real close—close enough to think they had you—before you turned the tables.

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself. Maybe it’s better to leave it at that. Maybe it’s better to pretend you don’t care. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You can stack those maybes like a house of cards, but it won’t stop the wind from blowing.

You’ve got bigger things to deal with. A shitty apartment. A shittier job. The nagging feeling that something off is creeping up behind you, but you? You walk faster.

You breathe deep, step through the library doors, and let the scent of old paper settle the static under your skin. It’s grounding. Familiar. The only thing that stays still in a world that never does.

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

Sweet, doting Elanor, with her scatterbrained ways and her insufferable meddling. She’s already smiling, head tilting, eyes flicking you over like she’s about to say something that’ll make you regret showing up today.

“Sooooo?” She hums, teasing. “How does it feel to no longer be the one in charge of stacking books all day long?”

Before you can answer, she keeps going, because of course she does.

“Although… you’ll still have to work the front desk from time to time, unfortunately.”

You shrug. Offer a smile—if it even counts. Make your way past her before she can wring you into another conversation that leaves you tired before noon.

The familiar chime of the library door rings. Someone’s entered. Not your problem. You duck down, slide your bag under the desk, start pulling out your things. You focus.

The hum of the library settles you, slow and steady, like an IV drip to an addict. Bookshelves, faint ink-and-paper perfume, the distant murmur of people who still think this place is a sanctuary.

And then—again.

Elanor.

Her voice drops into something light, airy, knowing. Fuck.

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

“You know, that new guy? The one who always checks out the books you put on display?”

She’s got a grin in her voice. It makes your eye twitch.

“And if I didn’t know any better—” (you don’t, Elanor, you never do,) “I’d say he has a little crush on you.”

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You shove her chair so it spins away from you, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.

The universe, it seems, has chosen today to test your patience.

And now—because fate is cruel and Elanor is worse—

Aisle 8.

The red light above the shelves blinks. Someone needs help. Him.

Of course.

You sigh. Drag yourself up. Refuse to look at her. You don’t need to—her glee is practically a tangible thing, radiating off her in smug waves. You weave through the shelves, every step an exercise in reluctant inevitability.

And then—there he is.

A broad figure. Back turned. Wearing the comfiest cardigan you’ve ever seen. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

And for the first time all day, so do you.

Pink.

Pink hair. Soft eyes. Tall—too tall. Looking at you like he’s just walked into a dream he wasn’t ready for.

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

His jaw moves, something almost forming before it stumbles out clumsy and quiet:

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

His eyes flick over you, unreadable, thoughtful, confused.

“But I thought you preferred softer clothing…? That’s why I…”

Why he what?

His voice dies. He clears his throat, face burning cherry-pink, matching his hair.

“Ahem! Um… S-Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

And you—oh, you—

You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

But his voice drags you back, an anchor to the present, and you scramble to piece together whatever sentence just left his cherry-stained lips. There’s a kind of innocence in the way he struggles for the right words, tripping over them like a nervous actor missing his cue. It’s almost endearing. Almost.

You give him a slow nod, a silent cue to keep going.

He takes a breath.

“…I need some help. I—I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

And there it is. The sleeve-tugging hesitation. That stammer, that nervous shift, like a protagonist straight out of one of Moth’s favorite anime. They’re going to absolutely lose it when you tell them about this later.

The stranger tries again, steadier this time, his gaze catching yours with something just a little too sharp.

“…Do you have any books on native flora? The best I’ve found are on generic wildlife, but nothing on Corland Bay’s plants.”

Plants? Your first thought is to direct him to Violet—this is her territory—but instead, you let out a quiet chuckle and step a little closer, scanning the shelf beside him.

He twitches. Not away—closer. Just slightly. A shift so subtle it’s almost imperceptible, except for the way his breath hitches when your scent brushes past him.

“No, you’re in the right section,” you murmur. “They’re just… buried.”

Your fingers ghost along the book spines, slow, deliberate, until you find the one. You tug it free, turning it in your hands before offering it to him.

“This the one?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not with words, at least. His gaze lingers—too long, too intense—before he finally reaches for it. His fingers brush yours, barely, but there’s a slight tremor in them.

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

“Yes,” he breathes, triumphant. “This is perfect. Thank you…”

You barely have time to nod before he adds, almost too softly:

“Haha, you’re like an angel, you know that? So kind.”

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

“Oh my God—” His face flushes, hands flying up as if he could physically shove the words back into his mouth. “I didn’t—Did I actually say that out loud? Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. That was—That must’ve been so weird—”

It’s adorable, in a train-wreck kind of way.

You bite back a grin, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His eyes flicker with something—relief? Embarrassment? It’s hard to tell beneath the flush crawling up his neck.

“R-Really?” His voice is softer now, hopeful. “Well, I meant it.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

And that should be the end of it. You should step away. Let him bask in his mortification. But he doesn’t move. Just watches. A silent, expectant sort of tension stretching between you.

You clear your throat. “Uh. You shouldn’t stare like that.”

His head tilts, almost curious. “Why not?”

Your stomach twists.

“Because I don’t know you,” you reply, words lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

His lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Ah. A technicality.”

You exhale sharply, already regretting this entire conversation. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

Ren. The name tastes unfamiliar, but something about it scratches at the back of your mind. The way he says it—like it’s borrowed. Like it’s just another book on a shelf, waiting to be picked up and put back down under a different title.

Still, you nod, forcing an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Ren.”

His gaze flickers down—to your name tag. A quiet hum leaves him.

“Y/n,” he muses. “Or… Angel, maybe.” His grin sharpens. “Both suit you.”

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

“…You said you needed a new lock for your apartment.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

You hesitate. There’s no real harm in telling him, right? It’s not like he’s the one who broke in.

“Someone snuck in last night,” you admit, shrugging. “Didn’t steal anything. But still. Creepy.”

Ren hums again, thoughtful. Then, without missing a beat:

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

He shrugs, casual. “Stay up. Keep an eye out. Handle it if anything happens.” His voice is smooth, steady, like he’s offering to water your plants while you’re away. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

It’s insane. It’s suspicious. It’s absolutely something you should say no to.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“…You offering to be my personal bodyguard now?”

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

"You really want to protect a stranger like me, Who knows, You-" You went closer to his ear whispered "can't trust anyone...What if, I'm luring you for my own fun..?"

He flustered, almost fell down...You giggle and left.

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

He looks cute, won’t lie. Almost too cute. You’ve always wanted to commit a Haruko crime—sink your knife into something pretty, watch something lovely turn ruinous in your hands. Killing him would be fun.

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

The one from the alley. The first one you didn’t kill. The one you let walk free.

Your mind wrenches back to him, unbidden. That look in his eyes, the way he stood—different. He wasn’t like the others. He was… something else.

And maybe—just maybe—your poor, gutted heart…

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

Shitty. Yes. You’re fucked in the head.

And oh, how you love it.

A wretched thing, a beautiful disaster, a creature born to revel in ruin—you, a lover in the way fire loves to lick at the edges of a home, the way a knife loves the tender give of flesh.

What is it, then? This itch in your skull? This whisper in your bones? Some ghost of mercy rattling in your ribcage? How disgusting. How divine.

You let one go. One. And yet his ghost lingers like the taste of copper on your tongue. A memory dressed in blue-eyed regret.

You should carve it out. Bleed it dry. But oh, don’t you adore the ache?

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Could you do a Sebastian Solace x Reader (gender neutral is fine) where he is led to believe the reader has permanently died? Somehow he receives this information. At this point, him and reader don't have to have an established relationship, but they definitely have a bond and affection for each other. Then, the reader comes into the vent the following day like always, and there's a happy ending? Angsty until then though please 🙏 Thank you so much

"What do you mean they aren't back yet?!"

"......."

"I lent them a token 'cause that was an unfair end to their run. They would've used it by now."

"I'll admit that the Harbinger's...unexpected arrival was most unusual. No one at Urbanshade knows where it comes from nor why it chose to show itself to the expendable."

"[Y/n]."

"Pardon?"

"It's...[y/n].." Sebastian's shoulders slumped as he looked to the enigmatic green man who decided to show up inside his shop, confused by his sudden presence. "And why are you here now? We agreed to only meet when--"

"You seem awfully attached to them, Solace. And that's not good for us." Mr. Lopee frowned slightly. "You're giving them special treatment, putting a name to their face. Don't you want to get out of here?"

"...of course I do! I'm not "attached" to anybody." The fishman muttered, although his nervous tapping against the crates betrayed his insistence. "They've just given me the most dirt on Urbanshade, and I'd hate to lose their business.."

"Well, unfortunately...they have not returned from the Banlands. I don't believe they ever will. I'd consider their soul to be lost in the ocean for eternity."

In an instant, he felt his heart sink into the pits of his stomach, trying to process the words he just heard. "What do you mean "lost"?? She can't find them?!"

"Death has grown weary of her duties." Mr. Lopee answered grimly. "That is all I know. I have no way to contact her, but this may be a sign that she's tired of resurrecting Urbanshade personnel. Those tokens have lost their meaning."

"No..no, no, no. That's stupid!" Sebastian snapped. "She can't just "decide" to stop now!! That wasn't a fair death!"

"Nothing is fair down here, my friend. You of all people should understand that. Now continue your work. Don't let yourself become distracted over one insignificant loss."

"....I won't, "boss"." The fishman sneered rudely, watching him disappear into a cloud of green and black smoke.

But the second he was gone, Sebastian dropped his snarky front, trying his best to stay calm despite the grim news he was told.

There was a way that an expendable can die...permanently?

Did the Harbinger have something to do with that? Or was the ferry lady simply uncaring and decided she was done reviving people?

He knew that she was going to be replaced within the next year or two, so maybe she thought it was all pointless now.

Either way, he'd never know.

And he'd likely never know what really happened to you. He only had to trust Mr. Lopee's words...and begrudgingly so.

""Distracted", my ass. They have to come back eventually. They...they made a promise.." His shoulders sagged as he glanced at the vent again, only for his ear fins to perk up at the sounds of thumping.

"[Y/n]? Hah. I knew he was messing with......me...."

Much to his disappointment, it was just another Wall Dweller infected with the rotten coral who decided to sneak into his shop. And with one swift motion, he dispatched it with his shotgun, watching its head explode into clay and gore as the remains flopped to the ground.

"Ugh..disgusting.." He grumbled, not happy that he had to pick apart the creature piece by piece, wishing he didn't have to touch the alien plant. But all of it was still edible, even for expendables who couldn't even touch the bloxy cola left behind after the lockdown.

You always joked about how it's the only way you could get "greens" in your diet-

'Shit..why am I thinking about them again?'

Sebastian's hands shook a little as he set the pieces on the table, wishing he could tear these stupid feelings out of his chest, wondering why he ever allowed himself to get so close to you in the first place.

He never should have opened up. Not to you. Not to anyone.

There were more important things at stake.

He shouldn't be mourning over you. What good would that do? Mr. Lopee had a point. Maybe he was getting distracted--losing sight of his goal and the burning hatred he had for Urbanshade.

He had to get out. He shouldn't care about some weak little expendable.

And yet...he couldn't stop thinking about how badly he wanted to escape with you, and maybe even..get to know you a lot better without having to pretend to be business partners. He wouldn't have to pretend to despise you and find you annoying.

Now he couldn't even find out your exact status in the Banlands. But from what Mr. Lopee implied...your soul was forever trapped at the bottom of that dark ocean, surrounded by thousands more.

By thousands of haunted faces and screams he himself once heard when the ferryman scooped him out of the water.

It drove him insane for the remainder of the day, and despite trying to fight his exhaustion by organizing his wares and assets...sleep managed to find him for once.

Yet his dreams were anything but pleasant.

He was forced to witness the horrific scenario of that fabled Harbinger descend upon you, tearing into the locker you were hiding in whilst he was unable to do anything but scream for it to stop tormenting you.

His pleas fell on deaf ears, and he watched the demonic entity paint the entire room red with your blood.

...........

"Huh..that's weird."

Arriving to the 50th room, you were surprised that the vent grate didn't pop open like normal. You knew for sure Sebastian was there, given the spotlights shining directly towards the entrance to his shop.

So you opened it as quietly as you could--just in case he was sleeping. The last thing you ever wanted to do was startle the sleep-deprived traumatized fishman because of some noise.

He'd rarely doze off, and funny enough it only happened whenever you were in the shop, too, indicating he'd grown to trust you deeply.

You've come a long way in your friendship, although judging by the numerous discounts he's given you, the lack of landmines and ADS devices scattered around, his scoldings becoming less harsh and insulting, and his increasing worry for your safety the further you got into the blacksite....you wondered if he felt something more.

Like..attachment, almost.

But of course, you didn't want to assume anything.

Surely, you're just a means to an end for him. All he cares about are the documents you bring him and nothing more. He's only slightly more concerned for you because you bring him the most valuable stuff and barter with him better than other expendables.

However, as soon as you emerged from the other side of the vent and dusted off your pants, you could see Sebastian was almost...writhing in his sleep, his claws leaving deep marks in the crates as he whimpered, his tail flicking violently.

You had to duck as it suddenly swung over your head, but when you heard him utter your name, you froze with surprise.

Was he...dreaming about you?

You would've been flattered, if not for the realization that he was probably having a nightmare instead. So you quietly went over to him, wondering how you can wake him up and explain your....absence.

You couldn't return to the living world for some time after the Harbinger killed you, and surely...he's gonna realize that and get pissed off at you "wasting" another ferry token.

You just pray he believes you.

"Seb? Wake up." Stepping onto his desk was a risk, but it was one worth taking as it allowed you to get close to him so you could shake his shoulder. It took him some time to get used to your touch, and thankfully he's more comfortable with it now.

Suddenly, he gasped as his eyes snapped open, his upper body sitting up with such a start. You damn near fell off the table, but managed to keep your balance as you stared up at him.

He saw you, and only your uniform, and got angry.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!! GET OUT-!!!"

"Sebastian it's me!! It's me!!" You shouted, your voice rising a few octaves as you held your hands up.

He huffed and puffed, beads of sweat dotting his hairline as he looked down and slowly began to recognize your face.

And then the realization hit him.

You were here. Alive. Breathing.

You were back as if nothing had happened.

"[Y/n]?" He shuddered. "Shit..sorry. H-How are you...? I'm not seeing a ghost, am I?"

"I'm not. And know you're mad, so let me explain.." You sighed, putting your hands down. "I tried coming back, but the portal was busted, so I got...stuck on the other side for a while. The ferry lady was nice enough to show me how to repair it, though she didn't say much else. She seemed to appreciate me expressing my condolences for her husband, and....."

You trailed off as Sebastian put a hand on your shoulder, and at first you were worried he was going to throttle you for making him wait this long...

Only for him to pull you into a quick embrace, lifting you off your feet. "Ah..I'm sorry, Seb." You hugged him back, feeling guilty. "I guess I've been away too long, huh?"

"..it's been an entire day."

"Really?" Your heart sunk as he let you go, setting you back on the floor. "God, I...I had no idea. You must have been freaking out."

"Only...a little bit.." He muttered, managing to calm himself down as he brushed his bangs to the side. "Someone has...led me to believe that you died permanently. But they were wrong, so it doesn't matter anymore."

You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether or not to question who told him that, but you didn't wanna stress him out over the details, considering how shaken-up he got.

"Yeah, I guess it doesn't." You shrugged, deciding to look at the wares Sebastian had available.

Unfortunately, you lost all the assets you collected this time, although there wasn't anything of utter importance that you needed right now. But after grabbing the keycard to leave....he blocked the vent with his tail. "Seb?"

"Why don't you stay here a while? Hm?" He coughed, trying to hide his nervousness.

"Why? In case the big bad Harbinger gets me?" You chuckled, only to fall silent as he didn't laugh at all. "Alright, bad joke. I'll stick around for a bit."

Judging from how his shoulders instantly relaxed the moment you said that, you realized he did care more for your safety than other expendables. He didn't want you running back out into danger so quickly, especially as he knew that if you were to revive again, the ferryman...won't really like that.

It was kinda sweet seeing him act so clingy with just you, even when he didn't wanna outright admit it.

[dwaekkicidal]

Any thoughts on daddy boyfriend Minho? x

DADDY BOYFIE MINHO?¿¿??¿?? 😣😣 many thoughts... i got a little (a lot) carried away and made this sugar daddy to boyfriend minho and a lot longer than i meant to lol.. hope you enjoy <3

warnings: gn!reader, last paragraph has pet play, daddy dom!minho

For some reason I instantly thought of Sugar Daddy Minho, who is only <10 years older than you but is well off due to his job AND gives off the dominant vibes that make you respect him as an 'elder' right off the bat. He first sees you in a coffee shop he goes to with one of his friends, you're too pretty for him to miss out on so he strikes up a conversation with you. His looks mixed with the confidence he gave off made you instantly attracted to him. So much so that you fold embarrassingly fast when he brings up a 'Sugar Baby' idea.

You trust him pretty easily right away because he made you both sign a contract containing agreements for both of your safety and HE'S the one who puts the 'no sex' rule in place: only asking for your companionship and occasional dates (he doesn't tell you right away but he only did it for your comfort, he makes it VERY clear how into you he is both emotionally and physically). After you find that out, you tell him you don't want the rule in place and he immediately throws it out the window. (& you two fuck that night hehe) Everything is still the same after this but now you two are dating and the contract hold less meaning the longer you two date (until he inevitably brings up vetoing the contract because he trusts you that much c':)

On the outside: You two look like any other couple! The only time people bat an eye is when you "Daddy! Can you buy me this?? Pleaseee~" to him in public after they just watched you kiss on the lips (LMFAO). And let me tell you, Daddy boyfie Minho spoils you rotten. Even more so now that you two have known each other for a long while so he's no longer afraid of being 'scammed by a stranger'. Now it's just the love of his life who he plans to marry soon enough is asking for a well deserved treat. He leaves no space for any ifs, ands, or buts from anybody when he decides that you deserve a new present. The store is out of stock? Tough shit. Order it now or show him the nearest store that has it in stock. Oh, it's not for sale anymore? That's unfortunate. "I'll pay you triple if you give me the last ones you have in the back."

"Don't worry kitty. I don't care how many places I have to drive to, you earned this this so you are getting this. Nuh-uh! No 'buts.'"

Oh, and Daddy boyfie Minho absolutely folds the second he sees your puppy dog eyes and pouted lips, no matter what is for. Whether it be for him to do something for you that he wouldn't do for anybody else or go somewhere with you that he doesn't want to go or anything that his friends wouldn't catch him dead doing. For you? It's done the second the request leaves your lips. That concert that you want to go to with him but he's busy that day? Oh look at that, the meeting was 'randomly' pushed back a day. That pretty piece of jewelry he told you to 'wait' for? "Don't give me those eyes, kitty.. You know I- Ah. Fuck it. Excuse me, can I buy one of those?" That person hurt your feelings? Realistically nothing much he can do but he will stare holes into their head and do everything in his power to get them far far away from you while cooing at you and comforting you.

"Kitty... you know I hate crowded places.." Pleeeease Daddy! It will only last a few hours! And I promise I'll make it up to you~

Daddy boyfie Minho who is an ass man and absolutely LOVES to spank you in any scenario. You're cooking a meal? Should've kept your guard up. -smack- Oh, you're minding your business doing work at your desk? Will literally go out of his way to stand you up, land a smack to your ass, then sit you back down and walk away. There will be days where he doesn't hit you on the ass even once, but that always means that he has already or will grab a handful and just sit there. Also does this in public and in front of your & his friends. After a while nobody is phased, and everybody goes on with the conversation as if he isn't grabbing at your cheeks like a freak.

In front of my parents? Really? "Sorry Jagiii. (he's not) You know I can't help myself! You're just too cute~"

Behind closed doors: Daddy boyfie Minho who you can't help but submit to immediately every time you're in the bedroom. You did it the first time you had sex and you can tell he felt something awakened in him. Now, after many many sessions, you default to kneeling on the floor in front of him while he stands or sits in before you and pets your hair softy like his little kitty<3. Even on days you're particularly bratty, you tend to just submit the second he's in a position with space between his legs for you. He loves being in power both in and outside of the bedroom, so any time you're below him and oh so submissive he's weak in the knees and his chest is swelling with pride & horniess.

"You're always so good for me, right kitty? Just a good little pet for your Daddy~"

Daddy boyfie Minho who, I literally can't stress this enough, loooves when you submit it him with no struggle. That being said, on particularly stressful days when one of you is pent up and wants a harder scenario, he can't lie to himself and say he doesn't enjoy if you brat out and make him work for it. But on days like that, just remember that he's in MeanRacha for a reason😉 Likes having you lay across his lap so he can swap between fingering you and spanking you (or on particularly fiending days, will use a dildo and/or vibrator on you hehe). Coos at you and smiles at your strangled moans and pleads of "Daddy please! 'S too much" , only to then push the dildo even deeper into you or the vibrator harder against you.

"Awww it's too much? Too bad. Now be a good little kitty and take what is given to you." >.<

I'm a firm believer that Daddy boyfie Minho would love to put a collar on you and keeps a whole collection for you to choose from depending on your outfit/mood. Discreet ones (aka general "submissive collars") for when you're going in public and not trying to be uncomfortable with other people's looks. But then he has very obvious ones for the bedroom, specifically ones with a biiig hole in the middle or a space attached to it so he can attach a leash to it. When you're sitting between his legs he likes to wrap the leash around his hand a few times and hold you close against his thigh, stroking your cheek and just sitting there enjoying the comfort of the moment. But it only lasts so long before he uses the leverage of the tight leash to fuck your mouth onto his dick <3

"Which pretty collar will it be today, my love? The black one matches your outfit, but you know I do love that mint one on you."

[nitewrighter]

Snow White and the Fae Co-Op

Part Four: Bravely Ran Away Away

Previous Parts: 1, 2, 3

Masterpost

CW for Animal death

---

I am gonna say that Snow gets a bit fuzzy on the details here. I don't know if it was a matter of trauma blurring stuff, or her weird fae sensory shit creating a lot of overlaps on the story, or what have you, but she only told me this part at like, chunks at a time, so this is how I can piece it together as best I can.

She managed to regroup with the prince not too long after the whole incident, but whether that was a day or three, I couldn't tell you. By the time she finds him again, though, he has a bandage over his nose. The first time they see each other again, he rushes up to her like he intends to suddenly take her up in a "Ohmygod you're not dead" hug but he manages to stop himself like a step and a half from her, and he studies her for a second, studies that worried little crinkle in her brow, and also he's forced to question, for a second, if she made him stop, or maybe that his own hesitation in this moment is a natural reflex of human will against that force that made him tear up the stairs at a single word from her.

"You made me leave," he says stiffly.

"Because it wasn't safe for you," Snow replies.

"I mean clearly, things aren't safe for you!"

"Yes, well, I know that she wants to kill me, but she can't, because if she could she would have done it already, but she doesn't register you as a threat in the slightest!"

"Thanks."

"Oh my god, you should be thankful for that!"

His shoulders stiffen and that unspoken assumption that there is nothing he can do to help her comes as a slap in the face to him this time. Humans and their masculinity, I swear. But then there's that iron in him again, and we all know about Fae and iron.

"So what are you going to do?" he asks.

Snow startles a sec because 'excuse you I am the Princess Messiah and maybe also the Evil Queen's heart kinda but either way you don't just question me.' But then she stammers, "I'm--that's--you can't expect me to immediately have a plan when she has that mirror!"

"So... you need help," the Prince concludes.

"If there was a plan, more people knowing it would make it easier to see with the mirror!" Snow snaps.

"So you're saying that you don't have a plan," the Prince follows up.

One thing about Snow is, with that freaky pasty skin, is that when she does that little rage/embarrassment flush humans do, it's crazy obvious. Also honestly really cute.

...I miss our Sentient Duck.

But Snow is still upset. Again, fucking teenager, and also there's all that nobility whatnot, so she says, "I don't owe you a plan. I don't owe you anything." Or something along those lines. Again, she kind of told this part in chunks so I'm piecing it together.

But the prince doesn't waver.

"I remember my parents' faces from before she took their kingdom," the words seep out of him like blood through a too-thin bandage being pressed down a little too hard, "Do you remember yours?"

"Shut up," Snow isn't meeting his eyes.

"I remember when they stopped tucking me in at night. I remember the way the stones of our castle were ice cold beneath my bare feet when I went to find out why. I remember them telling me to go to bed while they pored over maps with their generals."

"You don't get to bring this up now!" Snow can hear the Queen's venom in her own voice.

"You know something is rotten in this land, but you've never known a world outside what the Queen has built--"

Snow abruptly pivots away and moves to stomp off, but he catches her by the arm.

"Don't touch me," there's that Queen's venom in her again and his fingers slacken briefly but she doesn't tear away. A breath seethes between perfectly white teeth framed by full red lips.

"I'm sorry," a lank lock of dishwater hair is hanging in his face, "I know... you're frightened. I know... so much is weighing on you right now. But 'Can't do it alone' isn't the same as 'Can't do it.' You sang your song, and I'm here. I wasn't before, and I'm sorry for that, but you change the world, Princess. And you changed me. You made me wonder what more I can do. Do you wonder the same?"

And all at once there are big fat tears bubbling up in Snow's eyes, and a breath is seething between her teeth and she just tears her arm away and grabs up her skirts and hustles off.

A few days later the Evil Queen and Snow are eating dinner together.

"My dear," the Evil Queen says, cutting into her squab, "You look so pale of late."

"I have literally always looked like this," says Snow, poking at her roasted radishes.

"I think it would do you a world of good to go out into the royal wood and forage for some fresh ingredients for our stores. We could pick our practice back up, isn't that wonderful?"

"I thought you said I was hopeless."

"Oh, but you are Snow White! You are the very essence of hope!"

Snow pokes at her radishes again. "So you want me to go to the woods."

"Yes."

"Where there are very few witnesses."

"Mm."

"And do something that will require a significant amount of my concentration."

"Mm-hm!" the Evil Queen takes a bite of squab, "Unless... there's something wrong, my dear. Have I given you reason, recently, to doubt my intentions for you?"

Snow told me she thinks the Queen genuinely got a kick out of making her lie--of pitting Snow's inhumanly pure and magical nature against the survival instincts of her human flesh. I hated the way her face just kind of went blank when she told this part to me.

"No," Snow replies, "I would never doubt your intentions, my queen. I am grateful for your mercy and your wisdom every day."

"Excellent," the queen smiles, "You are such a clever thing, Snow, it would be a shame to give up on our lessons."

And Snow just stares at the radishes on her plate.

So a day or two after that Snow and the Huntsman are both riding out to the castle portcullis when the prince tears out after them yelling "HEY! HEEYYY!" And Snow's head swings around like 'Oh fuck he's going to get himself killed,' so she glanced over to the Huntsman and sweetly says, "Oh dear--he's having one of his fits again. Artists, you know. if I may have a moment?"

And the Huntsman shrugs and Snow swings off her horse and with one hard sharp look at the prince he slides to a stop and she grabs him by the arm and practically drags him by the stable out of sight.

"You can't go out there with him--" the Prince starts, "The Queen--"

"I know," Snow cuts him off.

"I'll--I'll follow you. At a distance. I can--"

"Don't." she squeezes his arm.

"But--"

"You were right," she says softly, "I don't have a plan. And I don't know what a world without the Queen looks like. And I'm scared of what I can do."

"Snow---"

"But I can change things. I don't know how, yet, but if nothing changes in here, maybe I need to go out there."

"But he's going to---"

"I changed you," she touches the side of his face, "And I'm so sorry for that. I'm so sorry everything's going to be harder for you from now on."

"I don't care about that--just tell me what to do, tell me how I can help--" the anguish in his voice is palpable.

"Prince [REDACTED] of Damp Kingdom," she says, and he stills at his name, "If I don't come back, destroy the mirror."

His jaw hangs slack. "How am I supposed to...?" he starts but then realizes he's talking to someone who's 90% sure she's riding out to her own murder, and he realizes it's not about him or her, it's about giving the world a fighting chance against the Queen's will. She's not going to let him kill himself trying to save her, but if he dies taking out that mirror...

And of course, like a dumbass, because he can't be a macho piece of shit for one second, he can't be like, 'Burr huburr I won't let that happen because I'm the hero' because he knows he's not the main character here. Because he fucking believes in her, he says, "I--I will."

Fuck. She didn't know. She didn't fucking know. Stupid fucking kid.

No, I don't want another fucking round. Can we get out of here? Can we walk? Let's just pick up the tab and go.

----

Thanks, man, sorry. Normally I'm really good with human-dense environments but--I couldn't stay in there. I hate this part of Snow's story. I know it's what brought her to us, but she came to us because she was like us, you know? She was a kid between worlds. No one comes into existence of their own free will, but it's fucked up if you come into everything on the margins like that. She should have had people. She should have had us.

What do you mean how did I do that?

Oh, [REDACTED]?

I dunno, man, I haven't been able to say his name for a really long time. I hate the new noise for it. It used to sound like a sharp note on a hurdy-gurdy, then it was radio static, and now it's been that dial-up... sound-badly-edited out of a film noise for a few decades now. Maybe one day it'll just be that dumb cheery TikTok AI voice going, "Redacted!" Can you imagine? What a fucking nightmare.

I should get back to the story.

So... Snow rides out with the Huntsman, and she spends the day picking feverfew and mushrooms. It's not a bad way to go out, all things considered. Just slit my throat nice and quick while I'm squatting over some thornapple. Except the Woodsman doesn't. For fucking hours and hours Snow is basically infodumping about plants and wondering why the hell she isn't murdered yet.

In the stories they keep saying that the woodsman saw that Snow was so pure or so beautiful that he couldn't bring himself to harm her. And maybe that happened. I've seen Snow turn that shit on and it's, you guessed it, actually scary as fuck. So, there's probably more deep-end fae versions of this where she just lights up like 'Vwooooom' and the Huntsman crumples before her like, "Forgive me! Forgive me, Princess-Messiah!" But like---here's the thing--

Snow told me she tried that. Not like, immediately, she waited for a while, knew they both kind of had to maintain this 'Tralala-wheee we're in the forest' thing, but there was a point where they were both riding, him on his destrier, she on her shaggy pony, and she glanced over at him and 'fwoooom' for all intents and purposes he should be looking at a fucking Marian Apparition. But he... didn't react to her at all. And that was when Snow saw he wasn't carrying his usual knife, and he had a box on his hip that gave her a headache and a weird ringing sensation in her teeth if she looked at it too long. So we're like, pretty sure the Queen made those objects with her jury-rigged alchemy bullshit so that, in theory, the huntsman would be able to cut out Snow's heart without it affecting the queen, and they gave him the added stat bonus of not crumpling in the face of The Miraculous Fae Weapon Princess Messiah on full-blast.

And then Snow, internally, is like, Ah. Fuck. Well, okay.

So the day drags on and on and fucking on. When's he gonna kill her? When is this piece of shit going to kill her? But he doesn't. So after about 3 hours, Snow is pretty sure this is now a fucked up psychological game from the Queen and she's like, I won't give her the satisfaction, and muscles on for another two hours, but then... she tried thinking, What can I do? I can change the world but I can't change this? I can... set bees on him? If I sing? Maybe? No--I can't explicitly ask for bees, it doesn't work if it's too specific--it answers to want--it answers to--

She told me that the image of the prince as that small child came to her mind unbidden then, then bare feet on freezing cold castle stones, his fate decided before he has any understanding of who he is, let alone what he can do, and all of a sudden she realizes that she's fae software running on human hardware and something in her snaps.

And she starts sobbing and blubbering hard. "If you're going to do it, just fucking do it already! Did she want this!? Did she want me to beg?!"

And the Huntsman flinches where he stands, and those big burly shoulders start buckling and heaving and he drops to the ground like a sack of bricks as he hyperventilates. "I can't--I--I have to--but--you're her age!"

Snow is caught mid sob then and makes a sound like "Whugh? "

"My daughter... I thought I could do this because you're--because I can see the queen in you---but I see her in you, too. I didn't think I would--god...if I don't---"

"The Queen will kill her," her voice is still phlegmmy, but the frost seems to be reforming with Snow, the steady resolve. I think this was another pure-of-heart thing--it's a lot harder for her to do something magical for herself, but if she's doing it for other people as well...

"She told me if I wanted to see her alive, I had to bring your heart back in this," the Huntsman pulls the box off of his belt and Snow winces at the full sight of it, "Sorry..."

"No--you didn't know--" Snow is pressing her fingers to her forehead, "So... a heart. You need a heart." She squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds and then she says, "I can buy you time to run."

And she starts singing, it's a song similar to the one she was singing by the well, but there's more intent to it, now. She has the ingredients, the will, to build what she needs. There's that hook of wanting, that royal will, but layered on top of it is the plight of a father, the terror of a young lady, and the promise of immortality, of glory, in a story greater than you will ever now.

And an ancient boar comes trotting out of the woods. Snow kneels before it, strokes a hand along its coarse side, and touches her forehead to its own. Tears drip from her eyes and trickle down the sides of boar's scarred snout. A few more notes escape her, an apology, a promise of swiftness and comfort and ease, more than nature will ever grant it.

I need you to understand at this point, that Snow's ability to commune with animals is not a special trait of humanity. The boar connected with Snow because it saw something in her that most other humans had left behind.

Snow settles into a more comfortable sitting position and flairs out her skirts around herself, soft silks on the coarse grass, and the boar gently lays down on its side, setting its head in her lap. She looks up at the Huntsman and then flicks her eyelashes down at the boar in her lap. And without a word the huntsman understands.

Snow winces more than the boar when the knife is drawn, the metal seems to sing at a frequency only she can hear. She doesn't look away from the act, though. The boar doesn't struggle at all as the Huntsman draws the knife through the thick hide at its throat--there is a momentary tensing of the beast, but Snow strokes a hand across its side, breathing the words, "Thank you, thank you," and it eases and finally its old eye clouds. Both Snow and the Huntsman sit a few moments in respectful silence.

Finally the Huntsman says, "You must leave, Princess."

And Snow solemnly replies, "I know." A few seconds pass and then she says, "...I--um, I can't move my legs."

And the Huntsman goes, "Oh jeez--Sorry--" and helps haul the Boar off her legs.

She kisses the huntsman on the cheek with a soft "Thank you, sir, for everything," before taking off into the woods, her skirts soaked in blood.

Hey--I know a place nearby, it'll probably be last call by the time we get there, but we'll be out of the cold for at least a little bit. I get the vibe you'll like it better than the last bar. Come on.

[notmorbid]

we could be rats.

dialogue prompts from we could be rats by emily r. austin.

that's the most insensitive thing you could have said.

i never say the right thing.

i wasn't the type of kid who wanted to be a teenager.

there were times i thought i hated you.

maybe if we'd met as adults, things would have been different.

i was the kind of kid who believed toys had hearts and souls.

nothing is ever purely good, is it? there's always a rotten piece.

i'm not depressed. i feel great.

i'm not the same person you knew.

did you feel like you knew me, the last couple of years?

i don't think i've ever been described as 'smart' before.

would it help to hear a joke?

why didn't the skeleton go to the party? because they had no body to go with.

am i getting too morbid?

i have you listed as my next of kin.

do you think i'm being insensitive and gruesome?

just bury me in a garbage bag.

i never really honed being well-mannered, did i?

i think i've accidentally made up white lies that were ruder than the truth.

creeps like us have to stay alive.

we haven't put a label on it.

i think your definition of 'creep' might be different than mine.

say i was abducted by aliens, or something.

are you mad at me? it's okay, if you are.

is my tone making you madder? i bet it is.

i don't plan to haunt you.

____ is like a comic book villain. like a caricature of a bad guy.

listen to people who have different experiences than you do.

you're being an asshole.

we're supposed to examine what's wrong, or it festers.

i used to think i could do anything.

what happened? are you hurt?

do i look normal to you?

the actual experience is never quite what's promised, is it?

it feels like i'm not the target audience for a lot of life.

tell people to fuck off more. take what you want. stir shit up.

everybody knows you.

i feel like i'm still a kid here.

i always cared about you.

everything will be fine. we'll find our way.

it didn't occur to me that not panicking was an option.

i feel sort of reborn.

it's hard to balance being both happy and considerate.

it's kinder to lie sometimes, right?

i'd rather be a pig than a cop. pigs are adorable.

being grown up feels like playing a board game with no instructions.

masks meld onto your face.

let's egg their car.

remember swinging, when you were a kid?

'to thine own self be true', or whatever.

people judge others by their own standards.

i don't remember how i got here.

i feel like i was cast as a character i'm not able to play.

i wouldn't want to live forever. would you?

i'm not sure there's a way to be alive without upsetting people.

inaction is an action.

dying is less scary than growing up.

is this actually happening? am i dreaming?

the trick to lying is to convince yourself.

i don't want you to feel sorry for me.

i feel like i don't know the things i'm supposed to. i feel like i'm pretending.

revolution is about creation, not destruction.

sometimes it's kinder to let people believe they're helping you, even when they're not.

i'd like to see where you grew up.

it sounds like a lot of people want to help you.

do you have people who want to help you?

did you egg my house?

there's no way the moon is a dude. she's got a soulful face. she's gorgeous.

we don't actually get much choice in life, do we?

i think i'm gay.

thinking about _____ sort of knocks the wind out of me.

if i hadn't met you, i'd be a totally different person.

i know i'm unbearable, but what else can i be?

i have a history of bad judgment.

what the hell did you just call me?

i'm not interested in small talk with people who offend or insult me.

i used to believe everyone was good.

i thought everyone felt that way.

did you hear it was on the news?

deep down, we're all who we were when we were kids.

being an adult is about re-finding who you were when you were eight years old.

i don't want to be someone who hurts people. i don't think i was meant to be that.

have you been outside today?

[maeby-cursed]

➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over. 

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years. 

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all. 

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get. 

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips. 

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.  

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in. 

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour. 

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

© 2024, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

[thegnomelord]

With all these M!reader courting (and practically rizzing up everyone) in their own hybrid way, imagine poor Ghost, he's like toothless, doesn't know how tf to court someone of say, even his own species because he was once human

And with that rant about all the absurd ways of courting, what would he call as his own?

Would he give gifts like Gaz and Price? A piece to remember them by?

I doubt he'd be the physical type like cuddly ol soap who loves to scent,

He's practically a shadow (literally and figuratively) and I feel like the best he can do is stare and slowly blink like a cat (and let's be honest most of the time we don't see his eye) so he might even just act like a stalker and watch from afar, not much of a scent even on him if he's near, even when in the midst of battle

So what can he do then? I feel like going to Price is his best bet and when he tries to scent something like Soap it smells like nothing

I feel like he'd beat himself up on it

(Also fucking love your courting works, I've been eating that shit up its become a hyperfixation)

- ☕️ Anon

I reckon that staring would be less of a wraith thing and more of a Simon thing. Because like, wraiths don't reproduce, they're made not born. So poor Simon just has to try to use the knowledge he had before he died.

CW:NSFW subbot ghost, topdom reader, rough and quick

He likes you.

Just like he's a Riley, just like the sky is blue, his affection for you is one of the few truths of the world he doesn't question. Only problem — he doesn't know how to tell you. You're not human and neither is he, not anymore, but he's woefully unprepared when it comes to you, doesn't know if he's supposed to go about it as a wraith or as a man.

He tries; Simon's phone is full of open tabs containing every piece of information about your species, trying to find grains of truth in the contradicting mess of words. He's memorized how you like your morning coffee down to the last flake of sugar, watching your face carefully when you trudge to the communal kitchen to find your mug steaming and everything laid out near it. He knows your schedule inside out, always a few minutes earlier in the gym when you come in, offering to spot you, his dark eyes roaming over your sweat covered skin. His gaze is always flickering to you, regardless of what you're doing or where you are — watching, guarding, making sure the world doesn't take away that spark like it did with Simon Riley.

But you fail to notice it, him. Or maybe you do but don't care. Don't see him as anything but your teammate, like you should, like he should. God, what is he even doing trying to fucking woo you like some lovestruck Victorian gent. . .

Simon feels like banging his head against the wall.

Maybe then something in his imperceptibly rotten skull will come loose, tumble around in what's left of his brain like a snowball rolling down a hill to form an avalanche, or at least a vestige of a good thought; an idea, something he could use to get out of this rut.

He doesn't go to Price for advice. The old dragon finds him, knows him long enough to figure out when Simon's up to his throat in shite. Price sits down next to him as they watch you and Gaz spar, "Alright, spit it out." Price hums as he lights his cigar.

Simon's lips form a thin line beneath his mask, his fingers gripping the meat of his arm to keep his form stable. His eyes don't stray from you, cataloging every trail of sweat as it rolls down your skin, watching your muscles flex beneath your skin as you throw a punch, making a mental note to show you the mistakes you make in private and—

His shoulders fall, "'m fucked." The words escape him like he'd been punched in the gut.

Price gives him the side eye, looking him up and down. "Doesn't look like you enjoyed it."

"Hah." Simon says in a dry tone. "Always a comedian captain."

Price chuckles, wing spreading out to bump against his shoulder. "Jokes aside," he lets out a small puff of smoke, "You could just tell 'im."

Simon's eyes narrow, "What, not going to suggest I go find some obscure shite ta gift him?" If he could find some concrete information about your species courting habits he would have done so by now, would have happily torn up Heaven and Hell looking for whatever would make you look at him the same way Price looks at Kyle.

"No," Price rolls his eyes, standing up and stretching. "Just go talk to 'im you bloody muppet, going to creep him out if you keep staring like that." He nods his head towards you.

Simon's head is a dark sea of thoughts as he spars with you, tries to make it seem like nothing's wrong but you catch on quick; he's distracted, falling for moves he'd once chastised you for pulling, the edges of his form crackling like the static of a tv, shadowy smoke rising from his blackened arms as he throws a punch that goes wide.

He grunts as you knock him to the ground, your hands on his shoulders to pin him down. "You alright?" You ask, your brows furrowed. "You're not fighting like you usually do."

You can barely see his dark eyes narrow, his body still beneath yours. "I'm fine." He growls out, tries to ignore how the warmth of your body against his makes him feel, nibbling on his nerves like a craving for a drug he can't have.

"Uhuh," You hum, a little confused why he's letting you pin him down so long. "Come on Ghost, you're not getting soft on me are you?" With a huff you attempt to pull away, knowing you couldn't force words out of his mouth.

The sudden lack of your warmth is what forces his body to move before his mind does, shadows shooting out to grab you before congealing back into his arm, pulling you down so his lips can crash on yours.

You grunt into his mouth from the surprise, your eyes wide with surprise. Simon's frozen heart cracks just a bit when you don't respond, only to melt when you finally kiss him back. Your lips feel like heaven against his, Simon's eyes shutting and long tongue slipping into your mouth.

You choke a bit, pulling back to catch your breath, your eyes widening as Simon's long tongue slips back into his mouth. "Fucking hell Simon." You pant,

"Got a whole bag of tricks." Simon says, his throat dry. "I-" He begins to say, thoughts running on how to tell you he wants you but no words coming out, something clogging his throat like molasses.

"Yeah," You grin, the lights overhead casting a halo around your head. "I know." Tipping your head down you catch his lips again, your kiss deep and rough, Simon's teeth digging into your lip until it bleeds, your sharp fangs nipping his tongue, blood mixing in your mouths, arousal starting to course through your veins.

Simon's hands grope your ass, pulling your crotch down on his so your cocks can rub together. Simon greedily swallows your groan, his arms starting to fizzle, shadowy smoke wrapping around you to keep you close as his hand sneaks down to undo your belts, fishing out your cocks.

"Christ," You groan and pant into his mouth, grabbing hold of both of your cocks and rocking your hips into his, pleasure buzzing up your spine.

"Don't bring 'im in here." Simon growls and throws an arm around your neck, demanding your attention with a kiss, longue tongue pushing half way down your throat and hips bucking up to rub his cock against yours. "Just us here."

You moan against his lips and fuck, if that isn't the prettiest sound he's ever heard, his mind clouding over with pleasure and before either one of you knows it Simon's cumming, pulling you down with him, your combined cum painting both of your stomachs.

It takes a few moments for Simon to catch his breath, his pupils blows wide as he stares up at you. "Shite." He breathes out, boneless beneath you.

You grin, "You can say that again." and you lean down to kiss him again.

[btdemaru]

Brat taming - sukuna

[Top!sukuna x Bottom!GN!reader]

note : sukuna has two cocks you can't tell me otherwise.

warning : monsterfucking, cockwarming, brat-taming, two big cocks, hair pulling, thigh spanking, slight choking, rough sukuna, slight blood, dacryphillia, manhandling, biting, curse words, bad language.

MINORS DNI!

Sukuna was brutal, always so annoyingly possessive and scary, you don't even know why you fell for him in the first place but you did and it was too late to back away. Even if he was scary, at some moments he'll show a glimpse of softness towards you even if it's a small gesture for a mere second. He might not show his affection in words but he'll spoil you rotten.

But of course, you had to be such a brat towards him. For what? For fun. Knowing the reaction you'll get out of him but you did it anyway, it was risky- you were scared of the consequences that will come with your actions but that's the point. You had this 'brilliant' idea to talk- no flirt with yuji itadori. You saw that yuji was alone and took it as an opportunity to start your little plan. Coming up to him and sitting down next to yuji was easy, he's a friendly guy anyways.. "perhaps wanna come back to my room? I have a new movie we could watch~" though poor baby yuji didn't understand what you're trying to do, surely that dense head of his could at least take a hint.

Halfway through your sentences your vision went black for a split second, you were teleported into his hollow eerie domain, the Malevolent Shrine.

And infront of you is now a very very furious sukuna. Before you could even utter a word he grabs your chin, looking down at you as he got closer to your face "you're doing this on purpose aren't you? Pathetic shit." he spat, his two lower arms sneak in your pants as the two upper ones rip your shirt into pieces eager to play with your nipples, Sukuna wasted no time to rip your pants and boxers/panties apart leaving the cold air to brush against your naked figure. He quickly took his pants off leaving him only in his kimono, your eyes darted to two large erect cock. "sit." You knew you're in no place to disobey him further as you still care about your legs so you lined his cocks before slowly sitting and pushing it in.

Quiet. its so quiet..

You're now sitting in his lap, sukuna's two terrifyingly large cock buried deep in you. None of you shared a word only soft whimpers and shallow breathing can be heard, you've been sitting for fifteen minutes yet it feels like an hour or more, "move.. you're taking too long!" You spoke, trying to break the eerie silence between the two only for sukuna to grip your neck and pulls you closer to his face. "I'll move when you'll stop being such a fucking brat." He exclaimed, closing your airways until you smack his arms in attempt for sukuna to let you go. It was no doubt useless, you're nothing to this curse of a man. a tear rolled down your face before he lets go making you gasp for air. An hour has passed and you can't take it anymore "sukuna please..!" You plead. "be more specific, brat." He spoke before getting closer to your ear. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do." He teased. You plead and beg for him to finally let you move and fuck yourself onto his cocks, in which he did.

You move slowly, painfully slow. The king of curses wasn't know for his patience, he forcefully thrusted upwards hitting your prostate straight, a loud moan ripped from your throat as he continues to thrust up, his arms holding you still, using you like a mere fleshlight "fuck- ah! Slowdown!" Your words fell deaf in his ears.

Picking up his pace Sukuna brought your legs folding it onto your chest as he fucks you dumb, drool tears sweat were all over your body and face, you can't even form a simple word let alone a sentence, and it makes sukuna laugh. Oh how a brat like you can turn into such a messy slut for him.

Sukuna formed a mouth on his hands, latching it to your lips as his real mouth attacks your neck, his sharp fangs piercing into your skin, licking up all the blood he got from you savoring the taste. It hurt like hell, it felt like two giant needles are stabbing your neck but you're too deep in pleasure to even notice. Sukuna got up from his throne before throwing you on it and bending you over, thrusting back it as he pulls your hair up making your face closer to his, sharing a passionate kiss that lasted minutes before you feel one of his cock twitching after the other, sukuna chased after his high as is pace clearly sloppy with no rhythm and his grunts gets louder "cum for me- you fucking slut. C'mon cum on my cocks-" he slurred before finally filling you up to the brim with his thick white sticky cum making you release as well. "Fuck.. maybe that'll be a lesson for you." He said while pushing his hair back.

[oogaboogaspookyman]

So i've been having thoughts...

[EVERYTHING]

Another day, another thing to fight over. N is getting tired of this.

"NO NO NO, YOU CHEATED! YOU DEFINETLY CHEATED! YOU DESERVE THOSE EXTRA CARDS I MADE YOU PICK UP!" Uzi pointed fingers at V, who's currently at the front with one lone card. Yes they're playing Uno.

"I AM NOT CHEATING, YOU ROTTEN GRAPE, I'M ALLOWED TO PUT DOWN MORE THAN ONE CARD AT ONCE!" And V pointed fingers back at Uzi like she's being discriminated.

N just spaced out, looking at the front of him with half-lidded, tired eyes like a parent hearing siblings fight over the Xbox. At this point, nobody would deserve to hold the controller and it would be given away to someone more competent than the two of them, more deserving.

Meanwhile Cyn, Uzi's tail, is coiled around a can of oil. She's sipping from it like a kitty cat.

Right in front of my oil can, too. Annoyed expression.

N knows what to do, but it's gonna hurt and be slightly out of character for him, being the golden retriever of the group...

The entrance door to the bunker opens swiftly, and out comes a flying pair of Uzi and V, soon after faceplanting onto the snow ground.

"You're getting back in once you get along, or when it's getting late and i feel like you should get in." And right after N's first piece of dialogue, he closes the door on them.

The pair of girls looked at the now closed door to the bunker liked puppies having been thrown outside. Man N really did that, huh?

Strike one.

"zip it- Yeah! Sure! Whatever N, it's not like we need you or anything!" Uzi shouted back, trying to hide the hurt in the fact she's been pretty disciplined by her own fucking boyfriend.

"Careful with your words, rat." And V, being someone that cares about N a whole awful lot, bit back defensively.

Strike two.

"What are you, her girlfriend now? That's me!" Uzi you're way too smug.

And here we go.

"I USED TO HAVE HIM ALL TO MYSELF BEFORE YOU HAD TO COME ALONG!!"

Uzi's eyes widened and hollowed in shock as V yelled back.

"I HAD WHAT FELT LIKE EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING I TELL YOU, AND I LOST IT ALL TO THIS IDIOT ELDRITCH HORROR THAT TORE US APART AND PUT BACK TOGETHER LIKE TOYS. WE ARE A KITBASHED MESS OF A DRONE SQUAD AND YOU JUST HAVE THE NERVE TO BE A LITTLE SHIT TO ME JUST BECAUSE OF WHAT I AM AND WHAT I DO TO SURVIVE!"

Uzi walked back as V took her steps forward, slowly and menacingly, and while this happens her hands swap out for her signature claws. They're shaking.

"I CARE ABOUT HIM, I CARE SO FUCKING MUCH ABOUT HIM, I WANT THE BEST FOR HIM EVEN IF IT MEANT I HAD TO STEP OUT, STAY AWAY FROM THE ONE DRONE I LOVE, AND I CAN'T PROTECT HIM WHEN YOU'RE ACTIVELY MAKING EVERYTHING A PROBLEM!"

She makes one step forward, strong enough to make some snow fly off the ground.

"YOU CONSUMED OUR WORST FUCKING NIGHTMARE AND NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOU AND THAT FUCKING THING, CAN'T YOU JUST CUT ME SOME FUCKING SLACK?!"

V's optics start to glitch as tears begin to sprout from them. Her vision blurs.

"DO- DO YOU KNOW HOW I FELT WATCHING CYN HOLDING N'S CORE?! HAVE YOU- HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED HOW I FELT AT ALL?!"

Her voice begins to shake, just like her claws. Just like her entire body.

"I... I-I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE, WH- W- WHAT DO I D-DO TO MAKE YOU TREAT ME WITH B-BASIC FUCKING DECENCY, I REALLY DON'T KNOW!"

Uzi's hands begins to shake, a quiet sob coming out of her throat. Quiet enough to not be heard.

And as soon as Uzi slowed down to a stop, V took the chance to pounce and pin her down onto the snow.

Holy damn.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO AT THIS POINT, TELL ME!!"

V's panting, sounding animalistic, slowed down to a halt as she notices the face on Uzi. She's quietly crying. There are tears in her eyes.

V gets off of the crying drone and looks down on her, guilty. Guilty because you got tired of her antics? Really?

"Get up..."

Uzi, for some reason, obeyed and got up on her feet. Her legs are shaky...

...

A surprise hug from V is given to Uzi. A safe one, as she swapped out her claws for hands. I forget to mention shit sometimes.

"I'm sorry..."

...

"No, fuck that, i should be sorry..." Uzi's voice is so unsteady...

"But-" The sobbing drone held onto V's back tighter. "You need him more than i do and- and i took him from you b-because you did a mistake, you deserve to make amends and love him like i do... I'm sorry"

...

"Just let it all out, you need it... You need him more than me, V"

A crying mess of a dissassembly drone is heard screaming her voice away, quickly overpowering Uzi's noise in loudness.

God damn you two...

The two sit down on an abandoned car, the front of it to be specific, both of them in thought of what had transpired...

"What should i do to apologize properly?" V whispered to Uzi. She may or may not have lost a bit of her voice.

"Dude... Your voice..." Uzi looked at V with worry in her eyes.

"My voice doesn't matter, how should i apologize to N properly?"

... Uzi looked away in thought about it... Then back at her. "I think a simple “sorry for everything i did” and a hug will do... Maybe a kiss since you uh... Love him?"

"I can hear you, you don't have to whisper... I'm not gonna kiss him" She just... Stays, looking at the nothingness instead of the night sky, tired.

"Juuuuust a suggestion..." Uzi responded softly, looking back at what's above.

...

Maybe V should try it..? Who knows...

There's a knock on the entrance door to the bunker. N responds to it, and looks at them like a disappointed parent. "Did you two get along now?"

...

Uzi looked away, as did V... They're both seemingly tired. N notices this and immediately his demeanor switches. "Are you- are you doing okay?? Come in, come in, i'm so sorry i really shouldn't have done that-"

"No. I'm sorry, for everything i've done... And yeah let us in" she whispered to N, trying to raise her voice so she could be heard a little more. N notices this and, now worried, decides to let them in.

And now once inside, they head to Uzi's room...

"V, what happened to your voice?? Did you scream??" N is full of fear and worry and guilt, something could've happened and it would've been N's fault it could be anything it could be the worst thing ever it could-

A hug... From V.

"Stop worrying so much, my voice doesn't matter here... I'm sorry."

N puts his arms around her body, hugging back. "Alright... But what happened??"

"Me and Uzi got along... She says she's sorry even though i... We just- we just set aside our differences, okay..?" She pulled back from the hug to look at N in the eye as she spoke. She's smiling...

...

"I hope Uzi gives you what i failed to give you-"

"ROBO-GOD DAMMIT V!" Uzi yelled and pushed V onto N, causing their faces to collide. Causing their lips to collide.

V let out a muffled squeak as she kisses N, and he does the same noise, both from the shock of the kiss, the push, and the fact they've fallen onto Uzi's bed, V on top of N...

V pulls back from the kiss to look at N, shocked. He's feeling just as surprised. "Uhh..." V, for the first time in a long time, blushes so much her visor becomes an LED and feels a gratuituous amount of butterflies in her stomach. And so does N, after a while of thinking his feelings towards V had faded away... Looks like they still remain.

V whips her around to angrily glare at Uzi, who's enjoying the moment of the couple finally being a couple, and that V got what she needed the most.

She takes a deep breath, and gets off of N. "You win this time..." She said, sternly.

"You got what you needed most, can't you just say thanks??" Uzi threw her arms up, offended by V's ungratefulness.

"... As a thank you for forcing me to give a kiss to my ex i might as well return the favour~" Uzi immediately regretted her choices and began to try to run away... But she can't. There's V's tail coiled around her waist. Fuck.

"V NO OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY HOLY SHIT- MMPH!!" Uzi squeaked, and it's muffled from V's lips colliding with her own. She didn't win at all, definetly /sarcasm.

Gross. Annoyed expression.

Once V pulled back, slowly, and smirked at Uzi's reaction. Her visor is overrun with purple blush, overlapping her eyes.

"i definetly didn't like that-" V quickly interrupts her. "Oh yes you did~" and finishes that sentence by licking her lips... "meep!"

"V don't be mean now-"

"I'm not, i'm just giving Uzi a thank you gift~!"

"That's my girlfriend you're kissing? Hellooo??" He said with his hands on his hips. Looks like Uzi's sass rubbed off on N.

"Wanna double team her, then~?" Uzi whined at that, gaining the attention of the two dissassembly drones. They look like cats when you go pspspspsps.

EW! Disgusted expression!

"... We'll do that later~, for now... How about we cuddle? We've had... A harsh day, y'know?" V made an actually nice suggestion. It feels like the first time she does this... Maybe they do need a cuddle session.

Uzi thinks about it... After their most intense interaction and all, it sounds good right about now...

"Sure! I love doing anything that makes my girls happy!" N didn't think about it at all, all cuddles are accepted in his case... "You know what? Why not, let's give it a go..." And Uzi accepted, seeing as N was happy about it... Besides she really needs to chill out too.

N pulls his girls in so that they're resting against him his tail intertwining with V's and his head resting on Uzi's messy wave of purple. He sighs in relief. "Thanks for getting along, you two..."

"Hey Uzi..?" V has one last thing to say...

"mm..?"

"Thank you..."

...

...

Uzi sniffs once and hugs the two of them... Especially V, the most hurt of the group...

And suddenly, V has everything all over again, and she'll make sure that this time... Nothing will take them away. Never again.

[end.]