#he doesn’t get to be a rabbit in ghost hell :(

[jungkoode]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 04

pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9,4k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut

"cat ears"

You swore this was about ramen and reference work. But now you’re blushing in cat ears while your childhood best friend stares at you like you’re the entire fucking plot.

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↦ author's note : Hiii omg I’m so excited to finally be dropping this chapter!! Like genuinely bouncing-on-my-heels-squealing excited. I love this fanfic with my whole chest—like, it makes me feel all floaty and squishy and hollow and full at the same time?? It’s so bittersweet, and I don’t mean in the fake deep way, I mean in the visceral ache in your sternum kind of way. The melancholy/sweetness dichotomy is actually feral. It haunts me when I write. It’s the ghost of every almost-love that never quite made it to the finish line. This chapter carries that energy like it’s been marinating in it.

Let’s start with the obvious (and what many of you amazing nerds clocked IMMEDIATELY)—Hoseok’s ADHD. YEP. He’s not just quirky and chaotic and manic pixie bimbo artist-coded. He’s neurodivergent and he knows it. Late-diagnosed. Like me. Like many of us. And yes, I’m writing it on purpose. ADHD is not just “teehee I got distracted!!” It is executive dysfunction. It is the absence of an internal reward system. Like… people with ADHD don’t get the dopamine boost from “doing the thing” the way neurotypicals do. We rely on novelty, urgency, interest, passion, and external consequence. If something doesn’t hit one of those buttons? Good luck. That’s why he goes down Wikipedia rabbit holes instead of sleeping. That’s why his creative highs come with crashing lows. That’s why his time management is mystical, and not in a good way. I want to portray that reality in a way that feels lived. Because it is. By me. By so many of you. We’re out here half-dead and hyperfixating and vibing through sheer adrenaline and vibes alone.

Capy. My girl. My feral little gremlin with sensory issues and avoidance coping and a thousand unspoken feelings. I didn’t give her a diagnosis, because she doesn’t have one. Not everyone does. That’s also real. You can be neurodivergent and never get diagnosed. You can struggle with taste and texture and food aversion and nobody calls it what it is because you’re “high functioning” or “just picky” or “emotional.” But she feels the world like it’s too much. And that affects both her sense of taste and touch. The food thing isn’t just picky—it’s about texture, smell, mouthfeel, the way certain ingredients coat the tongue or burn the back of your throat or feel wrong in your molars. And the touch stuff? Don’t even get me started. Cabbage is fine. Algae? She’d rather die. It’s a war crime in her mouth. I built that into her without making it A Thing™ because so many people live like that without ever being handed a name for it.

And now… the cat ears. Y’all. Why did it get so deeply feral so fast. The good kitty comment? I need to be institutionalized. The immediate bodily reaction??? I was giggling and kicking my feet and also dying of secondhand embarrassment. I don’t know what happened, but I blacked out. Writing it was like being possessed by a demon who runs a fanservice café in Ikebukuro. ALSOOOO. The ending? THE ENDING???? Get these two absolute idiots OUT OF MY FACE. They’re adorable. They’re disasters. I want to smack them both and then wrap them in a weighted blanket. I love them so much it actually hurts. Anyway. Go suffer. Or enjoy. Same difference. And maybe… idk… buy a pair of cat ears for yourself? Or don’t. Either way, your secrets are safe with me. Mwah mwah mwah.

The second week of corporate hell begins with Davidson explaining the ‘revolutionary potential of cross-platform peptide messaging’ while you contemplate whether throwing yourself out the seventh-floor window would be considered a workplace accident or a cry for help.

"The synergistic possibilities are truly limitless," Davidson continues, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that appears to have been designed by someone having a seizure. "When we leverage our core competencies in biochemical narrative construction—"

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift slightly to check it under the conference table.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:23 AM): 𝚂𝙾𝚂. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚙.

You glance around the conference room. 

Davidson is still pontificating about peptide synergy. Yuki catches your eye from across the table and makes a subtle face that suggests she's also contemplating defenestration.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:24 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:25 AM): 𝙾𝙷𝙷𝙷 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜! 𝙰 𝚌𝚊𝚝-𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:26 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:27 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:28 AM): 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:29 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

"Y/N-san?" Davidson's voice cuts through your text conversation like a rusty knife. "Your thoughts on the peptide positioning strategy?"

You look up to find the entire conference room staring at you. 

Yuki gives you a barely perceptible thumbs up from across the table.

"I think," you say, scrambling for something that sounds remotely professional, "that peptides are... very synergistic. And the positioning possibilities are... limitless."

Davidson beams like you've just solved world hunger. "Exactly! That's the kind of innovative thinking we need!"

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:32 AM): 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚜? 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜.

The meeting drags on for another forty-seven minutes. 

You know this because you've been counting, and also because Hoseok has been providing running commentary that makes the whole experience slightly less soul-crushing.

After 40 minutes of pretend attention, you decide to reply.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:16 AM): 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:17 AM): 𝚆𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚆𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚢, 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:18 AM): 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:19 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:20 AM): 𝚁𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟶𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍. ┐(￣～￣)┌

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:22 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:23 AM): 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 ��𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:24 AM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:25 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 '𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐' 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:26 AM): 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:27 AM): 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟽 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑.

That actually makes sense, which is somehow more concerning than if he'd just been procrastinating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:28 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:29 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔-𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:30 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:31 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 '𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎' 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:32 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚎𝚎? 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟼. 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛?

You glance around the conference room again. 

Davidson is now drawing diagrams on the whiteboard that look like molecular structures but are probably just random squiggles. 

Yuki is openly reading a magazine under the table.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:34 AM): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:35 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕! 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:36 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

"And that," Davidson announces with the air of someone who's just solved world hunger, "is how we'll revolutionize the anti-aging market through strategic peptide positioning!"

Everyone claps politely. 

You put your phone away and join in, wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, corporate, and accompanied by the sound of forced applause.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of peptide enthusiasm and brand synergy discussions. 

By 5:30, you're ready to throw yourself into Osaka Bay, but instead you find yourself standing outside the convenience store near Hoseok's apartment, staring at the wall of instant meal options like they hold the secrets of the universe.

You've been standing here for approximately eight minutes, holding the same two packages and pretending to read ingredients you can't pronounce.

The thing is, you know exactly what you're going to buy. 

You always know. 

But there's something about the process of considering other options that feels necessary, even if it's completely pointless.

The chicken broth ramen sits in your left hand—the brand with the simple packaging and ingredients list that doesn't include any of the weird additives that make your tongue feel like it's trying to escape your mouth. 

In your right hand, you're holding some kind of seafood variant that you picked up purely for the illusion of choice.

You know you're going to choose the chicken. You always choose the chicken. The algae extract in most of the other flavors makes your entire mouth feel wrong, like you've licked a fish tank, and the 'mystery meat' chunks in the premium versions have a texture that makes your skin crawl.

But still, you stand there, reading labels, because apparently this is what passes for decision-making in your life now.

"Excuse me," says a voice behind you, and you step aside automatically, assuming someone needs to reach the shelf.

Instead, when you turn around, Hoseok is standing there with his hands in his pockets, grinning at you like he's just won the lottery.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you ask, nearly dropping both packages.

"Rescuing you from your inevitable choice paralysis," he says, nodding toward the ramen in your hands. "You've been standing here for ten minutes."

"I have not been standing here for ten minutes."

"Capy, I live upstairs. I can see the convenience store from my window. You've been staring at that same shelf for ten minutes, holding the same two packages, doing that thing where you pretend to consider other options but you're obviously going to choose the chicken broth because it's the only one that doesn't have algae extract or those weird gelatinous chunks you hate."

You stare at him. "How do you know about the algae thing?"

"Because I pay attention. Also, you made the same face in middle school when your mom tried to make you eat seaweed soup. Like someone was forcing you to swallow a live fish."

The accuracy of this observation is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

"I don't make faces," you protest.

"You absolutely make faces. You're making one right now." He reaches past you and grabs two packages of the chicken broth ramen, plus a third one that looks different. "This one's new. Same brand, but they added mushrooms. No algae, no weird chunks. Want to try it?"

You study the package he's holding. 

The ingredients list is mercifully short and doesn't include anything that sounds like it was harvested from the ocean floor.

"Maybe," you admit reluctantly.

"Progress! The great Capybara, trying new things!" He starts walking toward the register, and you follow automatically. "What else do we need? Drinks? Snacks? Something to make this dinner feel like an actual meal instead of just two people eating instant noodles on my floor?"

"It is just two people eating instant noodles on your floor."

"But we can dress it up! Make it fancy! Add... I don't know, vegetables or something."

"You don't own vegetables."

"I could own vegetables. I'm a responsible adult who makes healthy choices."

You give him a look.

"Fine, I'll buy vegetables. Right now. Watch me be domestic and nutritious."

He veers toward the small produce section, which consists of about six items that look like they've been sitting under the fluorescent lights since the store opened. 

He picks up a bag of pre-cut cabbage and waves it triumphantly.

"Vegetables! I am the picture of healthy living!"

"That's cabbage."

"Cabbage is a vegetable. A very important vegetable. Full of... vitamins and... other healthy things."

"You have no idea what vitamins are in cabbage."

"Vitamin C! Probably! Most vegetables have vitamin C!"

Despite yourself, you're fighting a smile. "You're an idiot."

"An idiot who's about to make you the most nutritious instant ramen dinner of your life." He grabs a package of eggs from the refrigerated section. "Protein! We're basically having a balanced meal now!"

You watch him collect items with the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered the concept of food. 

It's ridiculous and endearing and you hate how much you like seeing him this animated about something as mundane as convenience store shopping.

"Anything else?" he asks, arms full of packages. "Dessert? Ice cream? Those little cakes that are probably 90% preservatives but taste amazing?"

"Just the ramen is fine."

"Just the ramen is never fine. We're getting ice cream." He heads toward the freezer section. "What flavor do you want?"

"I don't want ice cream."

"Everyone wants ice cream. It's scientifically impossible not to want ice cream." He opens the freezer and cold air billows out. "Vanilla? Chocolate? Something weird and Japanese that we can't identify but might be delicious?"

"Hoseok—"

"Strawberry! You always liked strawberry." He grabs a small container before you can protest. "And I'll get chocolate because I'm predictable like that."

You want to argue, but the truth is you do like strawberry ice cream, and the fact that he remembered this completely irrelevant detail from your childhood makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

"Fine," you say. "But I'm not paying for your emotional support ice cream."

"Deal. I'm rich from all my pornographic artistic endeavors anyway."

The cashier—a teenage boy who looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else—rings up your purchases with the kind of aggressive disinterest that only comes from working retail. He doesn't even blink at Hoseok's comment about pornographic art, which probably says something about either his English comprehension or his level of caring about customer conversations.

Outside the store, the early evening air is cool and carries the scent of rain that might come later. The vending machines cast their eternal glow across the sidewalk, and somewhere in the distance a train whistle echoes through the urban landscape.

"So," Hoseok says as you walk the thirty seconds to his building entrance, "ready for your surprise?"

"I told you I hate surprises."

"You liked the Momo surprise, though."

You hate him. Because you did like the Momo surprise. 

"That was… That was different."

"This one involves your professional artistic collaboration skills and possibly some very interesting character development insights."

"That's not a surprise, that's work."

"Work can be surprising! Especially when it involves creative breakthroughs and artistic revelations!"

You follow him up the four flights of stairs, listening to him chatter about artistic revelations while carrying a plastic bag full of instant ramen and impulse purchases. 

It's domestic in a way that makes you uncomfortable—not because it's weird, but because it feels so natural.

Like this is something you could do every day. Like this could be your routine.

Which is a dangerous thought for approximately seventeen different reasons.

"Here we are," he announces, fumbling with his keys while balancing the grocery bag. "Home sweet chaotic home."

The door opens, and you step into the familiar organized chaos of his apartment. 

Momo appears immediately, scurrying down from her perch near the window to investigate the new arrivals.

"Hey, princess," Hoseok coos, setting down the groceries and offering his hand for her to sniff. "Look who came to visit again."

Momo considers you for a moment, then approaches cautiously. When you crouch down and extend your fingers, she doesn't immediately flee, which feels like progress.

"She likes you," Hoseok observes. "This is huge development in sugar glider diplomacy."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late. Momo has chosen you as acceptable."

You stand up, brushing off your knees, and that's when you notice what he's wearing.

Or rather, what he's not wearing.

He's changed out of his usual casual clothes into what can only be described as professional attire—dark jeans that actually fit properly, a button-down shirt that looks like it's been ironed, and those black-rimmed glasses that make him look like he knows what he's doing.

It's jarring, seeing him dressed like a functional adult instead of an overgrown art student.

"Why are you dressed like you have somewhere important to be?" you ask.

He glances down at himself, then back at you. "What, this? This is just... clothes."

"Those are nice clothes. You ironed that shirt."

"I own an iron. I'm a sophisticated adult person."

"Since when?"

"Since always! I just don't usually... okay, fine, I wanted to look professional for our professional artistic collaboration session."

"It's not that professional."

"It could be! If we wanted it to be! Which we do! Because we're serious artists taking our craft seriously!"

The enthusiasm in his voice doesn't quite mask something else—nervousness, maybe? Like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"Hoseok," you say carefully, "what exactly is this surprise?"

His grin falters slightly, and for a moment you see something vulnerable underneath the manic energy.

"I'll show you after dinner," he says. "But first, let me cook for you. And by cook, I mean add vegetables to instant ramen and pretend it's a real meal."

"That's not cooking."

"It's cooking-adjacent. Cooking-inspired. Cooking-influenced."

"It's adding cabbage to sodium water."

"The most sophisticated sodium water you've ever had."

Despite everything—the weird formality of his clothes, the nervous energy he's trying to hide, the way he keeps glancing at you like he's checking to make sure you're still there—you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, settling onto one of the floor cushions. "Cook for me, Ott. Show me your culinary mastery."

"Prepare to be amazed, Capy. Your taste buds will never recover from this experience."

As he bustles around the tiny kitchen, chattering about the nutritional benefits of cabbage and the proper technique for soft-boiling eggs, you watch him move through his space with that same easy familiarity you noticed before.

But there's something different tonight. Something in the way he keeps adjusting his shirt, the way he's put actual effort into his appearance, the way he seems to be performing some version of himself that's more polished than usual.

It makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

And why he's so nervous about it.

The ramen is, surprisingly, not terrible.

Apparently, Hoseok was right when he mentioned the addition of actual vegetables and a properly soft-boiled egg transforms it from ‘sad convenience store dinner’ to ‘almost like real food.’

You're sitting cross-legged on his floor, eating from mismatched bowls while Momo watches from her perch on the couch arm, occasionally making soft chittering sounds that might be commentary on your table manners.

"See?" Hoseok says, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Told you I could cook."

"You added cabbage to instant ramen. That's not cooking, that's... assembly."

"Assembly with flair! And nutritional value!"

You take another bite, and it really is better than your usual convenience store fare. The egg adds richness, the cabbage provides actual texture, and somehow the combination makes the whole thing feel less like desperation food and more like an actual meal.

"It's good," you admit reluctantly.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said it's good, you insufferable—"

"She likes my cooking! Momo, did you hear that? Capy likes my cooking!"

Momo makes a sound that could be agreement or could be a request for food scraps. 

Either way, Hoseok looks pleased with himself.

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn.

"Too late. My ego is already inflated beyond repair."

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting the sounds of soft scratch of chopsticks against ceramic and cars outside fill the room. 

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you—domestic without being suffocating, familiar without being boring.

But you can't shake the feeling that Hoseok is building up to something. 

He keeps glancing at you when he thinks you're not looking, and there's a nervous energy underneath his usual chattiness that makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

"So," you say finally, setting down your chopsticks. "What's the last time you slept?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you. 

But now that you've said it, you realize it's been bothering you since you walked in. 

There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there yesterday, and his movements have that slightly manic quality that comes from too much caffeine and not enough rest.

"Sleep is for people without deadlines," he says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

"Hoseok."

"I got a few hours last night. Maybe three? Four?"

"When did you last sleep for more than four hours?"

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 

"Define 'more than four hours.'"

"More than four consecutive hours of actual sleep. Not passing out at your desk."

"That's... a very specific definition."

"Answer the question."

He sets down his bowl, running a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching.

"Sunday night, maybe? I've been working on this chapter, and the deadline is Friday, and I keep getting stuck on the same scene because I can't figure out how to make Miki's emotional arc feel authentic, and then I started researching historical beauty standards, which led to reading about cosmetic chemistry, which somehow turned into a three-hour deep dive into the history of advertising psychology, and by then it was 6 AM and I figured I might as well just keep working..."

He trails off, apparently realizing how that sounds.

"You haven't slept properly in three days," you say. It's not a question.

"Sleep is overrated. I function better on caffeine and creative desperation anyway."

"That's not how human biology works."

"I'm not entirely human. I'm part artist, part caffeine, part existential crisis. Very efficient combination."

You study his face more carefully. 

The glasses hide some of the exhaustion, but now that you're looking, you can see the telltale signs—the slight tremor in his hands, the way he's talking just a little too fast, the manic brightness in his eyes that comes from pushing your brain past its limits.

"You're going to crash," you say.

"I'll crash after the deadline. Very professional crashing. Scheduled and everything."

"Hoseok—"

"I'm fine, Capy. Really. I just get like this sometimes when I'm working on something important. My brain doesn't want to stop, you know? Like there's this idea right there, just out of reach, and if I could just push a little harder, stay awake a little longer, I could grab it."

The way he says it—with a mixture of frustration and resignation—makes something click in your head.

"How long have you been like this?" you ask quietly.

"Like what?"

"The not sleeping. The hyperfocus. The way your brain jumps from cat ear anatomy to cosmetic chemistry to advertising psychology in one night."

He goes very still, and for a moment the manic energy drains out of him entirely.

"Since always," he says finally. "But I didn't have a name for it until about two years ago."

"ADHD?"

He nods, not meeting your eyes. "Late diagnosis. Apparently, I've been masking it pretty well my whole life. Or maybe not that well, and everyone just thought I was... you know. Weird. Scattered. The kid who couldn't sit still but somehow got good grades anyway."

The pieces fall into place—the way he used to bounce his leg constantly in class, the hyperfocus sessions where he'd disappear into his art for hours, the way he could remember the most random details but forget to eat lunch.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" you ask.

"Because it felt like making excuses. Like, 'oh, I can't function like a normal person because my brain is wired differently.' But everyone's brain is wired differently, right? Everyone struggles with focus and motivation and feeling like they're not quite keeping up with the world."

"Not like this."

"No," he agrees quietly. "Not like this."

You both sit in silence for a moment, the weight of this revelation settling between you. 

It explains so much—the Wikipedia rabbit holes, the way he can talk for hours about subjects that fascinate him, the creative intensity that produces genuinely good art but leaves him exhausted and strung out.

"Are you... getting help? Medication or therapy or...?"

"Medication, yeah. When I remember to take it. Which is ironic, considering that remembering to take medication is exactly the kind of thing I need medication to help with."

"Did you take it today?"

"Define 'today.'"

"Hoseok."

"I'll take it after dinner. I promise. It just makes me feel... flat, sometimes. Like all the interesting thoughts get smoothed out along with the chaotic ones."

You understand that more than you want to admit. 

The fear that fixing the problems might also fix the things that make you who you are.

"Is that why you're so nervous tonight?" you ask. "Because you're running on no sleep and no medication and too much caffeine?"

"I'm not nervous."

"You're wearing a shirt you ironed. You're nervous."

He laughs, but it's shaky. "Maybe a little. The surprise is... it's kind of a big deal. For my work. And I want you to like it."

"Why does it matter if I like it?"

Silence.

He glances at you for a moment, then his eyes skitter away.

"Because," he says finally, "your opinion matters to me. It always has."

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. 

Because this is Jung Hoseok—the boy who used to climb through your window just to sit on your floor and read comics, who remembered that you like strawberry ice cream, who notices things about you that you don't even notice about yourself.

And now he's a man who draws pornographic manga and stays awake for three days straight chasing ideas, who got diagnosed with ADHD at twenty-four and is still figuring out how to live in his own brain.

But he's still the same person who wants your approval more than he wants to admit.

"Show me," you say quietly. "Whatever this surprise is. I'm ready."

His smile is soft and nervous and hopeful all at once.

"Okay," he says, standing up and offering you his hand. "But remember—you said you'd keep an open mind about my artistic vision."

"I said no such thing."

"You implied it. Very strongly implied it."

"I implied that I'd look at whatever ridiculous thing you've created and try not to mock you too harshly."

"Close enough."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, trying to ignore the way his fingers feel warm and steady against yours.

"This better not be weird, Ott."

"Define weird."

"You know what weird means."

"Everything I do is weird, Capy. That's my brand."

He disappears into his bedroom (not without telling you to wait in the living room first) with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a new Wikipedia article about something completely useless.

You settle your weight onto one foot, listening to what sounds like a one-man demolition crew operating in the next room. 

Thuds, scraping sounds, what might be cursing in multiple languages, and at least one crash that makes Momo’s ears perk up in alarm.

“Everything okay in there, Ott?” you call out.

“Fine! Just… reorganizing! Very professional reorganization!”

Another crash, followed by more creative cursing.

“Maybe I should—”

“Don’t come in! It’s a surprise! A very organized, professional surprise that’s definitely not a complete disaster right now!”

Momo makes a chirping noise, probably commenting on the chaos emanating from the bedroom.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “He’s always been like this.”

She makes a small sound that might be agreement or might be a request for snacks. 

Either way, talking to the furball feels like another small victory in the ongoing campaign for sugar glider acceptance.

The sounds from the bedroom reach a crescendo of furniture scraping and what definitely sounds like him tripping over something.

“That’s it,” you announce. “I’m coming in before you actually hurt yourself.”

“No! Wait! I almost—shit!”

You push open the bedroom door just as Hoseok loses his balance while standing on his desk chair, arms windmilling wildly as he tries to grab something from the top shelf of his bookcase.

Time slows down in that particular way it does when you’re about to witness someone do something spectacularly stupid.

He’s stretching up, one hand braced against the wall, the other reaching for what looks like a small box wedged behind some manga volumes. 

His t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at his lower back, and his hair is completely disheveled from whatever organizational chaos he’s been conducting.

And there’s something about the way he looks in that moment—slightly desperate, completely focused, unconsciously graceful despite being balanced precariously on an office chair—that makes something unfurl low in your abdomen.

Something warm and insistent and absolutely unwelcome.

You clear your throat loudly.

He startles, loses his grip on whatever he was reaching for, and the chair wobbles dangerously before he manages to steady himself against the bookcase.

“Jesus, Capy! You scared the shit out of me!”

“You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?”

“Retrieving important artistic materials from their secure storage location.” He climbs down from the chair with as much dignity as someone can muster after nearly falling face-first into a bookshelf. “Very professional retrieval methods.”

“You were about to break your neck.”

“I was about to achieve storage access through innovative height solutions.”

“You were about to die trying to reach something on a shelf like an idiot.”

His hair is sticking up in at least three different directions, and there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones from the exertion. 

He runs a hand through the mess, trying to restore some semblance of order, but it only makes it worse.

You definitely don’t think about what he might look like in other situations that would leave his hair messed up and his cheeks flushed.

Definitely not.

“What’s so important that you needed to risk life and limb to get it?” you ask, because focusing on his questionable decision-making is safer than focusing on… other things.

“The missing piece of tonight’s professional artistic collaboration session.” He reaches behind the manga volumes again, this time from the safety of the floor, and produces a small box. “Behold!”

You stare at the box, which appears to be made of high-quality cardboard and has the kind of professional packaging that suggests it cost more than a convenience store purchase.

“What is it?”

“Revolutionary reference enhancement technology.” He opens the box with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “Custom-commissioned, professionally crafted, anatomically accurate…”

He trails off, carefully lifting something black and furry from the tissue paper.

Cat ears.

Not the cheap costume shop variety you were expecting, but actual, professional-quality cat ears that look like they could have come off a real cat if real cats were black and slightly larger than normal.

“You bought cat ears,” you say flatly.

“I commissioned cat ears,” he corrects, holding them up to the light like they’re made of precious metals. “From a professional cosplay artist. Look at the craftsmanship! The attention to detail! They’re articulated!”

He demonstrates by gently moving one of the ears, and it responds with realistic feline movement—tilting, swiveling, even flattening slightly against the headband.

“They respond to head movement and touch,” he continues, genuinely excited. “So when you’re modeling, they’ll move naturally, just like Miki’s would. For accuracy!”

“You commissioned professional cat ears for me to wear while posing for your hentai manga.”

“For character reference accuracy!” he protests. “Miki’s ears are a crucial part of her design! They express emotion, respond to stimuli, add to her overall character development!”

You take the ears from his hands, studying the craftsmanship. 

They are, grudgingly, impressive. 

The fur is soft and realistic, the articulation mechanisms are nearly invisible, and the headband looks like it’s designed for actual extended wear rather than a one-time costume party.

“How much did these cost?”

“That’s not important.”

“Hoseok.”

“They’re an investment in artistic authenticity.”

“How. Much.”

He mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“Twelve thousand yen,” he says quickly. “But that includes rush delivery and custom color matching and—”

“You spent 150 bucks on cat ears.”

“On professional-grade character reference enhancement accessories!”

“On cat ears, Ott. For me to wear. While posing for your porn.”

“Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development.”

You stare at him. He stares back, glasses slightly askew, hair still a disaster, clutching the empty box like it might provide moral support.

“You’re insane,” you say finally.

“I’m dedicated to my craft.”

“You’re absolutely unhinged.”

“I’m artistically committed.”

“You spent more than 100 Aussie—”

“They’re really well made!”

Despite yourself, you find your lips twitching toward a smile. 

Because this is peak Jung Hoseok behavior—spending ridiculous amounts of money on something completely unnecessary because he got excited about the technical details.

“Fine,” you say, settling the headband onto your head. “But if these look stupid, I’m never letting you live it down.”

“They won’t look stupid. They’re going to look amazing. You’re going to look exactly like—”

He stops mid-sentence as the ears settle into place.

The headband is surprisingly comfortable, lightweight enough that you barely notice it’s there. The ears themselves sit naturally, positioned just right to look like they actually belong on your head rather than like a costume accessory.

You turn to look in the small mirror above his dresser, and…

Shit.

They look good.

Not just ‘acceptable for the purposes of artistic reference’ good, but actually good. 

The black fur complements your hair color, the positioning flatters your face shape, and the way they move slightly when you turn your head is genuinely cute.

Which is a problem.

Because you’re not supposed to like how you look in cat ears. 

You’re supposed to be above this kind of thing. 

You’re supposed to think it’s ridiculous and juvenile and exactly the sort of male fantasy bullshit that makes you roll your eyes.

Instead, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror and thinking… you look cute.

Really cute.

And that’s… horrifying.

“They look…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat. “I mean, the proportions are exactly right for Miki’s design. The color match is perfect. The positioning looks completely natural.”

You catch his eyes in the mirror, and there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

“They look stupid,” you lie, because admitting you like them feels too much like admitting something else entirely.

“They don’t look stupid.”

“They look ridiculous.”

“They look perfect.”

You turn away from the mirror, which is a mistake, because now you’re facing him directly and he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite identify. Something softer than his usual manic enthusiasm, something that makes the air in the small bedroom feel thicker.

“So,” you say, voice slightly wavery. “What’s the pose?”

“Right. The pose.” He blinks, seeming to remember why you’re here. “It’s for chapter six. Miki’s supposed to be… well, she’s in a vulnerable moment, but trying to maintain her independence. The cat characteristics become more pronounced when she’s emotional.”

He moves to his desk, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil with the kind of movements that suggests he’s trying very hard to focus on the technical aspects of what you’re doing.

“She’s sitting on the floor,” he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. “Knees drawn up, but not defensively. More like… comfortable vulnerability, if that makes sense. And the ears would be…” He makes a vague gesture. “Attentive, but not aggressive. Curious but cautious.”

You settle onto the floor, adjusting your position until it feels natural. The movement makes the ears shift slightly, and you notice the way they respond to your movement.

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s good. But maybe tilt your head slightly to the left? And soften your expression a bit. She’s not angry, just… guarded.”

You adjust your position, trying to find the balance between confidence and softness. 

It’s… weirdly easy to slip into the character’s headspace—the duality of wanting to be seen and wanting to hide.

“Perfect,” Hoseok murmurs, pencil already moving across the paper. “Hold that.”

The scratch of graphite on paper fills the silence as he works, occasionally asking you to adjust your expression or the tilt of your head. 

But something about it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps.

Maybe it’s the ears. Maybe it’s the way he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re realizing how small his bedroom is, how close you’re sitting, how warm the lamplight is.

“Tilt your head a bit more,” he says quietly. “Yeah, like that. The way the light hits… that’s exactly right.”

His voice has gotten softer, more focused, and there’s something about the way he’s studying your face that makes heat creep up your neck.

“The ears,” he continues, still sketching. “The way they move when you adjust your position, the way they frame your face… it’s exactly what I needed for the character design.”

You hold the pose, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. 

It’s just reference work. 

It’s just Hoseok being professional about his art. 

“You’re being very good about this,” he says absently, not looking up from his sketch. “Very patient. Very professional. Good kitty.”

The words slip out so naturally that it takes a moment for both of you to process what he’s just said.

Good kitty.

He called you good kitty.

In that soft, focused voice he uses when he’s completely absorbed in his work. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re actually…

Heat explodes across your face so fast and so intensely that you’re surprised you don’t burst into flames on the spot.

Your heart rate spikes to somewhere around the level usually reserved for medical emergencies, and there’s a rushing sound in your ears that might be your blood pressure trying to achieve escape velocity.

Because why the fuck did that make your stomach drop in the best possible way?

Why did those two words, said in that tone, with that casual assumption of… of what, exactly? Authority? Affection? Ownership?

Why are you blushing like a teenage girl who just got asked to prom by her crush?

Why does your chest feel tight? Why are your hands shaking? Why is there a warm, liquid feeling spreading through your stomach like you’ve just swallowed something that’s too hot?

Why do you like it?

Oh god, why do you like it?

And why—why—is there a small, traitorous part of your brain that wants him to say it again?

You hiccup.

It’s an involuntary, mortifying little sound that escapes before you can stop it, born of shock and embarrassment and something else you absolutely refuse to name.

Hoseok’s pencil stops moving.

He looks up, and the moment he sees your face—which is probably the color of a fire truck at this point—his eyes widen with dawning horror.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “I just… I didn’t mean… that just came out…”

“It’s fine,” you manage, but your voice comes out pitched too high and slightly strangled.

“No, it’s not fine, I just called you…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more chaotic. “I was thinking about Miki, and the character work, and I just… it slipped out.”

“Really, it’s—”

“I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate, I wasn’t thinking about you as… I mean, not that you’re not… but I didn’t mean to make it weird…”

He’s spiraling now, words tumbling out faster than his brain can process them, and you can see the exact moment he realizes he’s making it worse.

You’re still wearing cat ears. He just called you good kitty. And you liked it.

You liked it enough that your entire body reacted like he’d just whispered something dirty in your ear instead of offering casual praise.

This is fine. This is normal. 

This is just two friends helping each other with work-related projects and definitely not discovering anything weird about themselves or each other.

Except your face is still burning, and you can’t stop thinking about the way his voice sounded when he said it, and the way he’d made the praise sound like—

“Should I—” you start, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “Should I try a different expression?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, still not looking up. “Different expression. Good idea. Very professional.”

He adjusts his position in the chair, crossing his legs, and you definitely don’t notice the way he shifts like he’s uncomfortable.

“What expression?” you ask, because apparently your mouth has decided to keep working even though your brain has completely shut down.

“Uh…” He finally glances up, and his gaze immediately skitters away again. “Maybe… surprised? Like someone just caught you off guard?”

Well, that shouldn’t be hard to fake, considering someone just caught you very off guard indeed.

You widen your eyes slightly, letting your lips part just a little, and the ears twitch forward with the movement.

“Good,” Hoseok says, his voice carefully controlled. “That’s… that’s very good.”

His pencil moves across the paper with more focus than necessary, like he’s trying to lose himself in the motions of drawing.

But you can see how rigidly his shoulders are set, and how he keeps shifting in his chair, the careful way he’s avoiding eye contact.

And you’re not much better. You can feel your pulse in your throat, and there’s a weird awareness of your own body that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. 

The way the ears sit on your head, the way they move when you breathe, the way they make you feel like you’re playing some kind of role that you don’t entirely understand.

But you like it.

And that’s the most disturbing part of all of this.

“Maybe we should…” you start, then realize you have no idea how to finish that sentence.

Take a break? Stop pretending this is normal? Address the fact that you just discovered something about yourself that you’re not sure you want to know?

“I should…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat and tries again. “Maybe we should take a break? Get some air?”

“Yeah,” you agree quickly, grateful for any excuse to escape the suffocating tension of his bedroom. “Air. Good idea.”

But as you start to reach up to remove the cat ears, he speaks again.

“You can… I mean, if you want to keep those on, that’s… they look good. I mean, they look accurate. For the character reference.”

Your hand freezes halfway to your head.

“Should I keep them on?” 

“Do you want to keep them on?”

It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it makes it feel loaded with implications.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“I don’t know either.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, looking at each other across the small space of his bedroom, and the silence feels different now. Heavier. Like there are words neither of you knows how to say.

“We could…” Hoseok starts, then stops.

“What?”

“We could keep going. With the reference work. If you want.”

“If I want.”

“If you want.”

You study his face, looking for some clue about what he’s really asking. But all you see is the same uncertainty you’re feeling.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But no more… you know.”

“Good kitty comments?”

“Good kitty comments.”

“Right. Completely professional from here on out.”

“Completely professional.”

The cat ears stay on.

The living room feels enormous compared to the claustrophobic tension of the bedroom, even though it’s objectively the same cramped space it was twenty minutes ago.

You settle back onto the floor cushions, super aware of the way the ears move with your head, while Hoseok busies himself with rummaging the freezer for the ice cream you bought earlier.

He’s moving around the tiny kitchen—looking for clean teaspoons—with the kind of aggressive purposefulness that suggests he needs something to do with his hands.

Momo appears immediately, gliding from her perch to investigate the situation. She lands on the couch arm nearest to you and sits up on her hind legs, studying you curiously like you’re a wildlife documentary.

“She’s staring at me,” you observe.

“She’s probably wondering why you smell different,” Hoseok calls from the kitchen, where he’s clattering around with unnecessary force. “The ears are new. Different scent.”

“They have a scent?”

“Everything has a scent. Momo’s very scent-oriented. She probably thinks you’re… I don’t know. Part cat now.”

“Part cat,” you repeat flatly.

“In a good way! Cats are very dignified! Very independent!”

You glance at Momo, who tilts her head and makes a soft chittering sound that could be commentary or could be approval. 

“Can I…” you hesitate, then extend one finger toward her slowly. “Would she let me pet her?”

Hoseok’s clattering stops abruptly. “You want to pet Momo?”

“Is that weird?”

“No, it’s just… she doesn’t usually let people touch her. She’s very particular about personal space.”

But Momo has already made the decision for herself, leaning forward to sniff your extended finger.

After a moment of consideration, she presses her tiny head against your fingertip.

Something blooms in your chest.

Because last time she sniffed you, she scurried away.

But this time—this time she’s actually chosen you to pet her.

“Oh,” you breathe, because her fur is impossibly soft and she’s so small and warm and trusting. “She’s…”

“She likes you,” Hoseok says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you look up.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, ice cream boxes in hand, watching you pet his sugar glider with an expression that’s soft and surprised and something else you can’t quite identify.

“She doesn’t do that with strangers,” he continues. “Ever. You’re officially part of the ecosystem now.”

“The ecosystem?”

“This apartment. This space. Momo’s very territorial. If she accepts you, it means you belong here.”

The way he says ‘belong here’ makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

“She’s just being friendly,” you say, but you don’t stop the gentle head scratches that are making Momo practically purr with contentment.

“Momo is never just friendly. She’s a very serious judge of character.”

“What’s her verdict on me?”

“Apparently, you’re acceptable.”

“High praise.”

“The highest. She once bit my neighbor for trying to give her a piece of apple. Drew blood.”

You pause in your petting. “You mentioned.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you try to touch her without permission. And the apple was too big. She has very specific opinions about appropriate offering sizes.”

Momo makes a small sound then—immediately fleeing.

“Just like someone I know,” Hoseok observes.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmmm. Nothing.”

You give him a death glare as he settles onto the cushion across from you, mouthful of chocolate ice cream coating his lips.

“So,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes as he hands you the strawberry one. “How was that? The reference session?”

“It was…” You pause, taking the ice cream from his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean… I learned that professional cat ears are surprisingly comfortable.”

“And that Momo has excellent taste in humans.”

“And that your bedroom is a death trap of precariously balanced furniture.”

He laughs, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “Hey, that storage system is very efficient. Just requires some athletic skill to access.”

“It requires a death wish and questionable judgment.”

“Same thing, really.”

You bring the spoon to your mouth, tasting the strawberry ice cream that is actually good despite looking like the cheapest brand available.

“The ears,” Hoseok says suddenly, then stops.

“What about them?”

“They look… I mean, for the reference, they’re perfect. Exactly what I needed to understand how Miki’s would move and position and…”

He trails off, apparently lost in some technical artistic consideration that involves staring at your face like it’s a museum piece.

“You’re staring,” you point out.

“I’m observing. For artistic purposes.”

“Artistic purposes.”

“The way they frame your face, the proportion relative to your features, the way they respond to head movement…” He’s talking faster now, the words tumbling out like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “It’s exactly the reference material I needed to make Miki’s design more realistic.”

“Right.”

“Very professional artistic observation.”

“Of course.”

But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel particularly professional. It feels… different. Warmer.

Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to see.

You shift slightly under his gaze, and the movement makes the ears tilt in response. 

His eyes track the motion.

“They’re very responsive,” he observes, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“You said they were articulated.”

“They are. But seeing it in practice is… different. More natural than I expected.”

“Good thing you spent twelve thousand yen on them.”

“Very good thing,” he agrees, but he’s still staring and his voice has gotten quieter.

There’s a few beats of silence that translate into you not knowing what to do with your stupid hands.

“I should probably head home soon,” you say, even though the thought of going back to your corporate housing makes you want to sink through the floor. “Early meeting tomorrow about brand cohesion strategies.”

“Brand cohesion strategies,” Hoseok repeats. “That sounds…”

“Soul-crushing?”

“I was going to say ‘very corporate,’ but soul-crushing works too.”

You laugh, and it feels good to laugh about something normal after the last few hours of weirdness.

But then the silence stretches out again, and you can see Hoseok fidgeting with his spoon, turning it around in his hands like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again.

You're not much better. Your fingers have found your cuticles and you're picking at them in that nervous habit you thought you'd grown out of, trying very hard not to think about the way your stomach dropped when he said ‘good kitty’ in that soft, focused voice.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Come on. This is Hoseok. Jung Hoseok. The boy who used to eat dirt on dares and cried when his pet goldfish died. Your childhood friend who draws cartoon porn for a living and can't remember to take his medication.

You're not supposed to get hot and bothered when he calls you good kitty while you're wearing cat ears in his bedroom.

That's not... that's not normal friend behavior.

That's not normal you behavior.

"So, um..." Hoseok starts, then stops, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should probably... I mean, you probably want to..."

He trails off, turning the ice cream container in his hands.

"Yeah," you say quickly, reaching up to remove the cat ears. "I should head back."

Your fingers fumble with the headband, and you can feel heat creeping up your neck again as you carefully lift the ears off your head. They're still warm from your skin, and for some stupid reason that makes you blush harder.

You hold them out to him, pressing your lips together and not quite meeting his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me borrow them," you manage. "For the... reference thing."

"Right. Reference." He takes the ears from you, and his fingers brush yours for just a second before you both jerk your hands back like you've been burned. "Very professional reference work."

"Very professional," you agree, even though your ears are probably bright red and your voice sounds slightly strangled.

Hoseok sets the cat ears carefully next to him, like they're made of glass instead of fur and plastic.

"I could..." he starts, then stops. 

Clears his throat. 

Tries again. “I mean, if you want, I could give you a lift home? On my bike?"

You nod without saying anything, because words feel dangerous right now. Like if you open your mouth, something embarrassing might come out. Something that acknowledges what just happened, or how you felt about it, or why your stomach is still doing weird fluttery things.

Better to just... not.

"Right," Hoseok says, apparently taking your silence as agreement. "Let me just... grab my keys."

He disappears into his bedroom for a moment, and you use the time to collect yourself. 

To remind yourself that you're a rational adult who doesn't get flustered by childhood friends making casual comments during work-related activities.

Even if those comments made you feel things you definitely shouldn't be feeling.

Even if you're still thinking about the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ears.

Stop it.

When he emerges, he's got his keys what appears to be a leather jacket that's seen better days.

You follow him down the four flights of stairs in silence, both of you carefully not looking at each other, both of you moving with the kind of exaggerated casualness that screams 'nothing weird happened here.'

Hoseok leads you around the side of his building towards his bike, which makes you curious because…

But then he stops next to a bicycle.

Not just any bicycle. 

A bright blue bicycle with a basket on the front and what appear to be reflective streamers hanging from the handlebars and a bell shaped like a cartoon cat.

You stare at it.

He stares at you staring at it.

"It's..." he starts defensively. "It's very practical. Good for the environment. Excellent exercise."

A snort escapes before you can stop it.

"What?" Hoseok asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You said bike," you manage between barely suppressed giggles. "I thought you meant... like a motorbike.”

"This has pedals. Very efficient pedals."

"It has streamers, Ott."

"They're safety streamers. For visibility."

The absurdity of it—standing outside his apartment building at nine PM, arguing about bicycle safety features after the most awkward modeling session in history—finally breaks the tension that's been building all evening.

You start laughing. Really laughing, not the careful polite laughter from before, but the kind of helpless giggles that make your stomach hurt.

"It's not that funny," Hoseok protests, but he's grinning now too. "It's a very respectable bicycle. I bought it from a very serious bicycle shop."

"With streamers," you gasp.

"With safety features."

"And a basket."

"For groceries! Very logical!"

"And the cat-shaped bell was necessary?"

He swings his leg over the bike with the kind of dignity that only someone riding a bright blue bicycle with streamers and a bell can muster, then pats the seat behind him.

"Come on, your chariot awaits."

"I'm not getting on that thing."

"It's perfectly safe. I've been riding it for three years without a single accident."

"How many near-accidents?"

"That's not relevant to current safety statistics."

Despite your protests, you find yourself climbing onto the back of his ridiculous bicycle, trying to figure out where to put your hands that won't result in you falling off or accidentally grabbing something inappropriate.

"Just hold onto my shoulders," Hoseok says, apparently reading your mind. "Or my waist, whatever's comfortable. I promise not to dump you in the street."

"Your promises aren't worth much considering your track record with furniture safety."

"What?! I didn't fall!"

"You almost fell. There's a difference."

"A very important difference."

You settle your hands lightly on his shoulders as he pushes off, and the bicycle wobbles slightly before finding its balance. The movement brings you closer to his back, close enough that you can smell that sharp, citrusy scent that seems to follow him everywhere.

Yuzu peel. 

It's stronger now, mixed with the evening air and the faint scent of his laundry detergent, and it makes you think of summer mornings and sticky fingers and the way citrus juice stings when you get it under your fingernails.

Without really thinking about it, you let your forehead rest against his shoulder blade as he pedals through the quiet streets. 

The rhythm is soothing—the soft whir of bicycle wheels, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional ding of his bell when he needs to navigate around pedestrians.

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you. 

Familiar. 

Like being kids again, when the most complicated thing in your life was whether you'd finished your maths homework and if there would be good snacks in the school canteen.

"You smell like yuzu," you say without thinking, then immediately regret it because that sounds weird and personal and not the kind of thing you should be noticing about your childhood friend.

"It's my shampoo," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Same brand I've been using since high school. Very consistent personal grooming choices."

"Makes me want pastries. Those little yuzu tarts from that bakery near the station."

"We could get some tomorrow. If you want. After your corporate brand cohesion thing."

"Maybe."

This is what you missed, you think. 

Not the complications or the confusing feelings or the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ridiculous ears.

Just this. 

The simplicity of being around someone who's known you since you were kids, who remembers that you like strawberry ice cream and hate algae extract and get cranky when you're hungry.

Someone who gives you lifts home on a bicycle with a cat-shaped bell and doesn't think twice about it.

The ride to your corporate housing is shorter than you'd like, and when he pulls up outside the bland concrete building, you're almost disappointed.

"Here we are," he says, steadying the bike while you climb off. "Safe and sound, as promised."

"Thanks," you say, getting off cautiously because falling off right now would be embarrassing. "For dinner, and the... work thing, and the lift."

"Thanks for being my professional reference model. Very valuable artistic collaboration."

"Very professional," you agree, and this time when you say it, it feels true.

"See you tomorrow? For yuzu pastries and post-corporate recovery?"

"Maybe. If I survive the brand cohesion."

"You'll survive. You're tougher than peptide synergy."

You laugh, and it feels good, and normal—just as if everything is exactly as it should be.

"So," Hoseok says finally. "Same time next week? For the... work thing?"

"Yeah," you agree. "Same time next week."

"Cool. I'll probably have more reference questions by then. Very professional reference questions."

"I'm sure you will."

"Nothing weird."

"Definitely nothing weird."

You both know you're lying, but it feels necessary to pretend otherwise.

"Goodnight, Ott."

"Goodnight, Capy."

You watch him pedal away into the neon-lit darkness, cat bell chiming softly as he disappears around the corner, and you realize you're smiling.

Whatever weirdness happened earlier, whatever confusing feelings got stirred up by cat ears and casual praise—it doesn't matter.

What matters is that Jung Hoseok is still Jung Hoseok, and you're still you, and some things never change.

Even when everything else does.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[advisinghat56]

Nonono this is just a “what if these two rabbit-obsessed characters met” Herbert is not dying in this shitpost comic

But only now did the thought of a fnaf fan who has no knowledge of South Park’s Herbert Pocket reading this comic cross my mind, lmao.

And thank you! Honestly a large portion of my recent improvement is because I switched to drawing in Magma. The pencil brush there is making drawing digitally actually fun for once (I do not know how to make my own brushes). This entire silly comic is just practice!

Part 2 coming eventually

[mockerycrow]

sub simon idea (maybe, idk): him having such a hard time appreciating himself or even admitting that there is something about him that someone could appreciate. he just doesn’t feel like it cpuld ever be the case. so naturally he gets edged until he praises himself enough. just him gasping and whining about how pretty he is, how reliable, how strong until he finally, finally gets that orgasm his body has been burning for.

(and as a bonus he gets cooed at softly while he cums, the compliments are just making him shake harder)

ANGEL (Sub!Ghost x Dom!GN!Reader)

crow’s masterlist

authors note; i am alive, i am back. you can thank black ops 7 for getting me to write this. enjoy. listen to angel by massive attack for full effect. 1.6k words.

[warnings; sub!ghost, self deprecation, implied edging, handjobs, orgasms, angst, fluff. ghost has issues.]

Simon has a love hate relationship with your mind and determination. He appreciates your hard working attitude, your ambitious nature, and your discipline; but fucking hell, he did not expect for you to be mad at him when he kept making negative remarks towards himself. Simon’s always doubted himself; sure, he talks himself up during banter, but there’s a lot of moments where Simon doesn’t believe he could be… enjoyed. Loved, maybe is the word.

He doesn’t expect you to take that as personal as you seemingly do. 

“Fuh-fuck.” Simon gurgles out, fireworks going off behind his eyelids. You’re mean, you’re so fucking mean and he can’t handle it. His fingers curl into the sheets below, his other hand grasping your wrist. His legs feel like fucking jelly and his cock is so hard, it hurts. He calls out your name in a shaky tone as your hand slowly strokes his slicked cock, wet with your spit and his pre-cum. You meanly press your thumb to the underside of his dick right under his tip, pressing against the sensitive spot you know is there.

It earns you a choked out moan and his hips spasming upwards, electricity shooting through him from the base of his spine. Your eyes trail over his body; his pants and boxers are pulled down to just above his knees, his shirt and jacket pushed upwards over his pecs, the fabric gathering up near his neck and collarbones. His belt clinks with every movement, his balaclava pushed up over the hooked part of his nose.. As your hand runs down the wet skin, your thumb pressing against a prominent vein in the process, you absentmindedly think that maybe next time you should tie his wrists with his own belt.

“Say it.” You utter; the phrase, no, command is simple. Can Simon follow through and be obedient is the question. Can he? Simon breaths out harshly as your hand curls around the base of his dick, squeezing deliciously. He can hear the squelch of the fluids mixing. Fuck. He knows what you want from him—you want him to say something positive about himself. You want Simon to value himself the way you do.

Problem is, he can’t. Simon hasn’t been able to do so in a while. He has moments where he feels good, but he has more moments where he feels bad. Gross and undeserving. Unfortunately, that’s most of the time. It’s not like he particularly enjoys being mentally cruel to himself; quite the opposite. Simon just ends up going down a rabbit hole where his brain won’t shut up.

His lips press together and open a few times as your other hand caresses the inside of his big, hairy thigh, fingertips tracing an adductor muscle. Despite feeling hot all over, it sends a cold shiver up Simon’s spine, urging his back into an arch. Simon knows you aren’t continuing, not until he even murmurs self praise. You’re mean and cruel and he hates this. It’s oddly… embarrassing, to some degree. Being unable to say something nice about himself. 

You pull Simon back to reality with another squeeze, earning a grunt and his leg kicking out a little. “Fuck.” He mutters, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows harshly. His belt clinks as his leg twitches. “Say it.” You repeat yourself, your tone sporting an edge to it. 

Simon thinks about it; if he does this, you’ll let him cum. You’ve edged him twice now—you both know he can handle much more, but he isn’t sure how long you’re willing to draw this out without letting him cum. He isn’t interested in knowing. His dick hurts and his balls fucking ache like hell. Simon knows better than to play these games—but his mind.. It isn’t cooperating.

He doesn’t see the point in praising himself. What good will that—”You’re still thinking, hm? Thought good boys know how to shut up and listen.” You mutter, gently dragging your nails across the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, dangerously close to his scrotum. It drags a delicious spine tingle and shuddery gasp from the big man underneath you.

Simon swallows hard, his head turning to the side. Your hand leaves his thigh, reaching up and grabbing his jaw and turning his head back to you. His eyes meet yours for a moment, a breathy noise leaving him as your fingers skim across the stubble across his jaw that’s grown over the past day and a half. Your presence makes him feel.. Small. Embarrassed and weak. He hates it one second, loves it another. “Wait–” Simon groans as you give his cock a little stroke, leaning down and spitting on his length in order to keep it wet. You hand curls around his base again—God, it’s so fucking possessive. It makes Simon so warm inside.

“Let me see all of you. Maybe then, you’d understand.” You breathe out, your fingertips slipping under the balaclava, pausing. He knows that you’re waiting for his permission—his go ahead to expose him. Simon’s cock twitches in your palm as his mind connects the dots and he nods to you, his eyes locked onto your lips that twitch into a satisfied smile of approval, a smile that makes him warm. You peel off the balaclava, putting it aside before he feels your fingers running through his blonde hair. 

Simon shudders; you’re so gentle. So good and so meaningful with it. You’ve always had a way with your actions, speaking words without actually talking. Every touch, he never has had to doubt. Your intentions have always been so clear with him—to love him, to care for him, to get Simon out of his prison of a mind, to just be on Earth with you, even if it’s just for a few minutes of pleasure.

That’s what is what convinces Simon. Not your words, but your smile. Your gaze, your touch. The silent “i love you”s that are imprinted in every finger pressed to his overheated skin. He has days where he wonders if you’re even human because surely there’s no earthly explanation for a blessing like you to want a curse like him.

Simon feels the familiar bite of emotion welling up in his chest, tight and biting into his heart like vines. Instead of choking it down, he knows you’ll handle his prickled heart with much more care than himself. He hands you the reins. “I-I’m.. Good.” Simon utters, his tone guttural and raw as his eyelids flutter; your hand starts to slowly jerk his cock as a reward, making him spill his dam. “I’m strong, I’m.. fuuh–fuck, I’m fuckin’ handsome, a–and–” He babbles, not knowing how to praise himself.

You swoop in like always. “Mhm, the hottest man I’ve met.” You coo softly, teasing his leaking tip with your thumb, letting the milky pre-cum smear into the vein on the underside of his dick. “The team wouldn’t be the same with you. Say it.”

Simon grunts out, his hips giving a little twitch. “Mhhhn, the.. The team needs me, I’m valuable, I’m needed, I’m the best fuckin’ sniper Price has–” Simon gasps out as your hand speeds up. You grin, tilting your head, your other hand coming to his mouth, wiping spit that dribbled past his lips and tears that spilled out of his lash line. “I’m, shhit, I’m.. sexy, God, I’m big, lemme cum, please–”

Simon’s already so close, it’s fucking mortifying. With the way you’re looking over his exposed body with hungry and affection eyes, your hand skimming down his stomach, tracing his muscles and your other hand jerking him in relatively slow, tight strokes, spitting to keep it sloppy because you know that’s how he likes it—Fuuuck, you aren’t even going fast and his balls are drawing up. The ball in his lower belly is tightening and you’ve barely done a fucking thing. 

God, he’s so gone for you.

“You’re close, baby. You’re twitching.” You murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his lip, training down his tear stained cheek, licking the tear that trickled down to his ear. “You’re fucking beautiful, Si. I don’t understand why you make me do this for you to realize. Maybe you just wanna feel me on you, hm? Is that it?”

Simon’s eyes roll as your hand speeds up around his dick, and your voice is in his fucking ear, invading his brain and taking ahold of his nervous system. You’ve merged with him and his reactions and you don’t even know. You don’t even know. 

He’s babbling something, he doesn’t quite hear it. Judging by your smile, Simon’s probably mumbling some random compliment, any compliment towards himself. His hand around your wrist tightens, a whimper getting past his lips as his legs kick a little. “Go ahead, pretty. Good boy.”

Simon thinks he blacks out for a moment—all he feels is something exploding in his gut, his balls pulsing. His cock pumps out thick, hot ropes of creamy cum, shooting all over his abs, spilling over your knuckles–even reaching his neck and pooling in his left collarbone. “Jesus, Si. Pent up, hm? You’re so fuckin’ sexy, I can’t believe you let me do this.” You murmur in his ear, eyeing the way his cock is twitching and throbbing. You milk him, squeezing the base of his cock with every spurt, mimicking a clenching hole.

Simon gasps, mouth opening and closing. The warm pleasure leaks up his spine and seeps into his bone marrow, making him melt and go limp. He feels so heavy, so warm. His hand leaves your wrist, seeking out more of your skin by skimming up your arm, over your shoulder and to your cheek. He feels you press your cheek into his palm.

Simon’s panting as you lean closer, his hand cupping the nape of your neck as you press your forehead against his. 

His safety net. His love, his life—his home, right here. And you want him. 

Simon doesn’t think he minds being yours.

🏷️; @clancycatears @dumb-fawkin-bitch @ghestielong @missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @snoowply @thisuserloveshalloween @spacelia @Ghostindeath @kivino @nyushkawritesstuff

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[pleaselmhau]

You knew Ghost wouldn’t go out of his way for Halloween, he barely even realizes the holidays happened when they passed. But you were determined to show him how fun Halloween can be by combining it with his favorite thing fucking you you.

When you handed him a wolf costume he nearly asked if you lost your goddamn mind. Though with a few many pleas and sweet looks he caved somewhat. You had gotten him a ridiculous set, but the look he gave the package and the muttered “fucking hell,” had you knowing you were not gonna get a tail tied around his waist. No matter how funny it would be to chase the big guy around trying to tie it on. So you settle for letting him wear his combat uniform, mask and all, and just the wolf ears. It’s not much but it does the trick. “Wait here,” you chime sweetly before scampering off to go put on your own costume.

You felt nervous under his piercing gaze, waiting for him to say anything, “well…?” You finally cave, needing to know what he was thinking behind those stoic eyes. His eyes trail over your bunny costume in full. The full white outfit, the thigh highs, the floppy bunny ears on either side of your head held in place by a headband, the way you did your makeup to make you’re eyes look bigger and made your nose pink. “It’s… cute.” He finally says. His brows raise just a bit as his eyes meet yours again. He’s standing on the opposite end of the hallway, having gotten bored of waiting and walked out of the bedroom just in time to see you coming out of the bathroom. He looks intimidating, standing there nearly blending into he shadows, two pointed ears on the top of his head and skull mask staring right back at you.

“You get it? Like you’re the wolf and I’m the bunny, we’re like a pair.” You add on, waiting for any real reaction really. His hands shift to the walls surrounding on either side of him, palms pressing flat against the hard surface. “Mhm,” he hums, still giving muted responses. “So like-..” you stammer out, but are cut off by him. “Well go on then, little rabbit, hop along.” Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment before you see him shifting his stance, getting ready. So he did know what you wanted. You suck in a sharp breath before swiveling around and taking off away from him. His hands, flat against the wall push off as he takes off after you.

To make the sharp turn faster he just slides right into the wall with a loud thud from how fast he took off and it startled the shit out of you. Of course you knew what he was doing, chasing you, but you didn’t realize how hard he would go. It makes you redouble your efforts, letting out a gasp as your socked feet press harder into the hardwood. Using your hand on the wall to slide around the next corner. You can hear his heavy footsteps behind you, the sound going quiet as he fully slides around the corner too like he’s trying to drift on his socks. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, your lungs just starting to burn as you quickly round the coffee table, pausing with him on the other side. His chest heaves, though you get the impression he’s putting on the full show for you rather than it being from exertion, he’s very in shape from his job. It works, maybe too well. Seeing him standing there at his full height, watching you with tunnel vision, body coiled like a snake ready to strike. You try to fake him out, stepping one way then going the other but he doesn’t budge much, just a slight shift in his weight. He lowers his center of gravity, one hand reaching forward slowly to rest on the coffee table and you realize what he’s doing just in time to sprint away as his foot presses to the coffee table and he vaults right over it. You don’t get far though.

His body slams right into your back, and your heart stops for a second as you almost crash face first into the hard wall, but his hands juts out, stopping both of you right before with his other arm around your waist. He doesn’t even give you a moment to catch your breath or to calm your racing heart, before he’s pushing your front right up against the wall. His body curls around yours, flush from head to knee. Well until one of his thighs slots between yours, knee pressing against the wall as his hands roughly pull your hips back so your ass is flush with his groin and his thigh is pressed up against your sex. You can feel the cold, hard plastic of his mask press into the side of your neck, followed by the scruffy fur of his cheap wolf ears brushing against your temple as he whispers in your ear. “Caught you.”

[acklesarchives]

He’s your bf headcanons - Dean W

Dean Winchester x gn!reader

There aren’t any content warnings so everyone can enjoy <3

Headcanons and scenarios based on Dean being your boyfriend

Word count ; 997

── .✦ Protective to a Fault

⟢ Dean is intensely protective, and yeah, a lot of that comes from the life he leads. If you’re a hunter, he insists on watching your back, always putting himself between you and danger. If you’re not, then good luck ever getting him to let you out of his sight when things get even remotely suspicious.

⟢ But it’s not just about monsters and demons—it’s in the little things, too. The way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, the way his hand finds the small of your back in a crowded bar, the way he instinctively reaches for you in his sleep, even when he’s dead tired. He won’t always say he’s worried about you, but it’s in the way he brings you an extra layer when it’s cold, in the way he subtly checks you over after a hunt, his fingers ghosting over your skin like he’s making sure you’re still in one piece.

⟢ “You get hurt, and I swear—” he grumbles, shaking his head. But the way his fingers tighten around yours tells you the rest of what he won’t say out loud.

── .✦ Physical Affection Is His Love language

⟢ Dean pretends he’s the tough guy, all gruff and distant, but in reality? He’s touchy. And he doesn’t even realize it most of the time. He pulls you into his side when you’re standing next to him, rests his hand on your knee when he’s driving, absently plays with your fingers when you’re sitting together in the bunker. When he kisses you, he does it like he means it—deep, slow, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

⟢ And after a long day? He won’t say he needs to hold you, but you’ll feel it in the way he tugs you into his arms, letting out a long breath as his chin rests against the top of your head. It’s how he grounds himself—reminding himself you’re here, safe, his.

── .✦ He Loves to Make You Laugh

⟢ Dean thrives on making you laugh. He’ll do the dumbest impressions, tell the worst dad jokes, even break out ridiculous dance moves just to see you crack a smile. If you’re upset, he’s all sarcastic quips and exaggerated antics, nudging you until you roll your eyes and finally let out a little laugh. And when you do? He grins like he just won the lottery.

⟢ “See? That’s the face I like. Much better, sweetheart.”

── .✦ Cooking for You Is One of His Biggest Love Languages

⟢ Dean Winchester might not be the most eloquent guy when it comes to feelings, but he sure as hell knows how to put love into a plate of food. He loves cooking for you—whether it’s a greasy diner-style breakfast with extra bacon or a late-night burger when you’re too exhausted to eat anything else. And if you compliment his cooking? Oh, he preens.

⟢ “Damn right, baby, best cook you’ve ever had.”

⟢ That being said, expect him to be extremely opinionated about what qualifies as “real food.” If you bring home something remotely healthy, he just squints at it like it personally insulted him.

⟢ “What even is that? Kale? That’s rabbit food, sweetheart. You’re killin’ me.”

── .✦ His Jealousy Is Subtle, but It’s There

⟢ Dean’s the type of guy who trusts you—he’s not about to smother you or get insecure over nothing. But if someone’s too friendly with you? Oh, you’ll see the shift. His jaw sets, his arm finds its way around your waist, and his voice drops just a little lower. He won’t cause a scene, but the way he stares at the guy who won’t stop flirting with you? Yeah. It’s a warning.

⟢ And later, when you’re alone? He won’t admit he was jealous, but he’ll tug you onto his lap, kiss you slow and deep, and mutter, “Just makin’ sure you know who you belong to, sweetheart.”

── .✦ He’s a Wreck When It Comes to Losing You

⟢ Dean is terrified of losing the people he loves. He’s been through too much, lost too many, and the idea of something happening to you? It eats at him. He hides it well—makes jokes, pretends he’s got it under control—but when you’re hurt? That’s when the mask slips.

⟢ “Damn it, sweetheart—what were you thinking? You could’ve—” He stops himself, running a hand over his face, exhaling hard. Then he pulls you into his chest, his heartbeat fast and uneven. “Just… don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

── .✦ He Loves Falling Asleep with You

⟢ Dean’s never been the type to be good at sleeping. Too many nightmares, too many nights spent on the road, gun under his pillow, waiting for something to go wrong. But you? You make it easier. When you’re curled up beside him, tucked against his chest, his arm slung over your waist—it’s the closest thing to peace he’s had in years.

⟢ And if he wakes up in the middle of the night, restless? He just reaches for you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of your breathing.

── .✦ He’s Lowkey the Best Boyfriend Ever, Even If He Won’t Admit It

⟢ Dean Winchester will never call himself a romantic. He’ll roll his eyes if you say it. But the truth is? He is. He just doesn’t realize it. It’s in the way he remembers exactly how you like your coffee. In the way he brings you back little trinkets from cases because they reminded him of you. In the way he sings to you—badly, and usually off-key—when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

⟢ He’s not good at talking about feelings, but he shows them in every little thing he does.

⟢ And when you finally tell him, “You know you’re actually the best boyfriend ever, right?”—he just huffs, shaking his head with a smirk.

⟢ “Damn right I am. Took you long enough to notice, sweetheart.”

First headcanon post!!! Also I’m just going to be tagging all of my mutuals so if you don’t want to be tagged in my posts please please let me know!! I don’t want to be that person LMFAO

Tags : @daylighted @sunsettsam @clairiecidal @deerainy @emeraldcrs @deanangel @s4wdvator @morganwrites12672 @bluemerakis @bohemianblasphemy @velvetdandeli0n @sunsbaby @deanswidow @cherrygirlfriend @angelackless @figthoughts @deansbbyx @vmiina @deanspookiebear @aambearr @deansmisha @star-yawnznn @soldiersgirl

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

Collateral Hearts // 2

Pairing: John Price x OC

Summary: When a brutal attack targets a hospital, ex-military sniper Leah Price is forced out of hiding—and back into the world of covert warfare she left behind. Calling in the only contact she trusts, she crosses paths with her estranged husband, Captain John Price. As bullets fly and buried wounds resurface, Leah must decide if she’s ready to fight not just for survival—but for the man who once let her go.

MASTERLIST

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤

The safehouse was a converted farmhouse in the English countryside—cozy, quiet, and temporary.

Leah stood at the table doing her best to avoid the obvious elephant in the room that is her husband. By law that is, she has no idea who he is right now. She busied herself by effortlessly disassembling the DMR that laid before her.

"Bloody hell," Gaz whispered to no one in particular but Price hears him. "She's bloody good."

"She was the best in her unit." He said that with a sense of pride and a hint of regret. She was back in her element, back in his space and all he could think about is how he let her down.

Soap kept glancing between her and Price like he was watching the final season of a show he hadn’t realized he’d been following.

“Got a name,” Laswell crackled through the laptop in the corner.

“Contractors came from a group tied to Halcyon Initiative. High-level black market ops—mostly clean records, but word is, they’re testing something new. Weaponized targeting based on past intel leaks.”

Price stiffened. “What does that have to do with her?”

“About five years ago, Leah turned down a kill contract. Took out a rogue officer instead. That officer’s brother? Just bought a small army.”

Leah snorted. “Figures. Save a kid from a bad man and now he wants my head on a stick.”

Soap leaned over, arms folded. “So you were black ops?”

“Something like that.” Leah said calmly propping against the metal table, arms crossed over her chest.

Ghost raised a brow but didn’t protest.

Gaz grinned. “She’s got receipts, Price.”

“She always did,” Price said, gaze steady. “And she always cleaned them up better than anyone I knew.”

Leah finally looked at him—really looked. “You’re different,” she said. “Heavier. Slower. Older. Still stubborn."

“And you’re still impossible to forget. ” he replied without hesitation.

She let out a mixture of a scoff and snort. "Could've fooled me." The temperature in the room plummeted immediately as the tension spilled into the air.

She stared directly into his eyes, not backing down from his gaze.

Soap covered a cough with his fist. “Aye, right, so—we gonna kill the bastards that came after her, or what?”

⸻

Two nights later, Leah was back in the life she thought she left behind. The life where she was always on the go, always on the hunt for something or someone.

Perched on a rooftop overlooking a suspected Halcyon warehouse in Manchester, she adjusted her scope, the wind brushing against her face like an old friend.

She tapped her comm. “Rabbit in position. One tango on overwatch, two at the door.”

Ghost, crouched across the alley with Gaz, responded. “Copy that, Rabbit. You’re green to fire.”

Click.

The first guard dropped without a sound. Then the second. Then the third, before he even knew he was targeted.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz muttered. “She doesn’t miss.”

“She never did,” Price said through gritted teeth. “That’s why they wanted her back then.”

“And why’d you walk away?” Soap asked.

Price didn’t answer, he couldn't answer because he didn't have one to give.

"Could we not get into personal shit while out here? Matter of fact, let's not talk about this at all." Leah spoke through her open comms knowing that everyone could hear her snap.

"Agreed," Ghost responded from his location. "Unless you've both forgotten, she's watching your six. Wouldn't want to accidentally lose a hand if I were you Cap."

⸻

The operation went as smooth as it could've.

Back at base, post-op, the team spread out. Ghost sharpened a blade in silence. Gaz cleaned his gear. Soap lingered nearby but gave space.

Price found Leah alone, leaning on the railing overlooking the water behind the safehouse.

“You didn’t miss a single shot,” he said, lighting his cigar. He silently waited for her to respond but she didn't. She just stared at him. There was no warmth in those brown eyes that once looked at his as though he was her entire world. Now, her stare is ice cold and lacking emotions.

“I’m sorry." John hung his head, silently hoping that she'd say something. And she did.

“For what? Leaving me or making me feel like I meant nothing.” her voice was clipped.

“For both.”

Shifting her focus back on the view in front of her she ignored the annoying part of her that ached to reach out for him.

“I waited, you know. For you to come back to me, to come home." The last word left a bittersweet taste on her tongue. The place she called home has no longer felt like one since he left.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “Turns out, I was just protecting myself.”

"Right, protecting." He didn't have to look at her to know her eyes rolled to the back of her head. "You could've at least asked for a bloody divorce."

His head snapped over to her direction but he was met with the empty space where she was standing. The door slammed shut behind her as she left him outside to stew in whatever emotions he had going on.

The Leah that once cared about what he felt was long gone. This version of her has a bite to her.

⸻

With Laswell feeding them intelligence, 141 launched a precision raid on the Halcyon facility where the hit on Leah originated.

She led the breach with Ghost, neutralized targets with Soap, and coordinated strikes with Gaz like she’d always been one of them.

Inside, they found documents confirming she was listed as a priority target under “Operation Scorchclean”—a vendetta tied to old black ops files she’d scrubbed clean years ago.

Price found the mission handler cowering in the control room. Eyes widening when Leah stepped into the room, rifle aimed at his head.

"No, no, no- you were supposed to be dead."

"Surprise, it's your lucky day."

She didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. His body fell to the floor with a loud thump.

Clean shot, middle of his eyes.

Price called the hit in through his earpiece, eyes never leaving her frame as she walked away from him.

🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤🪖🖤

Taglist: @wllms

If you’d like to be added to the taglist let me know in the comments 🖤

[snoopylover69699]

ashes of silence

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

rick grimes pov x fem! reader

summary: After losing everything, Rick Grimes is a ghost in the ruins of Alexandria until, you a survivor through everything helps him find his purpose again. As they rebuild a broken home, a quiet bond forms, through hate filled glances and bouts of silence. Rick learns that even in grief, life can begin with you again.

cw: LEGAL age gap, possessive rick, damaged rick, eventual smut, reader in 20s rick in late 30s, reader is mean at first

3k work count

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

The gates of Alexandria creak in the wind, half torn from their hinges, one sagging like a broken limb. Ash coats the road in a gray film, and the smell of burnt wood lingers beneath the breeze. What once was a sanctuary is now a ghost town, and in it walks a ghost.

Rick Grimes.

You watch him as he moves like he’s still bleeding, like somewhere under the dirt and beard and silence, something inside him won’t stop hemorrhaging. He doesn’t speak anymore. Doesn’t eat much either. Mostly he sits on the porch of a half-collapsed house, in the shade of trees that once lined safe streets. Just breathing, if you can call it that.

You know that he’s lost everyone. Judith. Carl. Michonne, gone on some hope-chasing expedition before the world caved in for good. The others scattered or dead. The last time you saw Rick hold a gun, he didn’t shoot anything. Just stared at it long enough that even the weapon looked away.

You approached him like that, a few days ago. Skinny, sunburnt, eyes glassed over. You were hunting rabbits when you saw him kneeling by a gutter, staring into the water like it might answer back.

At first, you didn’t say a word. Just dropped a bottle of water beside him and walked away.

The next morning, he was still sitting in the same spot, and the bottle was empty.

Now, he follows you sometimes not close enough to call it company, just a few paces behind. Like a dog that doesn’t know if it wants to be fed or put down. You don’t talk. Neither does he. The silence between you two is thick enough to carve a hole in. You hate it. You hate him, maybe. Hate how broken he is, how small he’s become because we all know how powerful he was.

But you also know how familiar grief like that.

It comes in waves, and Rick? He’s drowning and your just passively watching.

⸻

You don’t ask him to help rebuild. Not at first.

You start with the simple things. Boarding up windows. Clearing rubble. Fixing the fences even though no one’s around anymore. It’s less about safety and more about sanity.

One day you leave a hammer by the pile of splintered wood you’re working on. Don’t say anything, just leave it there. When you come back an hour later, Rick’s using it, like the silence between you has shifted just enough to let movement in.

He works slow, methodical. You watch from the corner of your eye, he’s as striking to your senses now, then when you first laid your eyes on him. He still doesn’t speak, but now he works. That’s something.

The first time you really talk, it’s because he fucks up.

You’re both repairing the remnants of a gate, and he drops a beam on your foot. You hiss, curse, shove him hard enough that he stumbles.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” you snap.

Rick doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at you.

“I’m not your damn babysitter,” you add, breath harsh. “If you’re gonna be a ghost, go haunt somewhere else.”

He doesn’t flinch, but something flickers in those dead eyes. A crack in the numb.

“Sorry, kid” he states. It’s barely audible. His voice is hoarse, like it forgot how to make sound.

You stare at him, that stupid name that slips his lips is infuriating. But It’s not the apology that gets you, it’s that he means it.

⸻

Days turn into weeks. The sky warms. Alexandria begins to look less like a tomb.

You find tomatoes growing wild in an old greenhouse. Rick builds a bench in front of the church that still has a roof. You think maybe he does it for Carl. Maybe for himself.

You still don’t talk much. But the silence changes. Less sharp. You start to hear other things in it footsteps on gravel, the scrape of tools, the wind moving through leaves. Sometimes, at night, you sit on the same porch. Not together, not close. Just near. He drinks from a bottle you bartered from some travelers weeks ago. You sit with a knife in your hand, whittling wood down to nothing, carving something that doesn’t need to be anything.

One night, he says your name. First time he’s said anything unprompted.

You don’t answer.

“I used to be a sheriff,” he says, as if you didn’t know.

Still, you don’t reply.

He drinks again. “Used to think keeping people alive was enough. Turns out, watching them die makes you wonder if it was worth it.”

You close your knife and put the wood aside. “They’d say it was.”

Rick laughs, bitter. “Maybe. But they’re gone, and I’m still here. That’s the worst part.”

You don’t say you understand. You don’t have to. He sees it in your eyes.

⸻

You start fighting more. Not walkers, each other.

It starts over little things. How to build the water collection system. Whether it’s worth the risk to go scavenging. You say he’s too careful. He says you’re too reckless. The fights get louder, harsher.

“You think this place is gonna be your redemption?” you spit at him one day. “It’s still ash, Rick. You’re still ash.” .His eyes burn into your soul as he fires back “You think I don’t know that?” ,eyes blazing across your cold face. “You think I asked to still be here?” You storm off.

Later that night, you find a bowl of rabbit stew by your door. Still warm. You don’t eat it. Not right away. But you don’t throw it out, either.

⸻

There’s a night when it all simmers over.

You’re fixing a pipe in one of the houses. He’s holding the light. You’re sweating, on your back, cursing under your breath.

“You’re not exactly helping,” you snap.

“You’re not exactly grateful,” he shoots back, eyes narrowing.

You sit up fast, wiping grime off your face. “I didn’t ask you to follow me in here.”

“I didn’t follow you,” he growls. “I’m the one who lived here doll.”

You get in his space, closer than you should. “Right, and how’s that been working out? You sitting on porches waiting to die while the world eats itself?”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve known men like you.”

There’s something dangerous in the air now. Not violent. Charged. Hot. You could kiss him. You think he wants you to.

But instead, you shove past him, rough enough your shoulder clips his chest. “Keep holding the light, Grimes.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Bossy as hell.”

You smile, though he can’t see it.

⸻

The tension doesn’t break. It coils tighter, wraps around your ribs like wire. Every glance is heavy. Every silence, thick with words neither of you will say. You trade insults like matches on dry grass.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that and calling me that stupid name rick,” you say one night, “if it continues I’m gonna need to start charging you rent.”

He leans against the wall, arms folded. “You’re the one always pickin’ fights sweetheart.”

You tilt your head. “Fights keep things interesting.”

He steps forward, slow and sure. “You wanna fight, or you wanna feel somethin’?”

You stop breathing.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t move closer. Just looks. Then walks away. you’re left burning.

⸻

You dream about him.

Not tender dreams. Tense ones. Teeth and hands and breathless words.

You wake up angry.

The next morning, he’s already fixing a fence. You walk up, toss a hammer at his feet. “Sleep well?” you ask, tone light but sharp.

He doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t sleep.” You bend down beside him, too close again.

“I could help with that.” He finally meets your eyes. His voice is low. “You want me to?”You hate the way your heart jumps. You don’t answer. Just take the hammer and start working.

⸻

The first time it happens, it’s a fight. Of course it is.

You say something that cuts too deep. He says something cruel in return. You both throw words like blades. Until suddenly, the words are gone and his mouth is on yours and your fingers are in his shirt and you’re slamming him against a wall like you might tear him apart.

He tastes like anger and regret. His hands are rough, desperate clawing at your clothes.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s not healing.

But it’s real. And for two people half-drowned in their own wreckage, it’s enough.

you sit side by side on the floor, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you. “Shouldn’t’ve happened.” He states knowing he’s lying.

You say, “Yeah. Probably.” Neither of you moves.

Later, as you leave, he says your name softly. Not like a question like a warning.

You pretend not to hear it.

Your footsteps are loud when you cross the room, loud in the way a heart can pound right through your chest. You stop in front of him, so close you can feel the heat rolling off his body, the tight coil of energy he’s trying to choke down. His gaze drags down your face, then your mouth, and when it comes back up, his smug smile is there slow, infuriating, smug.

“You get off on pushing people to their limit, don’t you?” he says, voice low, rough as gravel.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Only because you bite back Rick.”

And then it’s done something breaks. Shatters. He grabs you by the collar and crashes his mouth into yours with all the restraint of a dam bursting. Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, his hand already tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight you’re sure he’s going to bruise it. You taste him anger, sweat, and something bitter underneath. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point. You kiss back like you’re trying to win.

Your hands are in his shirt, tugging it up, yanking it off without grace. You rake your nails down his chest, just to feel the way his muscles jump under the pressure. He grunts a sound between pleasure and approval and spins you around so he’s the one pressing into the wall, pulling you with him. He’s grinning now, almost laughing, like he’s enjoying this more than he should with someone of your age.

“You got a mouth on you sweetheart,” he mutters against your neck, biting at your skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch. “Bet it’s good for more than talkin’ shit.”

You shove him back, just far enough to drag your shirt off and throw it to the ground. He takes one look at you, and the smile vanishes replaced by something raw, something hungry. His hands are on your waist, then your thighs, and he’s lifting you like you don’t weigh a thing. You wrap your legs around him, breath caught in your throat, as he carries you across the room and drops you onto an old wooden table with a clatter.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t want him to.

His fingers fumble with your pants, rough and impatient. Yours do the same with his belt, and the way he looks at you head tilted, cocky smirk back in full force makes your stomach flip.

“Eager, huh?” he teases, breath warm on your skin.

“You’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me,” you growl, dragging him back in for another kiss. This one’s messier, wetter, all tongue and teeth. Your hips buck toward him without thinking. He groans into your mouth, low and deep, and pushes your pants down your legs with one hand while the other settles between your thighs.

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re already soaked.”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to tell him to keep talking. You settle for grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him even closer.

“Don’t tease.”

He chuckles,smug bastard but he listens. His fingers slide through you, slow at first, just enough to make you squirm. He watches you the whole time, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every breath, every curse that slips from your lips.

And then he slides two fingers inside you, and your head falls back with a soft gasp.

“Still got that attitude?” he mutters. “Thought I’d shut you up by now.”

You meet his gaze, eyes burning. Not able to say a word

That cocky smile flashes again, and a second later, he’s lining himself up, pulling your hips toward him, eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t ease in he thrusts, hard, deep, sudden. You gasp, biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, gripping your hips, starting to move. “Tight little thing. Didn’t expect that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

But you’re holding onto him like he’s the last thing keeping you grounded.

His rhythm is rough, relentless hips slamming into yours, the table creaking beneath you. His hands are everywhere gripping your ass, sliding up your spine, tugging your hair. His lips find your throat, biting, sucking bruises into your skin like he wants to leave proof.

Your moans mix with his grunts, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room. He says your name once not soft, but desperate.

“You gonna come for me?” he growls, voice strained. “Or you still too damn stubborn?”

You glare at him, breathless. try to fire something back but the words catch in your throat. Your breath stutters, and you glance away for a second too long.

But you’re close. Too close. Each thrust pushes you higher, and when his thumb finds your clit, you bite down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

You break first. Of course you do. Your body goes taut, thighs shaking, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave of heat and grief and something else you can’t name.

Rick follows seconds later, cursing low against your skin, hips jerking as he buries himself deep. His breath is hot against your ear, ragged and uneven.

For a moment, there’s nothing but panting. Sweat. The way your hearts hammer in sync, two fists against the same bruised chest.

He pulls out and leans back, running a hand through his hair and his grey stubble, still catching his breath. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“That what you needed?” he asks, tone low, teasing, that familiar cocky edge curling at the corners of his mouth.

You slide off the table slowly, still shaky. You pull your pants back up, grab your shirt. “It’s a start.”

Rick smirks and leans against the wall, arms crossed like he didn’t just fall apart in you five minutes ago. “Next time, maybe we skip the fightin’ and get straight to the part where you stop acting like you hate me.”

You move toward the door, pause with your hand on the frame. You don’t look back you don’t have to. The heat of him is still under your skin, the weight of his hands still ghosting along your thighs. You hear him shift behind you, slow and deliberate, like he knows you’re waiting for something and he’s going to take his time giving it to you. His voice comes quieter, but no less sharp. “Hey.” You don’t answer. Just stand there, pretending you’re not breathing him in with every shallow inhale. There’s a beat of silence. Then “Next time,” he drawls, that smug grin curling into his voice, “you gonna let me finish what I started, or you still gonna play hard to get, Sweetheart?” You blink. Just once. Of course he’d end it like that all cocky charm and the kind of nickname that sinks its teeth in and lingers long after the door’s closed. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You walk out, spine straight, blood still humming. But you take the name with you. Tuck it somewhere deep. And you know he knows you will.

Ps: this is my first fic please give me tips and if you liked it!

[dioslesbianwife]

Oh my god yay requests are open again! Could I request La Squadra x frankenstein's monster reader?

sure, hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting ♡

Risotto Nero

When he first sees you, he doesn’t react much outwardly, but internally? He’s intrigued- and wary.

Your body is clearly unnatural. The stitches, the bolts, the strange rigidity of your strength… but your eyes are soft.

You call him “metal man” after seeing his Stand. He doesn’t correct you.

He watches you for a while in silence, assessing you like a puzzle. 

He relates to your inhuman stillness. You sit together quietly often, two monsters who don’t need words.

He teaches you how to move more silently, how to protect yourself with precision instead of brute force- and he listens when you ask, “Do I have a soul?”

Formaggio

Jumpscare reaction. The first time he sees you rise from the floor with glowing eyes and giant stitches? He screams. Like a full-body shriek.

“WHAT THE HELL- ?!”

But like... a week later? He thinks you’re awesome.

Brags about being your bestie. Lets you carry all the heavy stuff. Rides on your shoulder sometimes.

“You’re big and scary, but you like flowers? And rabbits?? That’s adorable. You're like if Frankenstein was a Tumblr girl.”

He tries to teach you sarcasm. He fails. You say “That’s so funny” in a monotone voice and he falls over laughing every time.

Illuso

At first, he hates you. You're creepy. You're quiet. You give him uncanny valley vibes.

He tries to trap you in the mirror world just to prove a point- only for you to punch the mirror so hard it shatters.

That was the beginning of his very confusing feelings.

You always stare at him like you’re seeing a ghost. “Your reflection does not behave like the others.” He pretends that doesn’t freak him out.

Eventually he becomes obsessed with fixing your look. “Let’s get rid of these stitches and put you in some designer clothes. You’ll be terrifying but at least hot.”

You don’t get fashion. You wear six shirts at once. Illuso screams.

Prosciutto

Surprisingly respectful from the start. He doesn’t flinch at your appearance. 

“You walk like every step hurts. Is that by design, or because you were rushed?” he asks. Not cruelly- just curious.

He offers to teach you etiquette and restraint. “If you want to pass among people, you’ll need more than brute strength.”

You’re obedient with him. Almost reverent. It unsettles him. “Don’t bow,” he says gently. “You’re not a servant.”

You tell him he’s like a quiet fire. He tells you not to get poetic- but there’s a strange warmth in his voice afterward.

Pesci

Absolutely terrified of you at first. Screams. Hides behind Prosciutto.

“Bro! BRO! IT’S ALIVE! I SWEAR I SAW IT MOVE- ”

But you… like him. You sit next to him. You hand him pretty rocks. You call him “the soft one.”

Pesci’s the first one you cry in front of. You don’t know why- your eyes just start leaking.

He panics but holds your hand and promises to protect you, even if he doesn’t really know how.

After that, he becomes very defensive of you. He stops letting people call you a freak.

“They just don’t understand! You’ve got a big heart! Even if it’s made of someone else’s, you know?!” 

Ghiaccio

You and him are like the rage and the confusion made flesh.

He can’t handle how quiet you are. “Can you stop STARING like that?? Say something!!”

You: “…I like your anger. It is warm.”

Ghiaccio: malfunctions

He starts shouting at you constantly, trying to get a reaction- but the second you do react, it’s either hilariously deadpan or terrifyingly powerful.

“YOU’RE LIKE A HAUNTED MATTRESS WITH FISTS!!”

Eventually, he admits he thinks you’re cool. Not out loud, but he brings you charger cords and snacks when he thinks you’re tired.

Melone

Oh. Oh he is fascinated.

“Bellissimo. I’ve never seen construction like this- your vascular stitching is divine. Can I… dissect- ahem examine you?”

He is the only one you actively avoid at first. He’s a little too excited about you.

But you end up weirdly close. You ask him questions about life, bodies, rebirth. He tells you everything.

He calls you his “miracolo postmortale”.

Tries to get you into skincare. Tries to flirt with you by offering embalming oil. It almost works.

He’s also very protective. If anyone treats you like a monster, they disappear.

[girl-lostconnection]

Hello, just saw your post about not wanting people to get upset when they demand work from you, which I’m so shocked to see isn’t absolutely obvious. I’ve been a lurker on this site for some time and I LOVE so many of the things you’ve written, honestly one will pop up on my blog and then I’ll go down the rabbit hole of everything you’ve written. You’re so lovely and owe absolutely nothing to your readers; you’re doing this for free?? Why would I demand you write something?? If people want something to be written, they can write it themselves. I’m so sorry you have to deal with all this.

On that note, I just wanted to say that I just read your tf141 x deceased!reader angst and you broke my heart. The way ghost was worried they would bury you alive because he remembers how horrible that was for him and would never want you to go through the same thing?? Even though he knows, realistically, you’re not alive? AND THE PHONE????? Absolutely crushing, thank you.

Lurker anon, the light of my inbox! First of all thank you, you are very sweet. And yeah, it did feel peculiar and I brushed it off for some time (avoidance of conflicts be damned) but yeah, it was time to address the issue. Anyway, I appreciate your support, it really is very nice of you🌻🌟

Also, yes! I wrote his part specifically because I remember that being buried alive traumatised man to hell and back. So even though logically he knew that Reader was already gone, this deeper part of him couldn’t bring himself to let go. Partially because he himself was not ready to let Reader go, partially because what if. What if they got it wrong, what if the coroner was wrong, what if Reader wakes up.

What if they wake up and they are in the awfully tight space with 3 feet of ground above them and oxygen running low. Simon remembers how terrifying it was, how part of him still hates tight spaces and the feel of soil under his nails.

So yeah, part of it was grief, part of it was trauma, part of it was Simon’s desperate need to protect or to try, however fruitless and mad it might have looked to the outside perspective.

But also, imagine him twitching awake every time his phone pings for like a week straight after the burial because again, what if. What if (he hopes) they were wrong, what if Reader is coming back, what if they are alive. I think he’d hang onto this thread as long as he can because it allowed him to keep it together at least partially. Bc you know if you aren’t truly gone then he might not need to mourn.

And then a week passes, then another one, then a month and it could be a random morning, his regular cup of tea. Seemingly nothing out of ordinary. And then the realisation hits him. Reader is not coming back. They are really truly gone.

I think Simon is the one (along with Kyle) who processes grief the hardest. Because Simon already lost so many and because Kyle doesn’t know how to let go. But that’s just a thought. Honestly, all four of them mourn pretty heavily

[brokenpieces-72]

Mad Beast

CoD Hybrid AU | Navigation

“Come on pup, open the door.” You hear Johnny say. He sounds normal, but you know he isn’t. By pure luck you managed to find a place to hide. Even at your normal high speed it wasn't enough to lose Johnny. You remember what Ghost said, don’t open the door for them. You’re shivering, cause you know it isn’t Johnny, not your Johnny. “What did we say about orders pup?”

You stay quiet, pressing against the door to hold it shut. In your weaker state though, your strength is equal to Johnny’s, but he’s also been shot full of blood. You hear the knob jiggle and your heart is pounding. Soap isn't supposed to be affected by blood though, being a werewolf. Something else was going on. You weren't about to try and ask him a personal question or try to solve it now.

“Pup open the door. Let me in.” He says. It’s more firm, like he’s trying to discipline you. You want to open the door but you know the risk and the dangers and you had order’s from Ghost not to. “Ar’nya hungry? Open up and we can go eat.”

Soap shouldn’t be able to break through the door but it doesn’t stop you from feeling it shake as Johnny keeps pounding on it harder and harder as his voice gets louder.

“Open the door! Pup, I need to talk to you!”

“No no no…” you whisper to yourself. Johnny gets more aggressive, and he isn’t holding back.

“Let me in! I mean it! Getting sick of your shit!” He’s almost ramming the door, at least that’s what it feels like. You’re getting flashbacks to the basement, when your mother used a similar tone. Sweet and kind and then demanding and cruel. “Open the fucking door pup! I can hear you in there! I can smell your stench too! Now let me in you brat!”

“Stop…please…” you say softly.

“You want me to stop? Then come out here and face me you rabbit eared freak! Come on!” The banging gets harder and louder, and you’re trying to hold strong. He doesn’t mean it. You know he doesn’t. It doesn’t stop tears from dotting your eyes.

“You little bitch let me in!! Now! Fucking had enough of you! Open the door right now!”

The door shakes and you know you have to find somewhere to hide. Could Soap sniff you out? Maybe. But you couldn’t stay at the door.

“Little rabbit let me in!!” Johnny’s voice changes to some more beastly, and deep. It’s almost a snarl when he talks to you. You can hear something break when he hits the door. You need to move!

“Open! The fucking! Door! You annoying! Little! Bugger!” Johnny barks before he breaks through the door. You’re nowhere in sight. You hold your breath waiting for the chance to flee. With Johnny juiced you don’t know how much faster you are than him. You need as much distance from him as you can and that means waiting for the perfect chance to flee. If that meant being found first then you have to risk it.

“Alright brat where the fuck are ya?” Johnny wonders aloud. “Don’t ya wanna see ya big brother? Been a month.”

You try to make yourself smaller, seeing him in a partial shift, mostly human, but looking almost nothing like one. Soap starts tearing things apart trying to find you, growling at every spot he checks. You hold your breath, praying he can’t hear your heart pounding in your chest. He moves past your hiding spot, getting closer. You flinch when he checks the cupboard next to you. He’s close enough that if you had a flu shot, you could stick him with it and run.

“Little bitch…” he growls and leaves the room. You hear him padding down the hall, and take a second to catch your breath. You meant to run that whole time but fear kept you back. Hell you were behind the bloody door how did he not see you? You take a few moments to collect yourself before slipping out of your hiding spot.

All is quiet. You’re safe for now. You look down the hall towards the medbay, and back at Johnny down the other way.

Shit. You bolt as soon as there is eye contact narrowly avoiding Johnny lunging for you.

“Come back here!” His yell echoes through the halls as your mind focuses on nothing but running. You don’t look back, you don’t even check the other corridors. Your focus is on reaching the medbay and trying to lose Johnny. Unfortunately wolves tend to hunt in packs and you one scared and terrified rabbit. You weren’t going fast enough past another corridor, and you saw a dark shadow. A fast dark shadow.

You slam into the hard stone wall, the wind knocked out of you. You coughed and would have crumbled if a nagual didn’t hold you against it by the neck. Your vision was blurred and your ears were ringing as you tried to focus. Definitely doesn’t help Alejandro has a death grip on your throat, and all you can do is try to pry it open enough to breath. You try to kick him back, disarm him, defend yourself, fucking anything!

“ALE!” You hear Soap yell, and both of you look back down the hall, seeing Soap approaching. Wait is that foam around his mouth? You don’t get much of a look because Alejandro removes you from the wall and instead holds you against him. He doesn’t back away, instead growling and clutching you almost in a possessive way.

“Drop them…” Soap orders.

“Mine.” Alej says. You try to get away but you feel a familiar death grip, warning you. Fucking hell you may as well be prey, fuck it you are prey! Without the wendigo to shift to you are running out of options. Soap is coming closer, and you’re pretty sure he won’t care if Alejandro still has a grip on you or not. The nagual isn’t letting go.

“Alej…please…” you beg quietly. He growls, and tugs you back, focused on Soap. “Please let go…”

Suddenly Alejandro’s body jerks and he roars in pain, while you finally are free from his grip. There’s a split moment where you see Alejandro turn to face his attacker and you see feather blades sticking out of his back. Gaz makes himself known, and throws more, before going for a kill shot with his talons. You take the opportunity to bolt ahead of the nagual, juast as Gaz struck.

You had your back to them when Gaz caught sight of you. Unfortunately that sparring practice with him paid off. For him. You feel a sharp pain in your shoulder before stumbling around the corner. You hold your tongue but can hear more fighting behind you. Eyes forward, keep running! Don’t look back you don’t have time. The sooner you reach the med bay the sooner you can locate Ghost and Rudy and the sooner you can get them cured… hopefully.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving @cutiecusp @shikigami-the-paper-spirit @yune1337

[weepingtalecowboy]

Wererabbit legend

Fanfic prompt:

the bunny legend twist is really funny

And considering how both the twilight curse and the darkness induced curse in link to the past work differently

The twilight curse turns you into your most innermost animal (in the case of link and people consider that it has something to do with the triforce that makes link different ) or just straight up turns you into a ghost (like literally the rest of all hyrule)

But considering that the curse found in the dark world specifically says that it is a reflection of your heart and therefore already works differently than the twilight curse as you can be a monstrosity with no real limits other than how Messed up you are

Wouldn’t it be beyond messed up when legend picked up the twilight shard but his innocent rabbit appearance just didn’t happen

Because it just triggered his dark curse

Like for all he says he finds it annoying it probably would hurt a lot more to realize that this soft vulnerable part of him doesn’t reflect who he is

At least not anymore

The curse in link to the past can turn you into a monstrous beast more often than not

Like that must hurt to end up a dangerous jaded beast

the messed up rabbit equivalent of one because the appearance of a predatory rabbit in many media signifies the loss of innocence as it twists into pure violence against what hurt them once

(Interestingly enough a white rabbit with red eyes is usually the symbol for it or one who wears a rabbit skull on its head instead of a face )

So let him be a little nightmare and hate himself as he takes the form of a monstrosity once more (fucked up were rabbit legend my beloved)

And like that would essentially be a feedback loop for him because the more he hates how he looks the more it would reflect on the outside

The worse it will get for legend because he hates even more how he looks

And it shows again

Being a bitter, snarky very confrontational lil guy… legend probably would dial up the self destructiveness pretty fast even if he is fighting not to be a monstrosity (feedback loop my beloved would work against him every step of the way)

Meanwhile twilight has to watch in horror as legend turns into a snarling creature thing and runs off full monster mode

Like twilight just turned around and the first thing he sees is a…”thing” that probably is legend

Then legend freaked the hell out and ran into the woods in fear of what he just turned into

And twilight realized that being a wolf of rather average size is not something to complain over

So Wolfie chase it is

And when he gets to him it only seems to get worse because this is going into melted eldritch horror territory by this point

...and he still has the ability to talk like a person and is being self deprecating about it

Legend be like : “I am such a monstrosity …”

Twilight: “no no it’s alright”

Legend : “I miss my uncle”

Twilight: “oh, that’s deeper than I wanna go”

And also they probably have to get the chain not to shoot at him or else it probably would get even worse than it already is

Or get sky… but for that he needs to drag legend out the cave he crawled in and leave him unsupervised

And it very much isn’t going great in the slightest already

[myadagoat22]

Poly ghostface

Months later it’s October and It's time for the real show. EXT. WOODSBORO – NIGHT – CASEY BECKER’S HOUSE

A sleek, dark sedan sits parked under the heavy shadow of a tree across the street from a sprawling country home. The engine is off. The only light inside the car comes from the dim glow of the dashboard and the cherry of a cigarette flicked out the cracked window.

Y/N lounges in the passenger seat, hoodie up, legs kicked up on the dash, watching the house. A bag of popcorn from the gas station sits half-eaten in her lap, untouched now. She's focused. Anxious. Adrenaline already prickling beneath her skin.

The walkie-talkie in the center console crackles.

STU (V.O.) (through the walkie, giddy) "She picked up. And she’s flirting."

Y/N rolls her eyes and grabs the walkie, pressing the button.

Y/N "Yeah, no shit. She’d flirt with a dial tone if it sounded cocky enough."

BILLY (V.O.) "She’s talking horror movies now. It’s almost time."

Y/N glances toward the house. Through the sheer curtains, she sees Casey Becker, blonde, bubbly, unaware. Moving around the kitchen like this is just another night.

Inside the house, the game begins. The creepy questions. The fake charm. The voice that’s all wrong in the best way.

Y/N taps her fingers against her thigh, waiting, eyes darting to the backyard.

STEVE ORTH is already tied up out there. She’d helped drag him out earlier, when no one was watching. He was heavy as hell. Still has a shiner from when Billy stabbed him.

Y/N (to herself) "Should’ve made him help carry the guy before he put on the mask..."

Inside, the phone call keeps going and Casey? She’s not giggling anymore.

Another flick of the curtains. Casey's face goes pale.

Y/N leans forward, squinting through the windshield.

Y/N "And there it is."

The fear. That moment when Casey finally realizes this isn’t just some prank. It’s real.

She watches Casey flick on the porch light. Sees her eyes go wide.

STEVE is out there, squirming in the chair, gagged. Bloody but still alive. For now.

Y/N doesn’t flinch. She just adjusts the rearview mirror. She can hear her own heartbeat now, not out of fear—out of thrill. This is what they planned for. What they’ve been building toward all summer.

The walkie buzzes again.

BILLY (V.O.) "Y/N. We good to move when it’s done?"

Y/N "I’m parked. I’m ready. Just don’t get blood on my hoodie."

A pause. Then:

STU (V.O.) "No promises, babe."

Inside, Casey drops the phone. She’s crying. Panicking. And from the side of the house, out of view of the car, one of them is already inside.

Y/N exhales, slow and steady. She leans back in her seat, resting her head against the window.

She can’t see what’s happening in there now. But she doesn’t need to.

She knows how this story ends.

The silence inside the car feels thicker now. The only sounds are the distant crack of something breaking and the faint buzz of cicadas outside.

Y/N leans forward, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Her eyes flick to the walkie-talkie again. She doesn’t press the button. Not yet. They’re inside now. This is the fun part—for them.

A bloodcurdling scream echoes from the house.

Y/N smirks.

“Showtime,” she mutters under her breath.

She can picture it: Casey running, barefoot, phone forgotten, eyes wild. Billy in the hallway, gliding like a ghost. Stu looping around through the back door, playing it like a game of hide and seek—if hide and seek ended in a kitchen bloodbath.

Another scream. Glass shattering. Then silence.

Then the sound of windchimes, clinking like tiny bones in the night air.

Y/N finally picks up the walkie and presses the button.

“Update?” she asks casually. “Or do I gotta play the waiting game?”

There’s static, then Stu’s voice, panting and laughing.

“She’s fast,” he says, giddy. “Like a little rabbit. Billy’s chasing her through the living room now. I almost got her—she hit me with the phone!”

Y/N snorts. “Damn. Not the cordless.”

“Deadass!” Stu wheezes. “My ear’s ringing!”

Then Billy’s voice cuts in, calm and focused.

“She’s headed for the patio. I’m behind her. Finish it.”

Y/N’s grip on the walkie tightens slightly, but she says nothing. She knows what that means.

A few seconds later, there’s a low, strangled scream—different this time. A wet, sickening thud in the distance.

Y/N doesn’t move.

She watches as the porch light flickers off... then back on. And finally—Casey Becker stumbles into view. Or at least what’s left of her.

Dragging herself forward, hands clinging to the grass. Bleeding. Broken. Her mouth opens like she’s trying to call for help, but there’s no sound.

She collapses just as her parents’ car pulls into the driveway.

Y/N shifts in her seat, calm but alert.

The front door swings open. Casey’s mother steps inside, calling out cheerfully at first.

“Casey? Sweetie?”

There’s no answer. Not until she picks up the phone and hears it—her daughter’s last moments, still echoing on the line.

A scream tears through the house.

Y/N turns the key in the ignition but doesn’t drive off yet. Not until she sees two figures sprinting from the backyard, masks off, ducking low.

Billy’s face is calm, stained with blood. Stu is practically vibrating from the rush, hair wild, a cut blooming on his cheek.

They dive into the car, breathless.

Y/N glances at them, one eyebrow raised.

“You both look like a crime scene.”

Stu laughs, sliding into the backseat and tossing his mask to the floor. “That was so gnarly. Did you see her face?”

“I saw the aftermath,” Y/N says, shifting into drive. “What’d I say about the hoodie?”

Billy wipes his hands on a towel from the backseat, jaw clenched but eyes shining.

“Don’t get blood on it,” he mutters.

“Exactly.” Y/N steps on the gas. “This is limited edition. I’m not getting brain matter out of cotton.”

As the car disappears down the dark road, the screams behind them fade into the distance. Police sirens start to wail in the far-off night.

But inside the car?

Just three kids laughing like they’d just won a video game.

Next day at school

Sidney Prescott walks toward the school, backpack slung over her shoulder, confusion tightening her brows. Police tape, sirens, and clusters of reporters flood the front lawn. It’s chaos in suburbia.

Four different reporters stand in front of four different cameras, each dramatically reporting the same horror.

She passes a stern-looking Policeman standing guard. Curiosity wins—Sidney pauses near the first camera, where—

GALE WEATHERS Early thirties. Ambitious, unbothered, and rocking the kind of hairspray hold that could withstand a tornado. She flashes a megawatt smile as she speaks directly into the lens.

GALE “The small town of Woodsboro, California was devastated last night when two young teenagers were found brutally butchered. Authorities have yet to issue a statement, but our sources tell us that no arrest has been made... and the murderer could strike again.”

Sidney’s face twists, disturbed. From behind, a tap on her shoulder.

She spins to see her best friend—

TATUM RILEY, bold as always, sucking on a lollipop like it’s a weapon. And standing right beside her, arms crossed and brow raised, is Y/N. She's cool, collected... maybe a little too calm given the mood.

TATUM “Do you believe this shit?”

SIDNEY “What happened?”

The three girls break away from the growing crowd of students and reporters, heading for the main doors.

TATUM “Oh God, you don’t know? Casey Becker and Steve Orth were murdered last night.”

SIDNEY “No way.”

TATUM “And not just, like, murdered. I mean obliterated. Splatter-movie level. Full Wes Craven nightmare.”

SIDNEY “Casey Becker? She sits next to me in English…”

TATUM “Not anymore. Her parents found her hanging from a damn tree, Sid. Guts everywhere.”

Sidney winces. Y/N just tilts her head, lips tightening—but not from fear. More like… trying not to smile.

SIDNEY “Do they know who did it?”

TATUM “Nope. Dewey said the whole department’s freaking out. They’re interrogating everyone—teachers, students, janitors, the lunch lady. They even pulled Coach Simmons into the office this morning, like he’s secretly Jason Voorhees.”

SIDNEY “They think it’s school-related?”

TATUM “They have no idea. But Dewey said it’s the worst crime scene he’s ever seen. And get this—they’re bringing in the feds. This is huge.”

Sidney swallows hard, her gaze drifting back toward Gale, who’s still barking headlines into the camera like it’s her big break.

SIDNEY “Worse than... my mom?”

Tatum hesitates, then glances at Y/N.

TATUM “Worse. I mean—it’s different. But yeah.”

Y/N “It’s sick,” Y/N says, voice soft but steady. “People are gonna be talking about this for years.”

Sidney turns to her, unsettled by the way Y/N said it. She means it in a “this is tragic” way... right?

Y/N just gives a small, solemn smile, then links her arm through Sidney’s like old times.

Y/N “C’mon. Let’s not keep the rumor mill waiting.”

As the girls head inside, a gust of wind blows through the courtyard, rattling the police tape. Behind them, Gale Weathers continues to monologue—completely unaware that the girl walking into the school with Sidney? She was in the getaway car.

Students sit at outdoor eating lunch. Crowded at one table is the "gang": Sidney, Billy, and Tatum, Y/n, Stu, Randy.

TATUM "‘Hunt’? Why would they ask if you like to hunt?"

STU "I don't know, they just did."

RANDY "Because their bodies were gutted."

Sidney flinches.

BILLY "Thanks, Randy."

TATUM "They didn't ask me if I like to hunt."

STU "Because there’s no way a girl could have killed them."

TATUM "That is so sexist. The killer could easily be female—Basic Instinct."

Y/N "Mmm, preach. Sharon Stone had men shook with an ice pick. Meanwhile, I nearly broke a dude's nose in gym with a badminton racket, so..."

RANDY "That was an ice pick—not exactly the same thing."

Y/N "Okay, but she made it hot. You? You talk about liver in front of people eating nuggets."

STU "Yeah, Casey and Steve were completely hollowed out. Takes a man to do something like that."

TATUM "Or a man’s fragile ego."

SIDNEY (quietly) "How do you gut someone?"

All eyes turn to Sidney. A serious silence. And then—

STU "You take a knife and slit from the groin to the sternum."

Sidney shivers. The whole group groans.

STU "What? She asked."

BILLY "It’s called tact, you fuckrag."

STU "Sorry."

RANDY "Remember in Jaws when they caught the wrong shark and Richard Dreyfuss cut it open looking for body parts? And all they found was a license plate and this white, milky goo—"

Stu leans over and punches Randy in the arm.

STU "You heard Billy—shut the fuck up."

SIDNEY "Hey, Stu? Didn’t you used to date Casey?"

Stu stiffens.

STU "For like two seconds."

RANDY "Before she dumped him for Steve."

Tatum turns to Stu, squinting.

TATUM "I thought you dumped her for me?"

STU "I did. He’s full of shit."

RANDY "And are the police aware you dated the victim?"

STU (offended) "What are you saying? That I killed her or something?"

RANDY "It would certainly improve your high school Q."

TATUM "Stu was with me last night."

RANDY "Oooooh... before or after he sliced and diced?"

TATUM "Fuck you, nutcase. Where were you last night?"

RANDY "Working, thank you."

TATUM "I thought Blockbuster fired you."

RANDY "Twice."

STU "I didn’t kill anybody!"

BILLY "No one’s saying you did."

RANDY (smirking) "Besides..." (perfect Stu mimic) "'Takes a man to do something like that.'"

STU "I’m gonna gut your ass in a second."

RANDY (to Stu) "Did you really put her liver in the mailbox? I heard they found her liver in the mailbox."

Y/N (glancing at Sidney) "Randy, you goon-fuck, I’m eating here."

Stu nibbles on Tatum’s neck.

STU "Yeah, Randy, she’s getting mad. I think you better liver alone."

He laughs at his own joke. The rest of the table groans.

Y/N (to Randy, grinning) "I swear, you’ve got the creepiest trivia brain and somehow it’s still cute."

RANDY (raising an eyebrow) "‘Cute,’ huh? So what—you into murder nerds now?"

Y/N "Only if they can survive a horror movie. Think you’d make it to the final act?"

RANDY "Baby, I am the final act."

Y/N (smiling) "We’ll see, Blockbuster boy."

Sidney quietly watches them banter, a half-smile twitching at her lips despite the horror hanging over them. For a brief second, normalcy feels possible.

[cherthegoddess]

Myth- Ghost in the Tower

Summary:  When eerie glitches and a mysterious death disrupt the Avengers’ peace, they discover a supernatural threat lurking in the compound. With no experience in handling ghosts, they call on Y/N, a renowned hunter known as "The Myth," to help confront the danger. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Mutant! Reader Bucky Barnes x Mutant! Reader

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Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Death Ghost Barely any Dean and in this one This was written with a black reader in mind, but anyone can read it.

A/N: This is the first part there will be more interaction with Dean, Bucky and Y/n coming soon but I wanted to put something out! Please enjoy! If you would like to request any one shots for this series please do!

Main Masterlist l Series Masterlist

Ghost in the Tower

Bucky, Steve and Sam were finally having a quiet morning in the compound. Though rare, it was very much appreciated by the three. The smooth voice of Marvin Gaye played through the room while the three ate their breakfast. “You see this here boys? This is a classic. Nobody’s touching Marvin Gaye!” Sam exclaims to the two. Bucky and Sam couldn’t help but agree. Ever since they met Sam, he’d been trying to introduce the two to new things that weren’t from the 40’s, some things were a miss, but when it came to music, Sam never gave them a bad artist. As the next song came on, it started to slightly glitch, something that never really happened. “Friday, you alright?” Bucky called to her but no response came. Then suddenly Run Rabbit Run! started to play in a deep voice over the speakers. “Sam, this song came out in the 30’s we know this one.” Sam shakes his head in fear. “This isn’t me.” The boys all look at each other. Suddenly the electronics start to move and turn on. A loud shriek exits out of Sam’s mouth. “Oh, hell no!” It then all stops as if nothing has ever happened and Marivn Gaye makes his return once again. “Something isn’t right. I think we should go talk to Stark about this.” Steve says slightly creeped out. “Friday?” Bucky tested to see if the AI was back online. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” They collectively sigh. “Can you call Stark in the kitchen?” Friday confirms letting the three know that he would be there in five. 

“What can I do for you three?” Stark asks when he enters. “I think something may be wrong with Friday.” Steve starts. Tony’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean? She’s been working perfectly fine for me? You sure old folks just don’t know how to work these new gadgets.” Bucky’s eyes roll. “Nah man, somethings definitely up. She started playing creepy ass music and all the electronic stuff just started glitching!” Sam is still clearly freaked out by what just happened. “That doesn’t sound right. Let’s check right now. Friday, run a diagnostic test.” Tony calls out to her. “Running tests.” Friday takes a moment before speaking again. “Systems are running steadily. There seems to be no issues.” Tony crosses his arms. As if on cue, all the lights power off and there’s a scream that comes from an nearing hallway. Tony, Steve and Bucky all run towards the noise. “I’m too black for this.” Sam sighs fear evident in his voice. He goes to follow them weary. 

Bucky isn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he reached the person who screamed, but a body wasn’t on the top of his list. Especially with the way that the poor girl was looking as if she was alive sitting at a desk, but it was clear by her slit throat and unmoving eyes, she wasn’t. The person who screamed stood crying on the side of the office staring at her unmoving boss. When Sam finally entered the room he almost gagged, looking away quickly. They all wished the lights that just recently came back on were off again. Steve goes over to the woman who is crying to console her and hopefully get some answers. “Hey, breathe with me. What’s your name?” The girl breathes for a second, her tears calming down a bit. “Lana,” She whispers out. “Can you tell me what happened here?” She nods tears exiting her eyes once more. “I went to go check on Sophie since the lights have been acting super weird all day in the office and then it was super cold all of a sudden, but then I found her like this-” Her voice cracks and she starts crying again. Tony is oddly quiet and Bucky stares at him. “What are you thinking, Stark? Did someone infiltrate us?” Tony shakes his head. “I think we have a ghost.” Tony groans. “Ghosts? Come on, Tony. Ghosts aren’t real.” Bucky says. “Friday, if you’re working, call Fury and tell him we need him ASAP in the conference room. We’re going to need his help. He might have a contact for this. Also can you get someone in here to help us with this unfortunate situation.” She luckily responds. Tony focuses back on the other three. “Ghosts are real. They aren’t the only supernatural thing that’s out there either. Fury knows all about it.”

Bucky sits in shock with Steve and Sam in the conference room as Fury confirms what Tony said was all true. Ghosts, Demons, Angels and things he’s never even heard of exist right under everyone's noses. “Wait so why aren’t we doing anything about this? This is a big deal, Fury. Someone should be on this.” Steve asks. “People are on this, Captain. All over the world there are people’s whose job it is to hunt these creatures down. We deal with the aliens and people, they deal with the rest. And lucky for us, I have someone who works on this type of situation. I’ll give her a call.” The boys look at each other. “Her?” Bucky asks. “Yes, you may have heard of her. She’s known as The Myth.” A blush sweeps over Bucky’s cheeks, remembering the first time they met. He was waiting to see her again. They had been texting a bit here and there but they still had yet to meet up again. He hated that this was the circumstances they had to meet, but he was looking forward to her entrance.

When Y/n got the call from Fury, she was also enjoying her day. She was sitting comfortably at a diner right outside of Chicago, her favorite city. It was her first off day in a couple of months. She had been hunting to clean up for the past few months and she was looking forward to her week off. Now she’s looking at his name across her phone screen. She groans before swiping and answering. “Yes, Fury. You’re interrupting my vacation.” She says taking a bite of one of her fries. “We need you down here.” Fury says in a serious tone. “Another cleaning-” He cuts her off quickly. “No, I think we may have a situation that is under your other jurisdiction.” Y/n sits up straighter. “You’re lying. If you miss me, Nick, you can just say that, you don’t have to make up a supernatural being just to see me.” Fury groans. “Y/n, I’m serious. I think we have a ghost. And it’s already killed one person. Tell me where you are and I’ll send a quadjet.” Y/n calls a waitress over, to get a to-go box, after telling Nick where she is. The waitress goes and gets one. “I need to bring in some others if that's okay. These ghosts aren’t my strong suit. They’re the best in the business.” Y/n warns. “Whatever you need, we just need this problem gone and no more lives lost” Nick responds. “Nick you better be glad I love you like a father because you’re really ruining my week off.” Y/n could hear the eye roll in his voice. “Thank you and I’ll see you in 2 hours.” Y/n hangs up with Fury before quickly dialing another number. “Hey, Dean? How’d you like to meet the Avengers?”

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[incodnito]

More Hybrid!CoD + König and Horangi 🐻🐯 (changed Soap because Hyena felt better)

Part 1

Hybrid!CoD who use play fighting as training. Tackling and nipping are fair game but things can get aggressive with the bigger hybrids.

Hyena!Soap who picks fights with the recruits just for the hell of it, and Rabbit!Gaz who doesn’t try to mediate At All and instead is seeing how fast he can knock Soap on his ass. Wolf!Ghost who steps in with the intention of stopping the fight but ends up making it worse.

Bull!Price who Could stop the fighting if he really wanted to, but its not really any of his business and frankly he doesn’t care.

Bear!König being compared to a teddy bear until someone pushes the joke too far, he makes sure to remind them why he’s colonel.

Bear!König who can be a bit rough with his words and doesn’t know how to control his temper. He doesn’t mean to be so rude it just comes off that way :(

Tiger!Horangi who loves to jump out and spook the other operators whenever he gets the chance (soap and gaz are frequent victims).

Tiger!Horangi who loves to lounge in a sun spot. He’ll chuff contentedly but vehemently deny it if anyone asks.

Human!Laswell who desperately needs a drink (canon).

[sammygrace]

Black Hole Sun | Chapter Thirteen - Dead

Series Masterlist

Daryl’s POV:

Daryl kneels near the brush line, eyes narrowed as he tracks the rabbit through the undergrowth. He draws back the string of his crossbow, breath slow. He takes the shot — the bolt flies just as another arrow zips past from behind. Two thuds echo, one after the other.

He turns fast, eyes blazing — Len stands there, smug grin on his filthy face. He gestures at the twitching rabbit between them. “Mine.”

Daryl squares his shoulders. “Saw it first.”

Len steps closer, a sick delight in his voice. “Claimed it first.”

Before Daryl can get another word out, Joe’s heavy boots crunch through the leaves. The marauders’ leader wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, watching them like a father watching his boys fight over a toy.

“Now, now,” Joe drawls. “Rule’s simple, boys — you want it, you claim it. Len here claimed it. Didn’t know? That’s on you, Dixon.”

Daryl glares, fingers tightening on his crossbow. Joe chuckles, pulls out his big hunting knife, and slices the rabbit clean in half. He tosses a bloody piece to each of them. “Now you both got some supper.”

They walk on the tracks after. Daryl hangs back at first, his half-rabbit swinging in a dirty cloth. Joe drops back beside him.

“Good to have you with us,” Joe says, voice low like they’re old pals. “Man like you, you get it. Ain’t nothing out there for a man alone.”

Daryl grunts, eyes fixed on the rails stretching into the trees. He can almost see Bellona’s boots there, ghost steps he can’t keep up with.

Joe doesn’t stop. “Men like us — we need rules. Keeps things fair. No stealing, no lying. No runnin’ off when someone’s got your back.”

Daryl barks out a humorless laugh. “Ain’t no us.”

Joe stops mid-stride, turns slow. There’s no smile now. “No? You stick around, boy — there’s always an us.”

They reach a sagging garage as dusk bleeds into night. Joe sweeps a hand at the place. “Home sweet home for tonight.”

Daryl watches the others drift inside, choosing cars to sleep in. One by one they slam doors shut, each with a muttered, “Claimed.”

He slings his crossbow off his shoulder and sinks to the cold concrete. The others snore and cough behind fogged-up windows. He sits awake, staring through the cracked garage door at the moon.

Joe’s voice echoes in his head: Ain’t nothing sadder than an outdoor cat that thinks he’s an indoor cat. He wonders if Bellona would think that was funny. He wonders if she’d agree.

He doesn’t know when he dozes off — but Len’s boots jolt him awake before dawn.

“You took what’s mine,” Len spits.

Daryl’s eyes snap open. “What the hell do you mean?”

Len points at Joe and the others, grinning wide. “He stole my half. Put it in his bag.”

Joe ambles over, brushing sleep from his eyes. He dumps Daryl’s bag out on the floor. The meat tumbles out, raw and accusing.

“Set up,” Daryl snarls. “He put it there.”

Joe studies him — that wolfish calm again. “Len?”

Len crosses his heart. “Didn’t do it.”

Joe nods. “Alright.”

Then, without warning, he swings. Len crumples under the punch, blood spraying across the concrete. Joe’s voice drops to a near-whisper, like a sermon.

“Boys. Teach him a lesson.”

Daryl stands up, frozen, as the others descend on Len — boots, fists, muffled screams. Joe stands beside him, hands in his pockets. “Saw him do it myself,” he says casually. “But a man’s gotta learn. Right?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. He watches until the garage goes quiet again.

They head out at sunrise. The air smells like blood and rust. Daryl sees Len’s crumpled body by the fence, an arrow sticking out of his skull like a final insult. He sighs, pulls a tattered sheet from the back of a pickup, and drapes it over what’s left of him.

Joe claps him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

Daryl shrugs him off and keeps walking. He keeps his eyes on the tracks, one foot in front of the other, like maybe if he just keeps moving, he’ll find her up ahead.

|

The air was still heavy with smoke and swamp heat when Daryl finally worked up the nerve to ask. He kept his tone casual — or tried to — as he walked alongside Joe at the head of the pack.

“What about this place,” he grunted, flicking his chin toward the crude sign they’d seen tacked to a fence: Terminus – Sanctuary for All.

Joe snorted a laugh. “Terminus? Ain’t no such thing. Place like that’s a fairy tale, boy. World don’t got no sanctuary. Only rule that matters is the one you make for yourself.”

Daryl’s grip tightened on the strap of his crossbow. He hated how Joe talked, like he knew it all — but he kept his mouth shut.

Joe’s grin curled wider. “Truth is, we’re trackin’ a man. Bastard killed one of ours back at a camp — Lou. We believe the man’s headed for that so-called sanctuary. So we follow.”

They found the SUV near sunset — an old rusted thing, half-buried in kudzu. Joe motioned them all to settle in for the night. Daryl kicked out a patch of dirt and leaned back against the bumper, jaw locked tight. He could almost see Bellona’s face when he closed his eyes — that small smile she’d get when Beth started singing. He wondered what she’d think of him now, sittin’ here with these men.

The sound of boots pounding dirt snapped him out of it. One of the claimers came stumbling back from the dark tree line, breathless. “I see him — the guy. Could be him. There’s a whole group.”

Joe’s eyes gleamed. He rounded up the men, that feral grin back on his face. “You boys ready? Looks like we’re due for some justice. C’mon.”

They moved quick and quiet, cutting through brambles and ditch grass until they could see the glow of a small fire. And there they were: Rick. Michonne. Carl.

Daryl’s gut twisted like a hot knife was shoved through it. They were alive, they were alive which means that Carol, Glenn, Maggie, Bellona, and everyone else could be too. But, the claimers seemed pissed, and that was probably not a good thing for his family.

Tony was the first to speak — voice ugly with triumph. “It’s him, Joe. That’s the bastard. That’s the man who killed Lou.”

The circle tightened. Rick’s eyes flicked to Daryl — just for a second. Daryl’s throat closed up.

Joe barked out a tense countdown, gun aimed straight at Rick’s chest.

Daryl stepped forward fast. “Joe — stop. This man, this group, they’re good people.”

Joe’s gaze turned ice cold. “Good people? He killed our man.”

Daryl’s pulse thundered in his ears. Rick and Carl were some of the only people from the original family, he couldn’t lose them, so he squared his shoulders. “Take me instead.”

Joe flinched back, genuinely shocked. “You’re lyin’. There ain’t no good people anymore — and now you’re a liar too.” He raised his voice, eyes sweeping the group. “Teach him what we do to liars.”

Hands grabbed Daryl, rough and sudden, dragging him down into the dirt. He caught Rick’s terrified stare, then Carl’s wide, panicked eyes. His heartbeat was roaring, his vision tunneling. He was gonna die here. They were gonna—

Joe leaned in, voice dripping venom. “Beat him. Then we’re gonna do the boy, then the woman. Then we kill you, Rick. Closure.”

Dan lunged at Carl — that’s when Rick snapped. He launched his head back, smashing Joe in the nose. The gunshot cracked the night, deafening Daryl for a second. Rick stumbled, dazed.

Joe roared, blood pouring from his busted nose. He slammed Rick down, pinning him in place. “What the hell you gonna do now, sport?”

Rick’s eyes went dead. He lunged — teeth sinking into Joe’s throat, tearing out the artery in a wet, choking rip. Blood sprayed. Joe gargled on a final word and fell.

Everything froze.

Then Michonne fired — two quick shots, Tony and Harley’s skulls bursting like rotten fruit. Daryl’s knuckles split as he drove his boot into Billy’s face again and again, crushing bone until the man stopped moving.

Dan still had Carl. “Back off! I’ll kill him—!”

Rick’s voice was a rasp, madness curling every word. “He’s mine.”

Dan’s grip slackened as Carl tore away, running to Michonne. Rick stalked forward, Joe’s bloody knife clutched in his fist. Dan begged — but Rick didn’t hear him. The blade went into Dan’s belly, then up, slicing flesh and bone until the man’s screams choked out. Rick didn’t stop. He stabbed him again and again until Daryl grabbed his shoulder.

Rick’s chest heaved, blood dripping down his chin.

They sat against the SUV after. Michonne curled around Carl in the back seat, rocking him, whispering it was over. Daryl pressed a soaked rag into Rick’s palm. Rick wiped his mouth, hands trembling.

“Shoulda done more,” Daryl muttered hoarsely. “Shoulda never— Joe, those men— shoulda known.”

Rick shook his head, eyes hollow but fierce. “Ain’t on you. You’re my brother.”

Daryl looked away fast, swallowing the burn in his throat. “You find anyone else?”

Rick shook his head. “No sign of any of them. And Judith…” His eyes dropped to Carl, who just stared at the dirt. “She’s gone.”

Daryl’s chest caved in around the words. He glanced up at the black sky. “Then we keep movin’. We’ll find ‘em all.”

Rick nodded, Michonne closed her eyes, and Carl didn’t look at any of them.

They sat there until dawn, the trees creaking around them like ghosts, four broken people trying to hold onto something that felt like hope.

|

The sun was high overhead when they first caught sight of the fences. Rick, Daryl, Michonne, and Carl crouched low behind a thicket of brush, watching the painted sign swaying on its chains: Terminus. Sanctuary for All. Community for All. Those Who Arrive Survive.

It looked too clean. Too bright. Daryl’s gut twisted — he didn’t trust pretty signs anymore. Rick’s eyes swept the surroundings. No snipers. No walkers. Just… quiet.

Rick knelt by an old stump, unzipping the duffel bag they’d lugged from the SUV. He pulled out the Colt Python, ran his thumb over the barrel like he was saying goodbye, then buried it under a pile of loose dirt and leaves, packing it tight. The bag full of the rest of their guns went with it. Joe’s Smith & Wesson stayed tucked in Rick’s waistband — just in case.

“Nobody knows what’s in there,” Rick muttered. “If we don’t come out, we come back for these.”

Daryl glanced at Carl and Michonne. Nobody argued. They slipped over the fence, one by one.

Inside, the place almost looked like a damn farm — neat garden plots, chain-link fence, makeshift radio towers. They could hear voices drifting from one of the buildings. A woman’s calm, steady cadence: “Sanctuary for all. Community for all…” Rick motioned them forward, and they slipped into the room just behind her. Workers looked up — startled, but not afraid.

A wiry man stepped out from the back. “Welcome. I’m Gareth,” he said, hands held out wide. “You’re safe here — but I’ll have to ask you to lower your weapons. We’re not dumb enough to shoot you. Don’t be dumb enough to shoot us.”

Reluctantly, they handed them over. A second man, Alex, gave them an uneasy grin as he frisked each of them and handed the guns back. “Show of good faith,” he said.

They passed through the yard, the smell of roasting meat heavy in the air. Mary stood by a grill, ladling out plates piled with food. “Welcome to Terminus,” she said. “You must be hungry.”

Rick’s eyes drifted over the crowd — then narrowed. Daryl saw it too: the familiar orange backpack that Glenn had taken from the hitchhiker. The riot gear Glenn had worn. Maggie’s poncho. Hershel’s old pocket watch, glinting in the sunlight.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Rick’s jaw clenched. He slapped the plate out of Alex’s hands, food splattering across the ground. In one move, Rick had the Smith & Wesson in Alex’s face, the barrel buried against his skin. “Where’d you get this?” he hissed, his other hand snatching the watch from Gareth’s belt loop. “Where’s our people?”

Alex stammered, eyes darting to Gareth. “Found it on a dead man—”

“Liar,” Rick growled.

Gareth’s smile didn’t budge. “It’s true. Found the riot gear on a dead cop. Clothesline for the poncho. World’s full of scraps now.”

A crack echoed across the yard — a sniper’s shot. Rick felt the bullet whiz by, so close it clipped Alex instead, dropping him screaming to the dirt. Chaos erupted. Bullets tore the air. Michonne dragged Carl behind a stall while Daryl fired back, covering Rick as they ran.

They sprinted through alleyways, gunmen popping up on rooftops, driving them forward like cattle. Shots cracked at their boots, forcing them right where Terminus wanted them. Once, they rounded a corner and Daryl’s stomach lurched — bones and sinew scattered on a tarp, fresh blood still glistening. He heard muffled cries from a rusted cargo container nearby. He didn’t let himself think about it.

They reached the back fence — but it was a trap. A ring of people stood there, weapons ready, eyes cold. Gareth stepped forward, face calm as ever. “Put ‘em down.”

Outnumbered, outgunned, Rick dropped the gun. The others followed. Gareth called them out one by one, voice echoing in the dead quiet.

“Ringleader. Archer. Samurai. Kid. Into the boxcar.”

They obeyed. What choice did they have?

Inside the car, shadows stirred. Familiar faces turned — wide, haunted eyes. Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, and Bob. But then, there were also some unfamiliar faces — The young woman that had been with the Governor. A red head version of Hulk Hogan. A latina version of Lara Croft. A nerd.

Rick’s breath hitched. Daryl stepped back, sinking into the corner, his mind spinning. Glenn caught his eye and nodded — grim but grateful. “They helped save us, they’re our friends,” Maggie said softly, glancing at the unfamiliar people.

Daryl’s voice cracked. “For however long that’ll be.”

Hulk Hogan look-alike barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. For however long that’ll be.”

But Rick stepped forward, his eyes wild but sure. He went to the slatted gap in the boxcar wall, staring out at the yard they’d just been herded through.

“They’re gonna feel pretty stupid when they find out…” he murmured.

Sasha leaned in. “Find out what?”

Rick turned, his stare burning with the last spark of a fight they couldn’t kill. “They’re screwing with the wrong people.”

Beside him, Daryl lowered his head into his hands, the words ringing in his ears. The chance that Bellona or Carol were still alive was slim to none, at this point, and it was soul-crushing.

Inside the dim boxcar, silence settled like a weight after Rick’s last words. Daryl pushed himself off the wall, his shoulders tense as he looked around at the others, all staring at Rick with that same mix of fear and flickering hope.

Daryl cleared his throat, voice rough. “Has anyone… anyone seen Bellona?” His eyes flicked to Glenn first — the closest thing she had to a brother.

Glenn’s face fell apart in an instant. “Bellona?” He stepped forward, voice cracking. “No — no. I thought — I thought maybe she was with you. Or Rick. Or…” His hands shook, and he raked his fingers through his hair. “God — she could be out there alone? Or—”

Daryl stared at the floor for a long second, then at the walls of the boxcar like he could see through them. His fingers tapped at his leg, restless. “I don’t know where she is anymore,” he admitted hoarsely. “But she’s out there. She’s smart. She’s… she’s Bellona. If anyone’s gonna survive this shit, it’s her.”

Glenn sank to the floor with his head in his hands, shoulders trembling as Maggie rubbed his back. “She has to be,” Glenn breathed. “She has to be.”

Daryl forced himself to look at them, trying to hold it together. “We’ll find her. We’re gonna find her — when we get outta this.”

He glanced at Rick, who stood near the opening, teeth gritted. Rick met his eyes and gave a short, fierce nod — an unspoken promise that family was worth fighting for.

Daryl shifts against the metal wall, eyes flicking from Glenn and Maggie huddled together to Rick standing near the boxcar door, still tense, still thinking. He clears his throat, voice low and gravelly.

“Maggie — there’s somethin’ else. About Beth.”

Maggie’s head snaps up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Beth? You’ve seen her?”

Daryl nods stiffly. “She’s alive. After the prison — I was with her for a while. She was taken… by a black car. White cross on the back.” He presses a palm to the wall, breathing through the anger that flares every time he thinks about it. “Didn’t get to her in time.”

Maggie’s hand flies to her mouth, half-sob half-laugh. “She’s alive?”

“Yeah.” Daryl locks eyes with her, fierce. “I’m gonna find her. We’re gonna find her. Both of ‘em.” He swallows, his mind drifting to Bellona too — out there, somewhere. “All of ‘em.”

Rick gives him a nod, the kind that says: family. That’s all that matters.

|

Hours later, the group sits in a tight circle in the corner of the boxcar. They move quietly, working on scraps of fabric, zippers, bits of metal stripped from their clothes and the walls. Rick uses the zipper from his jacket, carving it against a splintered wooden beam to make a crude blade. Glenn holds a sharpened piece of metal pipe. Maggie ties a length of wire around her palm.

They freeze when footsteps approach. A faint clatter above — then a hiss, and suddenly a flash bang drops through the vent at the top of the car.

The blast blinds and deafens them. Light — white, then black — and ringing in their ears as they hit the floor, coughing, disoriented. Shadows loom overhead, voices muffled.

Rough hands grab at Rick, Daryl, Glenn, and Bob, dragging them from the boxcar one by one. Their wrists are zip tied, mouths gagged. Through watery eyes, Daryl sees the end of a corridor. Concrete walls. Smell of metal and bleach.

They’re shoved into a dim room — a slaughterhouse. Cold and wet, metal troughs lined with rust. He looks sideways and sees bodies hanging, a line of others gagged and bound just like them.

Rick’s wild eyes meet his, and they both know: it’s not a threat. It’s dinner.

A Terminus butcher raises a club high and slams it down on the head of the first captive. Blood sprays. Another worker methodically slices open the throat. It all runs into a trough below, neat and practiced.

Daryl tries to struggle, rage building behind the gag. He thinks about Beth. About Bellona. Gotta get out. Gotta get out.

He shifts his weight, testing the zip ties on his wrists. Next to him, Rick’s chest heaves, eyes sharp — the fight not done yet. Not by a long shot.

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Tag List: @staley83

[plague-karm]

Okay since people actually wanted the oc x canon shit here it is ig. I also want to preface this by saying that I am VERY inexperienced with writing characters from pre-existing IP’s (I mostly write for my own characters) so if anything’s OOC here then that’s why. But the funnie rock man has consumed by my brain so yeah. Here’s some background stuff about Carissa and other things regarding this funnie little thing I came up with.

Carissa is the heavenly virtue of charity, the seven heavenly virtues are some of the only creations god doesn’t regret due to them enacting their purpose without any pushback and they live on a completely different plane of existence as a result, high ranking angels visit them often as their domain is nearest to heaven.

My voice claim for her is Christy Altomare.

Unlike the angels who don’t care about humanity, the virtues haven’t lost faith in them (they often talk to the humans who ended up in heaven during the final war, soothing their fears).

She has pet rabbits that she tends to in her private sanctuary that she loves dearly.

I know Sisyphus is based more on the Camus poem rather than the Greek myth but the constantly cheating death thing fits with the concept of Greed WAY too well so I’m including it (this will come into play later).

Greed is the lowest layer she’s willing to go to (Wrath is the midpoint of how bad the sins are and I feel like the lower layers are that depraved that no one really goes there).

Sisyphus overthrew Midas here because of course he did.

He created the moon pendant so she could visit him in Greed more frequently because the rays and dust damaged her body.

One of his main motivations for getting with her was the fact an angel was heavily pining for her and the thought of cucking the enemy was too tempting to pass up (he got to spite the oppressors and he got a wife win win).

The formation of the council took FOREVER so that’s how Carissa got away with being with him for so long.

They get together before Minos’ death and separate before the Greed Insurrection.

She saw his beheading and is the only living being who knows the location of his husks head.

Carissa and Gabriel are actually pretty close which makes what happens later pretty fucked up. Things get complicated.

I’m subscribing to the theory that Treachery is a frozen wasteland and will make hell freeze over because it’s cool.

Okay let’s get into this shit wheyyyyy

PRE-GAME

Carissa is a VERY respected figure for obvious reasons, she was kind, compassionate, and giving to all.

When god disappeared she was incredibly concerned about the state of heaven and what could become of hell with the peering eyes of heaven averting their gaze.

So without telling anyone, she secretly travelled to hell with the intentions of reporting her findings to whoever would next be in charge.

Limbo was a ghost town, she wasn’t expecting much there anyway, but she felt…wrong.

Why were those who didn’t believe in god here? He wasn’t a physical presence, how were they supposed to know if he existed or not? And the books she found…they made her feel sick to her stomach.

They were innocent, slowly being driven insane by the superficial world around them, a constant reminder of what they could’ve had…

No, it couldn’t all be like this right? Besides, Lust IS a sin, surely that’s a place where the depraved souls of the damned deserve to toil in eternal punishment?

So she ventured deeper…and what she found was shocking…

A city, a paradise, she couldn’t believe it, all of this…? Was built by those who sinned…? Was what she was told up there even real? Several people putting aside their differences and building a better life for themselves…it moved her deeply.

She eventually met Minos and was heavily conflicted.

Surely she should report this right? This was against the father’s law! The punishment created by him was being turned into a reward!

…But still, she just couldn’t do it, she was enamoured with the city of Lust, her home was usually quite bright so the change in scenery was very much needed in her eyes.

She would continue visiting in secret, her and Minos had similar philosophical views so they became quick friends and of course her meeting Sisyphus was inevitable.

He was immediately intrigued, she was the complete opposite of him, and he had no idea why she hadn’t said a word to heaven about any of this.

He wasn’t rolling the boulder! Minos’ methods may be too passive for his tastes but they were STILL defying heaven! Why wasn’t she saying anything to them?!

He didn’t mind it of course (hell it was actually pretty convenient considering what he was planning) but still…

They hang out in Lust normally because a majority of meetings are held there (plus Minos was literally the JUDGE of hell it makes sense).

Carissa was very intimidated by Sisyphus at first, and who could blame her? His disposition and his history was enough to put anyone off.

He noticed this and it irritated him quite a bit, he may have killed a few people and used every outsider who dared enter his kingdom on earth as an example but come on he wasn’t THAT bad!

Her first travel to Greed didn’t go well to put it lightly, the heat was almost unbearable, if it wasn’t for lower levels of Sisyphus’ place (I like to think the area in 4-3 and 4-4 was where he lived) having significant amounts of shade she would’ve passed out for sure.

As a result she mostly goes to Lust due to the cooler atmosphere.

He doesn’t know what to do…he likes seeing her anywhere but the fact that she barely visited him in his own layer…it irked him to no end.

So he had an idea.

A way for her to visit him.

It took forever but he somehow made it.

The moon pendant.

He requested her presence and she showed up fairly covered since the heat still got to her.

He used the pendant and she was in AWE.

The night sky was beautiful and the air was clear instead of being humid to a suffocating degree.

She asked him why he did this, and he said that the fact that she couldn’t visit due to her body’s limitations frustrated him to the point of creating the moon pendant as a way to make her time with him more convenient.

This is where it started.

Minos could IMMEDIATELY tell what was going on with Sisyphus, him doing something for someone else (especially if that someone wasn’t from greed) was EXTREMELY out of character for him, he knew him very well, he was one of the only people Sisyphus respected as an equal regardless of him disagreeing with his methods so he immediately figured out what was happening and he was ecstatic.

Carissa on the other hand didn’t know what to do, she had SO many admirers from heaven…so out of everyone she could’ve fallen for why did it have to be HIM?! She was terrified of what could happen if people found out, she may have been incredibly high ranking but she wasn’t invincible, her sisters of virtue could cast her out! He could be killed!

But…the fact that he would go as far as to create a day and night cycle in Greed for her sake…the way he made sure that he took on the load for his people if it was too much for them to bare…it moved her in a way she couldn’t explain.

Sisyphus could TELL that she felt the same, but he was patient (as he always was).

He knew she was worried for good reason, even though he didn’t fear them, he knew exactly why she did.

He was okay with being killed as long as he stood by his beliefs but she was innocent, she wasn’t a cog in their corrupt system, she was BEYOND them, and helped the people in the layers regardless of her status, that was more than enough for him.

Over a VERY long period of time he finally confessed and she accepted gracefully.

The two came to an agreement, no one could know about this (except Minos of course), if it was up to him he’d show her off like no tomorrow, but he knew that her position would be in jeopardy so for once in his life he was subtle.

He would send her gifts pretty often when she was in her sanctuary, they were unsigned so no one knew it was him, Gabriel delivered them (the guy was also a messenger and the fanart I saw of him delivering mail was funnie so why not).

He would often ask who kept sending her these overly luxurious gifts but she’d say she had no idea.

It was mostly night time when she visited him but she had eventually gotten used to the heat there so she visited quite frequently regardless of the weather.

They bantered a lot, she felt like she could be herself around him, less formal and more relaxed.

She really likes his voice, it soothes her when she’s feeling stressed about the disappearance of god, it may have happened a while ago but it was still on her mind…

He was aware that he had an effect on her and used that to his advantage, he’s a very smooth talker (he cheated death god knows how many times so he definitely has a way with words).

Carissa is fully aware of this and sometimes calls him out on it, it’s all in fun though.

LOVES his hair, she always wonders how he keeps it in such good condition despite the weather of greed being so brutal.

He has met her pets, he wasn’t expecting so many of them but hey they’re quiet at least.

Sometimes watches them play fight in his throne room, gets oddly invested despite how ridiculous it looks on the surface, their battle tactics are interesting.

He sometimes wonders how they can withstand Greed’s temperatures, but he tries not to think about it too hard or else he’d risk going insane.

They take nightly walks often, he made clothes for her so she wouldn’t blend in with the environment in case anything bad happened, they’re very comfy :)

Her comfort is his top priority no matter what, he respects her and makes sure everything in Greed is at its highest standard whenever she comes over.

They were both aware that they were walking on thin ice so the wedding was VERY lowkey, he never told her this but the actual event kind of disappointed him, he thought she deserved more, but she was fine with it, she was just happy she was with him.

Things were great…

That all changed when Minos died.

Carissa wept while Sisyphus grieved silently.

He knew this would happen, he KNEW…but a small, foolish part of him hoped that what Minos had built there would work out…but it wasn’t meant to be.

A few nights later he told her about his plan to put insurrection in motion.

The watchful eye of heaven made it harder for Carissa to sneak into Greed but they made it work.

They would become distant during this time, his focus on the army was too great, the plan he had been formulating for millennia was FINALLY coming to fruition.

Carissa was VERY worried about him despite his demeanour being the same as ever. Regardless of their differences she knew Minos meant a lot to him.

This culminated one night in an argument, she exclaimed that this was putting his people in extreme danger, that he could DIE doing this…and he responded saying “I know”. It was a risk he was more than willing to take for his and his people’s salvation, regardless of what his fate would be.

This was too much…and then he told her to leave, he knew that if she chose to stay with him during the insurrection she would be killed (she was high ranking, but defying heaven was considered heresy, regardless of who it was).

She had no fighting experience, she only existed to spread peace and joy, the thought of her dying, leaving her rabbits behind, HIM behind…he couldn’t bare it.

She was heartbroken, but she left without another word…she was devastated. He almost wept himself…but his plan was too important, he had dedicated his entire afterlife towards this, he couldn’t stop now.

Divorce Arc :(

The day of the insurrection was witnessed by all of heaven, even Carissa, because she wanted to make sure he would be okay…

And then Gabriel descended upon high…and Sisyphus’ head was displayed for all to see.

The last thing he saw was the horror in her eyes as his conscious left him, her sobs were like whispers compared to the cheers surrounding her as he was slain.

She grieved in private, she knew he’d be happy about this, fighting against his oppressors until his last breath…but she didn’t want things to end between them the way they did.

She would return to Greed in secret, horrified by the fate of the Sisyphean Insurrectionists, mutilated and ripped apart except for the bare essentials…

She would use the night pendant to make their punishment slightly more bearable.

During one of her many secret visits she found the head of his husk…she would visit it often as a way to deal with her grief.

She’d tell it everything, what she did that day, how the rabbits were doing, how much she missed his company…his humour…everything. She had never felt this empty before in her life…

She would write about her feelings in several empty books, ones she kept hidden throughout the deepest depths of the temple.

She didn’t talk to Gabriel much after that, she knew he had practically become a vessel for the council’s cruelty but it still hurt.

He thought she avoided him because she wasn’t used to him committing such violent acts (nah bro it’s because you killed her friend and her husband idiot 😒).

POST-GAME

Carissa continued her duties but the light in her eyes had lost its lustre, something her sisters of virtue took notice of.

They were worried about her, but she’d always brush them off.

Since we know the council gets murked later on the fathers light would die alongside them. Heaven knew this and they were free for their final moments…

The heavenly virtues had no idea though, so when they slowly died off along with her rabbits Carissa was terrified and confused until she went down to heaven and realised that the end of times was upon them all.

Gabriel became aware of Sisyphus becoming a prime soul, being slain at the hands of the machine…but unlike those before him, he wasn’t fooled…

Minos’ will to go on was snuffed out the second the machine robbed him of his chance at vengeance…

Sisyphus cheated death several times, his tenacity was as annoying as it was impressive, he’d do it again.

He KNEW he’d do it again.

He travelled to Greed to see if he had returned to his domain and inevitably found the books Carissa left behind…and everything clicked for him.

The constant disappearances, the gifts, the ring she wore, the fact she could barely look at him…my god, it all made sense.

He knew things were going to end soon, he knew his time would soon be over…

So he wanted to do a good deed for his dear friend one last time.

He entered the barren sanctuary and saw her sitting motionless, the last embers of the fathers light filling the once vibrant scenery gifted by he who left them…

He kneeled beside her…

“He isn’t dead…”

“…What? Gabriel, I saw you-“

“His soul lives”

“…”

“I know it does…and I know about…what happened between you…”

“How do you-?”

“I went down there to see if he tried to rebuild it, I saw your books…you spoke fondly of him”

“I hoped no one would find out…”

“The machine had him slain, but you know him better than I ever will…”

“He’s always been stubborn…even in the face of impossible odds…”

She chuckled weakly, she always admired that about Sisyphus, no matter how the odds were stacked against him, he’d always go for it, regardless of his actions (she knew he wasn’t perfect) that was an aspect of him almost everyone respected.

“Do you want to see him again?”

She turned to look at him for the first time in years, of course she did, the last thing she wanted was to die in this cold, dark world alone.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but I will be able to sense his presence if we go down there together, I can’t stay with you though, if he sees me there will be a fight…and you deserve to go out peacefully”

She nodded, they travelled to Greed…they found him, he was standing alone, a shining light in the rubble that was once his home. Carissa whispered.

“Thank you…”

Gabriel nodded and left without a word, Carissa approached him quietly, standing beside him, looking over the remains of the Insurrectionists and the landmarks once littered across the dust below. He looked different, but she could tell it was him.

Sisyphus finally took notice of her presence, barely managing to restrain himself from doing anything too emotional.

“I thought you would’ve gone up there and completed your mission by now…”

“No, the weapon will get further than I ever will…are they all…?”

“Almost…”

For the first time in his life he wasn’t sure what to do, this was the first time he had seen her in years…should he apologise? But he got what he wanted…no…he had something else to tell her, something that would mean more than a handful of words he had never said with once with seriousness.

“I heard you…”

“Heard what?”

“When you were talking to my husk…I heard all of it, I felt your kisses, I thought it was all a dream…I just wanted to make sure you knew that before you were gone”

She wanted to cry, he heard her? He could sense her sadness, after the way their relationship ended he wouldn’t have blamed her if she never wanted to see him again…but she came all this way…the least he could do was provide her with company before the jaws of death claimed them…

The two talked about everything before their time was over, trying to regain the years that had escaped them

The fact that she was still wearing the ring after all this time…that meant so much to him…more than she could ever know…

And then he could feel it, the cold…

Hand in hand, side by side…they died together…

And he didn’t regret a second of it