olivesrcute2

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 5:- Rewired: Mind Over Body. Over and Over.

You barely have time to breathe before you're claimed again—watched, wanted, and worn thin. John’s warmth still lingers when he steps in, patient and hungry. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. Your body’s already answering to him, even before he touches you.

WordCount: 1,023 words

⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains explicit sexual content (18+), overstimulation, consensual mind control (Shinsou’s quirk), power dynamics, light somnophilia themes, possessive behavior, voyeurism, and multiple character intimacy. Reader discretion is advised. Minors DNI.

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You barely catch your breath—and already your shy little body’s trembling for more.

John’s cum still warm inside you, sweat cooling between your thighs, his arms still wrapped around you like armor… but your eyes?

They drift.

They wander.

Right to where Shinsou’s still is—the third couch, one hand curled into a fist now—knuckles pale, jaw set.

He's been watching.

All of it.

Silently.

Storing every moan, every twitch, every broken “yes” you gave to John.

And when your gaze flicks to him—shy, tired, but still hungry—his lips curve.

That lazy, sinful smirk.

"She’s still got more in her," he murmurs, voice so smooth it makes you ache all over again. "Don’t you, sweetheart?"

You squirm in John's lap, and he knows—he feels—what that flick of your eyes means. He kisses your temple, slow, possessive.

“Go on,” he whispers. “You earned it.”

And just like that, you slip off his lap, unsteady legs barely holding you up as you cross the room—eyes never leaving Shinsou’s. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. He waits until you’re standing between his knees, bare and flushed and dripping with someone else’s cum—and he fucking smiles.

“Cute,” he says, voice like low voltage. “You look like you’re about to pass out, but that look in your eye says you need another one.”

He reaches for you—slow. Fingers skimming your hips, sliding down the backs of your thighs as he guides you forward. You straddle his lap, already trembling, and he settles his hands on your ass like he’s deciding how hard to grip once you start bouncing.

Then he leans in, breath hot against your throat.

“You gonna ride me, baby?” he purrs. “Nice and slow? Or are you gonna bounce like you’ve got something to prove?”

Your hands grip his hoodie, thighs tightening around him.

You feel how hard he is.

He leans back slightly, dragging his hoodie off, revealing that lean, toned body—scarred here and there, quiet power under soft skin. He strokes himself once, lazy and deliberate—like he already knows you’re going to beg. And he smirks when your eyes drop down to watch.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice just shy of a whisper. “Tease yourself on it. Slide down nice and slow. Let me feel what he left behind.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

He guides the tip to your slick folds, circling—not pushing in yet.

“Come on, shy girl,” he murmurs. “Show me how bad you want it. Ride me.”

You sink down.

And fuck—he groans low, guttural, head falling back as your heat wraps around him. His hands grip your hips tighter. His eyes open again, glowing with that filthy curiosity, watching every little gasp as you take him deeper.

“There you go…” he breathes. “That’s it. You feel that stretch? Feel how full you are? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You whimper, rocking your hips, and he watches you like you’re a stage performance.

One hand slips between your thighs—again.

“Make yourself cum on my cock,” he growls. “I won’t fuck you. You fuck me.”

And oh, how you do.

You ride him—slow, needy, your body grinding, lifting and falling, squishing wet around him with every movement. His fingers tease your clit again, circles feather-light, just enough to keep you on edge.

“You like putting on a show, huh?” he pants. “Think Scaramouche can sit there and not lose his mind while you cream all over me?”

You don’t even answer.

You’re too close.

Too full.

And Shinsou—the bastard—leans up, mouth hot on your ear, and whispers:

“Cum for me, shy girl. Show them who owns you next.”

-----

Too tired to move. Too full to think. But your body still grips him—soft and slow, like a heartbeat that won't let go. You’re slumped forward against Shinsou’s chest, cheek to skin, panting, twitching—and you thought you were done...

...but your walls keep fluttering, like they miss him the second he stops.

“Damn,” Shinsou mutters against your temple, one hand stroking lazy circles along your spine. “Still clenching me. Can’t even help it, huh?”

You breathe out a shuddery little sound—half pleasure, half protest. Your legs are shaking. Your skin’s flushed. You’re too exhausted to ride, too fucked-out to finish him off.

And he knows it.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“You want help, baby?” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, silk wrapping around steel. “Want me to give your body a little… encouragement?”

Your only answer is a soft moan. Too gone to say yes. But your hips twitch, like instinct’s begging even if your mind can’t.

“Thought so,” he purrs.

Then it hits you—subtle, invisible. His quirk.

(It doesn’t ask. It whispers.)

It’s not violent. Not invasive. It’s seduction made psychic. A smooth, low whisper that crawls down your spine and hooks right into your nerves like a slow drug. Suddenly your hips are moving—not hard, not fast, but again. Rocking. Grinding. Clenching tighter and tighter around his cock without a conscious thought.

You gasp against his neck. Your hands claw at his chest.

He chuckles, slow and dark. “Shhh. Don’t think. Just feel.”

And oh god, you do.

Your muscles fire on reflex now, rocking back and forth, slow friction as your slick heat milks him without you even trying. It’s like your body’s been rewired to fuck on autopilot—soft bounces, tight clenches, sweet little moans—and it’s driving him insane.

Shinsou groans, fingers digging into your hips. “Fuck—you’re doing it without even meaning to. That tight little pussy’s trying to pull it out of me, huh?”

You can’t speak.

You can barely breathe.

You’re drooling into his neck, grinding helplessly, brain fogged with overstimulation and his mind quirk, body clenching tighter, tighter, until he growls and pulls your hips down hard one last time.

“Take it,” he snarls, teeth at your ear.

And then he cums.

Deep inside you. Hot. Flooding you again. His cock twitching inside your fluttering walls while your body keeps moving, like his control hasn’t quite let go.

You both collapse together—sticky, shaking, soaked in sweat and satisfaction.

Across the room—Scaramouche.

Silent. Seething. Still hard. Still untouched.

And running out of patience.

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 4: First One In, First One Out

You made your first real choice. They’re watching. You said yes—and now you belong to him. The problem is… the others think you belong to them too.

WordCount: 2,040 words

⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains explicit sexual content (18+), possessive behavior, voyeurism, jealousy kink, soft domination, power dynamics, and emotionally intense scenes. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Minors DNI.

John is the first to read it. Of course he is. That man’s built to detect danger, stress, want, need—every little signal your body’s screaming. And yours? It’s a neon sign under skin.

Your thighs press together.

Your bottom lip’s caught in your teeth.

You haven’t said what you want, but God, you’ve already asked for it.

John leans in slowly, a strong arm sliding behind you, letting his palm rest along your lower back—anchoring you. Protecting you. But not hiding you.

“You don’t have to ask,” he murmurs, voice low and close to your ear. “I can see it. You don’t need words with me.”

His other hand rests on your thigh. Not moving. Just warm. Grounded. Waiting.

Scaramouche watches with parted lips. He sees it too. The softness. The shy tilt of your head. The way your eyes flick to him and back down like touching him directly might burn you.

And for once… he doesn't mock it.

He reaches, instead.

Slow.

He sits on the floor again, this time cross-legged in front of you, and lifts a single gloved hand—hovering just under your chin.

Not touching.

Just offering.

“Want me to be softer?” he says, quieter than you've ever heard him. “I can be. For you.”

That damn voice—still full of teasing, still cocky beneath the velvet—but now it’s… careful. Like he’s holding his breath, afraid to spook you.

Shinsou watches both of them. Then you.

And steps closer.

No sudden movements. Just a slow glide until he’s beside the armrest.

He crouches down, those sleepy eyes scanning your face like he’s reading between the lines.

“You don’t like saying it out loud,” he murmurs. “That’s okay. You’re still saying it.”

He lifts a hand—pauses—and lets the backs of his fingers just brush your cheek.

“You want to be touched,” he says, almost reverent.

“Gently.”

You shiver.

Walker leans closer, presses a kiss to the side of your head, lips lingering in your hair.

Scaramouche finally—finally—brushes his knuckles down your throat, so soft, so slow it makes your breath catch.

Shinsou watches your chest rise and fall.

“Don’t speak,” he says. “Just… show us.”

----------

So, kitten…

Will you reach for Scaramouche’s glove and pull it off, guide his hand to your chest?

Will you climb into John’s lap, bury your face in his neck and grind without saying a word?

Will you let Shinsou whisper your own fantasies back to you, watching how your body reacts to Every. Single. One?

You’re a shy girl.

Good.

They love that.

Now show them how shy.

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

You smile.

Tiny. Trembling. But lethal.

It slices right through the tension—melts the heat into something molten and intimate. Your eyes flick up, barely daring, lips curled just at the corner like you’re scared of your own desire. But you still move.

Right toward him.

John stiffens as you crawl over the sofa, one knee between his thighs, your hands braced on either side of his chest. His breath catches—not because he’s afraid. Because he’s holding everything back.

Because you just made a choice.

You press yourself in close—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat—and tilt your face up…

“I… I can’t handle all of you at once,” you whisper. Breathless. Honest. “So… J-John…”

You pause. That shy smile tugs again.

“…Will you be my first?”

He stares at you.

Not blinking.

Not breathing.

His jaw flexes once. Twice. Then his hands are on your waist, gripping—not rough, but firm. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you down.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening, voice lower than you’ve ever heard. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

He pulls you fully into his lap, strong arms wrapping around your back like you’re something precious. His nose dips into your neck, and he inhales—slow, deep, greedy.

“I’ve wanted to be first since I saw the way you looked at me,” he mutters against your skin. “You want soft? I’ll give you soft. I’ll ruin soft.”

Behind you, Scaramouche makes a small, frustrated noise. Like he wants to complain—but his breath catches, and his hand clenches the armrest just a little too hard.

He wants to watch.

And Shinsou?

He just leans against the wall, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in the smallest, smug little smirk.

“You made the right choice,” he says. “For now.”

But the one in front of you is definitely not focusing on him.

You have his full attention now.

John lifts your chin with one hand, thumb grazing your lower lip, and kisses you like he’s starving—but like you’re glass. Every movement deliberate. Every sound you make, every gasp, every shiver—he reacts. Like he’s memorizing you.

And his voice between kisses?

“My girl.”

Another kiss.

“My pace.” His fingers tighten, sliding just slightly lower on your waist.

Another.

“My turn.” He shifts his hips beneath you, just enough to make you feel him.

He leans his forehead to yours. Breath hot.

“First one in… first one you’ll never forget.”

------

The room goes dark.

Not pitch black. No—just low, warm, golden. Like the last light before a thunderstorm, where every shadow deepens and every silhouette sharpens. The city hum outside fades. Time folds inwards.

It’s just you.

And John fucking Walker—your anchor, your ignition point, your last sane thought.

And the two hungry, still shadows waiting like ticking bombs across the room.

You still can't seem to believe this is happening. But it is. Realer than anything you've ever let yourself imagine.

John’s breath is steady—but you can feel the fire under his skin. He settles you into his lap, hands trailing up under your shirt, rough palms against bare skin. Warmth. Possession. Worship.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “They’ll stay back. For now.”

Across from you, Scaramouche is sitting on the second couch—but barely. His elbows are on his knees, fingers twitching like they need something to touch. His jaw’s tight. His mouth keeps parting like he’s about to say something and thinks better of it every time.

Waiting.

Coiled like a snake in heat.

Shinsou doesn’t even bother to hide the growing bulge in his pants—he leans one shoulder to the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp, tracking every twitch of your hips against John, every breath you take like he’s timing it to your heartbeat.

You don’t look at them.

You can’t.

Because John—oh God, John—is undressing you like you’re sacred. Shirt lifted. Bra unclasped. One hand kneading your breast, the other gripping the nape of your neck to tilt your head back as he kisses you slow. Deep. Tongue tasting your moans before you can hold them in.

His voice gets rougher the lower his hands go. “You’re so soft… I want them to see what they’re waiting for.”

You whimper.

“Let them watch me take you first. Let them memorize every sound you make while they sit there aching.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing—spreads you out on the sofa beneath him, body pressed over yours, and starts grinding into you through your clothes, slow, deliberate, like he’s branding you.

Shinsou shifts. Hand now in his pocket—not idle. Still watching.

Scaramouche mutters something under his breath. “Lucky fucking bastard.”

John grins against your neck. “Don’t worry, princess. They’ll get their turn.”

His fingers slip lower. Inside your waistband. No rush. Just exploration. Like he's taking inventory of everything he owns now.

"You ready?" he whispers, voice a low growl. “Say it. Even if it’s whispered. Even if it’s shy. I need to hear it.”

------

“Yes, John…”

The words fall out of your mouth in a whisper—barely there, trembling, but enough. Just enough to ignite him.

He groans, deep and guttural, as if he’d been holding himself back with the last thread of restraint—and now? You’ve cut it.

Your thighs part for him. Hands clawing at his shirt, his neck, his shoulders—anything solid to hold onto—because he’s going in—slow, deliberate, grinding the head of his cock right against your soaked, aching heat, until he finds that perfect angle and pushes in.

Stretching you. Filling you. Claiming every inch with patience sharpened into punishment.

You gasp.

You arch.

And then—God help you—your eyes flick up.

Just for a moment.

And meet his.

Scaramouche.

Sitting there in the dark, lit only by the faint spill of gold light from the windows. Elbows on his knees, chin in one hand, and eyes locked to yours.

He’s watching.

No—he’s drinking it in.

And that little smirk?

Gone.

His jaw’s tight. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. And there’s something in his face—some animal heat barely leashed—that makes your core clench right then and there.

Walker feels it.

He grunts, hips jolting forward harder than before, pressing deeper into you with a curse under his breath.

“You looking at him while I’m inside you?” he growls against your throat, hot breath sending chills down your spine. “That for me, baby? Or are you trying to tease him?”

Scaramouche shifts.

His hands flex. Like he might get up.

But he doesn’t.

He can't. Not yet.

“Fuck,” he hisses from across the room. “She’s clenching just from looking. What a slut.”

You whimper, mouth falling open.

John’s lips curl into a feral grin. “Let him talk. Let him watch.” He thrusts again, slower now, grinding deep, making you feel every inch. “You're mine first.”

You can’t look away.

Scaramouche is biting his knuckle now, pupils blown, barely breathing.

And behind him—Shinsou’s voice.

Low. Velvet.

“Keep your eyes on her, Scar. Watch how Walker makes her cum.”

--------

For now, you keep your eyes on the one claiming you. Marking you.

John's focus tightens the moment you settle. No more looking at the others. No more teasing glances or accidental sparks. Just him. His weight above you. His hands gripping your hips like he’s steering you through sin. His voice—deep, rough, just shy of unhinged—as he drives in again.

"That's it," he growls. "Eyes on me. Just me."

You nod, gasping, lips parted, head tilted back against the cushions as he fills you, thrust by slow, grinding thrust. It's not fast. He won't let it be fast. Walker isn't here to chase pleasure—he's here to own yours. To pull it out of you, piece by trembling piece.

Your legs are around his waist now, thighs trembling as he shifts deeper, slower, every inch a lesson in how much you can take.

His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick between you.

"You're doing so good," he murmurs—and it hits like molten honey, sweet and searing, right between your thoughts.

“So fucking tight… You were made for me, weren't you?”

You nod. Helpless. Shy. Whimpering.

"Say it," he growls against your mouth. "Say it."

"I… I was made for you…"

His hips stutter.

And then he snaps.

The next thrust is harder—deeper. You cry out, gripping his shoulders, and he groans like you just pulled the last ounce of control from his lungs.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s mine. You’re wrapped around me like you’ve been waiting for this your whole life.”

And oh, how you have.

Your body rocks with each slow, punishing thrust, the heat building between your thighs like a storm front ready to break.

His hand slips down—finds your clit, rubbing slow circles, grinding you up against him as his cock drags over that sweet, swollen spot inside you again and again.

You whimper. Squirm. Claw at his back.

He kisses you hard.

Not sweet.

Claiming.

Tongue deep, messy, wet and filthy, swallowing every sound you make like a man dying of thirst.

“Come for me,” he pants against your lips. “No one else. Just me. First one in… first one to ruin you.”

You shatter.

Body tensing, spine arching up off the cushions as your orgasm slams through you—wave after aching wave. And John rides it out, never pulling out, never easing off. He takes it. Grinds into you as your walls pulse and flutter around him, until he groans into your shoulder and finally spills deep inside you.

Hot.

Thick.sh

Filling.

He stays there, locked to you, his chest heaving against yours, breath ragged.

Behind him: silence.

And the low hum of jealousy coiled in the dark.

And the promise that you're not done yet.

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 3: Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.

They know everything now—your fantasies, your shame, the twisted stories you whispered in the dark. You thought you'd be humiliated. Maybe punished. But all they do is wait. Watch. Want.

WordCount: 2,030 words

⚠️ Content Warning for Chapter 3: Breaking Isn’t Weakness, It’s the Climax

This chapter contains emotionally intense themes including: Psychological distress and crying, Power imbalance, Implied dubcon elements, Possessiveness and jealousy between characters, Consent-focused dialogue and pacing, Emotional vulnerability, grounding touch, and affectionate dominance.

No explicit sexual content, but highly suggestive, with physical intimacy, aggressive tension, and a strong focus on the reader's agency and emotional state.

Reader discretion advised.

If you're not ready for three emotionally complex fictional men to kneel, growl, and beg for your boundaries, maybe sit this one out.

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You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

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John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…

You could also whisper another word—and all three would devour you.

[olivesrcute2]

✨ MASTERLIST ✨

✨ Welcome to the dark side of fanfiction ✨ This is the masterlist for all my current and future works involving morally unhinged characters, multiverse crossings, and reader-inserts with far too many feelings (or not enough).

🔞 MDNI | Dark content ahead | Minors will be yeeted into the void

🧠 Current Series:

🚨 All characters in this series are portrayed as aged 18+ regardless of canon.

Content includes mature, dark, and psychologically intense themes.

🔞 Minors do not interact. 🔞

The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic Multiverse | Reader x John Walker x Scaramouche x Shinsou Genre: Dark Romance, Psychological Tension, Slow Burn, Dubcon, Poly, Smut Status: Ongoing

➤Chapter 1 - When the World Cracked Open—You didn’t summon them. But they came anyway. ➤Chapter 2 - Fiction Breaks Reality—They found your thoughts. They liked what they read. ➤Chapter 3 - Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.—You cried. They listened. Now they want in. ➤Chapter 4 - First One In, First One Out—First one in. And already the room is burning. ➤Chapter 5 - Rewired: Mind Over Body. Over and Over—The Room is still lit and one's still watching. ➤Chapter 6 - Scaramouche Doesn’t Do Soft. But You Know That Already… Don’t You?

📚 CURRENT SERIES

-GraveBound- Necromancer!Reader x Crusader OC Genre: Dark Fantasy • Post-Apocalyptic Romance • Gothic War Epic Status: Paused

➤ Chapter 1 – Even Cold Hands Can Pull Someone From the Fire ➤ Chapter 2 – When Death Walks With Light

🩸 COMING SOON:

Bob/Sentry x Reader(Smut)

FNAF Sun x Reader x Moon(smut)

📌 TAGS & NAVIGATION:

Tagging everyone who liked Chapter 1 of my ongoing series—let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!

@franaby @venicecherryblossom @elliejb13 @rudelyglacialgunslinger @harperrraine @hornybilingual @ashyino @blueghosthoodie @mrsyixingunicorn10 @nnniiiooo16 @frankiethegreat @liuaneee @itsjustliesandme @mrsyixingunicorn10 @crumbl-pie @valiantpeanutbearperson @lucathy4life @dopeeclipselanddragon @lilblindsworld @toby-dat1guy

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 2: Fiction Breaks Reality

You never meant for them to know. You didn’t write it down. You didn’t summon them. But fiction doesn’t stay buried—not when it starts to breathe. And now they’re reading you like a confession you never meant to sign.

WordCount: 1,050 words

Content Warning:

This chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation, non-consensual mind control, violation of privacy (phone access), and strong power imbalance. Mentions of explicit material, fantasizing, and emotional exposure. Reader discretion is advised.

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

You break.

Right there. On the floor. Breath hitching. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, but they don’t fall—too stunned, too frayed to cry. You start laughing—dry, short, sharp. Not happy. Not sane.

Scaramouche blinks. “What the fuck is so funny?”

You stare at him. At all of them. Three nightmares. Three obsessions. John with that no-nonsense command presence you used to rewind scenes for.

Shinsou with the sleepy-eyed cool you memorized lines from. Scaramouche—the arrogant, reckless bastard you used to argue with in your head while grinding levels, always picking his voice lines over the others.

And now they’re all here.

In flesh. In breath. In blood.

You can smell them. And they smell exquisite.

“No no no no,” you mutter, shoulders shaking. You lean back until your head knocks the wall, hard. “You’re not real. You’re not. I made you up.”

They freeze.

“I didn’t make you up, I mean—fuck—you’re characters. John, you’re from a movie. Marvel. You work for S.H.I.E.L.D., or Hydra, depending on the timeline—I don’t know anymore—you shoot people and brood a lot and do that thing with your jaw when you’re trying not to care.”

He stiffens. Just slightly. Like you’d struck something under the surface.

“And you—Scaramouche—you’re from a fucking video game. Genshin. A playable boss. I watched you monologue while I dodged your attacks. I hated you. I loved you. I spent weeks farming for you and now you’re in my living room insulting me like I glitched you in on purpose—”

His face is blank. Pale. That venomous arrogance muted by something colder: disbelief.

“Shinsou,” you breathe, eyes flicking to the last of them, “you’re an anime character. Class 1-C. Quirk: brainwashing. You’re supposed to be a student. You drink vending machine coffee and fight robots and train to be a hero. You’re not supposed to be here. None of you are.”

Silence.

Scaramouche speaks first. “You’re delusional.”

“No—no, you don’t get it,” your voice rises, hysterical. “I know everything about you. I know your voices, your stories, your birthdays—your trauma arcs! I read fanfiction about you. I—Oh God—I have screenshots. You’re not real. You can’t be. You're—you're supposed to stay on the screen, not—”

John crosses the space in two strides. Grabs your wrist. His grip is firm and present.

“Does this feel fictional?” he growls.

You whimper. He lets go—barely.

Shinsou leans in, voice low. “What else do you know, then? What happens next in our stories?”

“I don’t—” you choke, “—I don’t know anymore. You’re not following the script. This isn't part of anything I've read.”

Scaramouche stares at you, unnerved now. “You said you read fanfiction.”

You freeze.

All three of them, watching.

John tilts his head slowly. “What kind of fanfiction?”

Your mouth dries.

Shinsou’s smile is small. Too small.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

And now you’ve really done it.

You gave them the keys.

To the real you.

They don’t need to interrogate you anymore. They just need to read.

Scaramouche grins, slow and menacing. “Let’s dig through that brain of yours, sweetheart. Find out exactly what you thought we’d do to you when no one else was watching.”

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

“...Please. I didn’t have to write anything. All I had to do was imagine it,” you say, weakly.

Oh, you shouldn't have said that.

The air changes—thickens, slow and cloying, like honey turned sour.

Each pair of eyes darkens—different shades of hunger.

Scaramouche moves first. He laughs—not that manic villain laugh.

No, this one’s soft. Disbelieving. Delighted. He drops into a crouch again, face inches from yours, nose wrinkled in something like perverse joy.

“You imagined it,” he repeats, voice dropping, curling around the syllables like silk over a blade. “That’s all it took?”

Walker’s jaw tightens.

Shinsou just blinks, slowly. He doesn’t need to say anything yet—he’s memorizing you now. Every twitch, every breath, like he's building your mind in reverse.

Scaramouche’s gloved fingers brush your temple. Light. Teasing.

“No fanfic. No scribbled journals. You just thought about us. All those nights, huh? Lights off, maybe under the covers... You thought about my voice in your ear.” His hand lowers, and hovers over your chest without touching. “Thought about how I’d sound—how I’d feel—if I really showed up. Didn't you?”

Your breath catches. You don't answer. You don’t have to.

“God, you’re sick,” he whispers, and his grin says he loves it.

John shifts. Slowly. Walks over to the shelf, eyes scanning.

He picks something up. Your phone. Flips it in his hand.

“You didn’t write it,” he says, flatly. “But it’s in there, isn’t it? Search history. Bookmarks. Probably some very curated tags.”

Your heart plummets.

He turns the screen to you. “Password.”

Heat flushes down your neck like nausea. Your palms go cold. You clamp your lips shut.

Don't say anything. Don’t give them more.

You don’t answer.

“Fine,” Shinsou says softly. “Let me try.”

He crouches too—this calm little storm across from the chaos that is Scaramouche—and says it gently:

“Tell me your password.”

You try to resist. God, you try—but your mouth moves before your brain can stop it, and the numbers fall out like confession.

John taps it in. Unlocks the screen.

They’re in.

He scrolls. Clicks. You watch his eyes track. One slow eyebrow rises.

Shinsou’s head tilts. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”

And then Scaramouche just howls—full-on cackling, because Walker has clearly hit gold. Your history. Your saved posts. All those mental scenarios? Apparently not so untraceable after all.

“Oh, this is rich,” Scaramouche purrs—and suddenly he’s in your lap, straddling you, eclipsing the light. His hand grabs your jaw, not hard but firm—claiming your attention like he owns it.

“You fantasized us into existence. And now we’re here. I should call you ‘creator’—but I think pet fits better.”

“Stop—” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Why?” Shinsou asks, genuine. “You wanted this.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You didn’t?” Johns’s voice cuts in, hard. “You really expect us to believe that? When every click, every scroll, every filthy little thought left a breadcrumb trail straight to this exact moment?”

You can’t speak. Your body’s too hot, too frozen.

You were just walking home.

And now they know what lives in your head.

Scaramouche leans in, mouth against your ear. “Guess it’s time you learned what your imagination really summoned.”

[olivesrcute2]

Probably need to finally make a masterlist if i want to continue writing this👀

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 1 Title: When the World Cracked Open

You didn’t summon them. But when the world split and three dangerous strangers to you're world landed in your life, you became the only thing they all had in common—and maybe the reason they’re here at all.

WordCount: 1,140 words

Content Warning: This chapter contains elements of dubious consent due to power imbalance and emotional manipulation. All actions are fictional and consensual within the narrative, but reader discretion is advised.

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

You didn't summon them.

You were just walking home from work. Grocery bag in hand. Keys jingling. Same cracked sidewalk, same flickering streetlamp humming overhead, mosquitoes dancing in the golden smear of dusk. Mundane. Predictable. Comfortable.

Until the world tore open.

It didn’t scream. It hummed—low and deep—like the bassline of some forbidden song. The air thickened, warped—thwip—like film catching in a projector.

You dropped the bag. Apples rolled. Milk burst open, a pale tide over the concrete. Your heart skipped. Then stuttered.

And there they were.

Three men.

Wrong. Out of place. Eyes like knives. Clothes twitching in a wind that wasn’t there. Confused. Tense. Predatory.

The first one—tall, broad, dressed in tactical black. A few weeks of beard on his jaw, sharp blue eyes already cataloging the exits. Soldier? No. Operative.

John Walker. The version of him that never missed, never slept, always had one hand near his holster.

The second? Smaller. Wiry. Vibrating with menace. Blue-purple hair messy and falling in his eyes. That smug little curl of his lips—like he’d already decided you were beneath him.

Scaramouche. His hands glowed faintly, fingers twitching like he could pull storms from the sky with a snap.

Third—quiet. Still. A shadow in a hoodie. Violet eyes glowing faint under the streetlamp.

Shinsou. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched you.

Your instincts flared like fire alarms. You took a step back.

Then two.

They stared. Confused. Uncertain.

You ran.

Instinct screamed. Blood surged. Your shoes hit pavement like gunshots. No thought, no plan. Just the sick, primal thrum of get out get out get out—

But you didn’t get far.

Scaramouche was the first on you. Lightning-fast. He blinked—suddenly your wrist twisted in his hand, yanked back with a painful crack of momentum. He leaned in close, nose brushing your ear.

"Where do you think you’re going, little thing?" he murmured, voice honeyed venom. "You saw us. Now you’re involved."

You thrashed. You opened your mouth to scream—

Shinsou’s voice cut through the air like silk-wrapped steel.

"Stop."

Your mouth sealed. Heartbeat skittered. Muscles locked. Your own body betrayed you, trembling under command.

Shinsou stepped forward, eyes unreadable. Voice low.

“Sorry. Just… need you to calm down.”

John was slower. Methodical. He approached like you were a bomb about to detonate, eyes scanning your face, your clothes, your terror.

“This isn’t our world,” he said flatly. “We need answers.”

“Answers?” Scaramouche scoffed. “She was running. That’s guilt. She knows something. Look at her—flushed, panting…”

His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face up roughly. “I bet she feels something too.”

Shinsou’s power slipped off you—like frost melting under fire. Your voice came back in a gasp, but your body still wouldn’t cooperate. You tried to pull away.

“Let me go,” you hissed.

John’s voice was calm. “Can’t do that.”

“Yet,” Shinsou added, almost kindly.

Then John did something worse than threatening you—he smiled.

Just a flicker. Controlled. Like he was trying to convince himself this was going to go smoothly.

“Let’s take this inside. You’ve got a lot to explain.”

The streetlamp flickered again.

And everything went dark.

______________________________________________________________

Click. The sound of a deadbolt sliding shut behind you.

No sirens. No witnesses. Just the soft drip of the burst milk container somewhere outside, and the way the room vibrates with the tension of three unstable forces all aimed at you.

You're cornered in your own living room.

And damn, they're taking up space—Bob by the door like a guard dog, broad arms crossed over that black ops chest, jaw set in grim suspicion. Scaramouche lounging on your couch like it’s a throne, twirling a strand of hair between nimble fingers, lightning still crackling in the air around him. And Shinsou... he hasn't blinked. He's seated on the edge of your coffee table, elbows on knees, face inches from yours like he's watching your soul flicker behind your eyes.

You swallow hard. Voice dry. “I was only walking home.”

Scaramouche barks a laugh. Cruel. He leans forward, that teasing little smirk splitting wider.

"Sweetheart, wrong place, wrong time isn't gonna cut it. Worlds don't just collide because you 'took a stroll'. You were a beacon. I felt it. Like someone pulled me with a hook right through my ribcage. And I landed in your pathetic little reality.”

His hand snakes out and taps your forehead.

“You’re the center. Don't lie."

Bob tilts his head, slow and deliberate. “You’re saying you’re just… normal? Civvie? Office job, commute, microwave dinners?”

“I—yes! What else would I be?” Your voice cracks, too loud, too fragile.

Shinsou doesn’t move, doesn’t even raise his voice. But it cuts under everything. “She’s scared.” A beat. “But not of us. Not entirely. That means she knows something.”

You shake your head too fast. “No—no, I swear, I just got home from work, I had groceries, I—I didn’t do anything!”

Scaramouche’s eyes gleam like he wants to punish you for being so clueless. “You’re telling me three people with completely incompatible timelines just happened to drop into your front yard like lost puppies? No one’s that unlucky, sugar.”

Your knees give out before your mouth does—you land hard on your ass, back to the wall, hands up in a weak sort of plea. “I don’t know anything, okay?! I was walking—I had groceries—I looked up and—you were just there!”

"What do you want from me?”

Bob steps forward. One step. Heavy boot against hardwood. It feels like the air’s being squeezed out of the room.

“We want truth. Clarity. And until we get it? You're the only constant. So we’re not letting you go.”

“Not until we figure out…” Shinsou’s eyes lower, tracing your expression, your throat, the slight tremble in your lip, “…why you pulled us here.”

“I didn’t!”

“And yet,” Scaramouche purrs, standing now, sauntering close, crouching beside you so low you can feel his breath against your cheek, “...here we are. You look soft, but maybe you’re just hiding teeth, hmm?”

He brushes a finger under your chin—just enough to make you flinch.

“Maybe I should let him dig for the answers,” he says, thumbing toward Shinsou with a smirk. “He barely talks, but suddenly you can’t move. Real comforting.”

“You’ll both stay out of her head,” Bob growls, not looking at either of them. “We don’t know what’s in there. And I don’t need her broken before we get anything useful.”

“Oh, buzzkill,” Scaramouche hisses, but he backs off—barely.

Shinsou just watches—head tilted, fingers steepled like he’s filing you under a label you’ll never read.

“So,” Bob says again, voice colder now, quieter. “Start at the top. What you saw. What you felt. Why you.”

The room feels too small. Too hot. Three sets of eyes, three different hungers—one for control, one for chaos, one for knowledge—and all of them locked on you.

Your heart is hammering. You’re outnumbered, overwhelmed, outclassed. They don’t understand what’s happening—just that it starts with you. Something’s unravelling beneath your skin. And you don’t even know what it is yet.

[olivesrcute2]

So fucking beautiful💖

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 1 Title: When the World Cracked Open

You didn’t summon them. But when the world split and three dangerous strangers to you're world landed in your life, you became the only thing they all had in common—and maybe the reason they’re here at all.

WordCount: 1,140 words

Content Warning: This chapter contains elements of dubious consent due to power imbalance and emotional manipulation. All actions are fictional and consensual within the narrative, but reader discretion is advised.

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

You didn't summon them.

You were just walking home from work. Grocery bag in hand. Keys jingling. Same cracked sidewalk, same flickering streetlamp humming overhead, mosquitoes dancing in the golden smear of dusk. Mundane. Predictable. Comfortable.

Until the world tore open.

It didn’t scream. It hummed—low and deep—like the bassline of some forbidden song. The air thickened, warped—thwip—like film catching in a projector.

You dropped the bag. Apples rolled. Milk burst open, a pale tide over the concrete. Your heart skipped. Then stuttered.

And there they were.

Three men.

Wrong. Out of place. Eyes like knives. Clothes twitching in a wind that wasn���t there. Confused. Tense. Predatory.

The first one—tall, broad, dressed in tactical black. A few weeks of beard on his jaw, sharp blue eyes already cataloging the exits. Soldier? No. Operative.

John Walker. The version of him that never missed, never slept, always had one hand near his holster.

The second? Smaller. Wiry. Vibrating with menace. Blue-purple hair messy and falling in his eyes. That smug little curl of his lips—like he’d already decided you were beneath him.

Scaramouche. His hands glowed faintly, fingers twitching like he could pull storms from the sky with a snap.

Third—quiet. Still. A shadow in a hoodie. Violet eyes glowing faint under the streetlamp.

Shinsou. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched you.

Your instincts flared like fire alarms. You took a step back.

Then two.

They stared. Confused. Uncertain.

You ran.

Instinct screamed. Blood surged. Your shoes hit pavement like gunshots. No thought, no plan. Just the sick, primal thrum of get out get out get out—

But you didn’t get far.

Scaramouche was the first on you. Lightning-fast. He blinked—suddenly your wrist twisted in his hand, yanked back with a painful crack of momentum. He leaned in close, nose brushing your ear.

"Where do you think you’re going, little thing?" he murmured, voice honeyed venom. "You saw us. Now you’re involved."

You thrashed. You opened your mouth to scream—

Shinsou’s voice cut through the air like silk-wrapped steel.

"Stop."

Your mouth sealed. Heartbeat skittered. Muscles locked. Your own body betrayed you, trembling under command.

Shinsou stepped forward, eyes unreadable. Voice low.

“Sorry. Just… need you to calm down.”

John was slower. Methodical. He approached like you were a bomb about to detonate, eyes scanning your face, your clothes, your terror.

“This isn’t our world,” he said flatly. “We need answers.”

“Answers?” Scaramouche scoffed. “She was running. That’s guilt. She knows something. Look at her—flushed, panting…”

His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face up roughly. “I bet she feels something too.”

Shinsou’s power slipped off you—like frost melting under fire. Your voice came back in a gasp, but your body still wouldn’t cooperate. You tried to pull away.

“Let me go,” you hissed.

John’s voice was calm. “Can’t do that.”

“Yet,” Shinsou added, almost kindly.

Then John did something worse than threatening you—he smiled.

Just a flicker. Controlled. Like he was trying to convince himself this was going to go smoothly.

“Let’s take this inside. You’ve got a lot to explain.”

The streetlamp flickered again.

And everything went dark.

______________________________________________________________

Click. The sound of a deadbolt sliding shut behind you.

No sirens. No witnesses. Just the soft drip of the burst milk container somewhere outside, and the way the room vibrates with the tension of three unstable forces all aimed at you.

You're cornered in your own living room.

And damn, they're taking up space—Bob by the door like a guard dog, broad arms crossed over that black ops chest, jaw set in grim suspicion. Scaramouche lounging on your couch like it’s a throne, twirling a strand of hair between nimble fingers, lightning still crackling in the air around him. And Shinsou... he hasn't blinked. He's seated on the edge of your coffee table, elbows on knees, face inches from yours like he's watching your soul flicker behind your eyes.

You swallow hard. Voice dry. “I was only walking home.”

Scaramouche barks a laugh. Cruel. He leans forward, that teasing little smirk splitting wider.

"Sweetheart, wrong place, wrong time isn't gonna cut it. Worlds don't just collide because you 'took a stroll'. You were a beacon. I felt it. Like someone pulled me with a hook right through my ribcage. And I landed in your pathetic little reality.”

His hand snakes out and taps your forehead.

“You’re the center. Don't lie."

Bob tilts his head, slow and deliberate. “You’re saying you’re just… normal? Civvie? Office job, commute, microwave dinners?”

“I—yes! What else would I be?” Your voice cracks, too loud, too fragile.

Shinsou doesn’t move, doesn’t even raise his voice. But it cuts under everything. “She’s scared.” A beat. “But not of us. Not entirely. That means she knows something.”

You shake your head too fast. “No—no, I swear, I just got home from work, I had groceries, I—I didn’t do anything!”

Scaramouche’s eyes gleam like he wants to punish you for being so clueless. “You’re telling me three people with completely incompatible timelines just happened to drop into your front yard like lost puppies? No one’s that unlucky, sugar.”

Your knees give out before your mouth does—you land hard on your ass, back to the wall, hands up in a weak sort of plea. “I don’t know anything, okay?! I was walking—I had groceries—I looked up and—you were just there!”

"What do you want from me?”

Bob steps forward. One step. Heavy boot against hardwood. It feels like the air’s being squeezed out of the room.

“We want truth. Clarity. And until we get it? You're the only constant. So we’re not letting you go.”

“Not until we figure out…” Shinsou’s eyes lower, tracing your expression, your throat, the slight tremble in your lip, “…why you pulled us here.”

“I didn’t!”

“And yet,” Scaramouche purrs, standing now, sauntering close, crouching beside you so low you can feel his breath against your cheek, “...here we are. You look soft, but maybe you’re just hiding teeth, hmm?”

He brushes a finger under your chin—just enough to make you flinch.

“Maybe I should let him dig for the answers,” he says, thumbing toward Shinsou with a smirk. “He barely talks, but suddenly you can’t move. Real comforting.”

“You’ll both stay out of her head,” Bob growls, not looking at either of them. “We don’t know what’s in there. And I don’t need her broken before we get anything useful.”

“Oh, buzzkill,” Scaramouche hisses, but he backs off—barely.

Shinsou just watches—head tilted, fingers steepled like he’s filing you under a label you’ll never read.

“So,” Bob says again, voice colder now, quieter. “Start at the top. What you saw. What you felt. Why you.”

The room feels too small. Too hot. Three sets of eyes, three different hungers—one for control, one for chaos, one for knowledge—and all of them locked on you.

Your heart is hammering. You’re outnumbered, overwhelmed, outclassed. They don’t understand what’s happening—just that it starts with you. Something’s unravelling beneath your skin. And you don’t even know what it is yet.

[olivesrcute2]

-GraveBound-

Part 2

~820 words

Warnings: Complementary action ;)

From that moment in the ash-choked valley, when death passed him by wrapped in black robes and pale eyes, something within him changed.

He did not forget the way she stood, still as a monument, the undead rising at her call. Nor the way her voice brushed past him—barely human, yet unmistakably alive.

He trained. He bled. He prayed not for peace, but for purpose. For the strength to stand beside her, to repay what words could not. When the time came, he donned armour not to be a saviour… but a shield.

He became a Crusader.

Now, fire rains from the sky. The ground splits open with demonic roars. Diablo, risen again, strides through ruin and screams, his fury eclipsing all light.

And she is there.

The Necromancer stands in the storm’s heart, her spells fracturing the air, bone beasts swarming like shadows under her command. But even her power has its limit.

She falters. The air shudders. Diablo raises a claw wreathed in flame—death meant not for her minions, but for her.

And then—he is there.

His shield slams into the blow with a crash that splits the silence. Holy light explodes outward, halting the demon’s strike.

The Necromancer turns, eyes wide—not with fear, but disbelief.

He meets her gaze, grinning under his helm, eyes bright with fire and something he’d never admit aloud.

“I owed you one.”

She stares for a breath longer than she ever should have.

“…You should have run.”

“Couldn’t.” His hammer glows with radiant power. “Didn’t want to.”

They stand together—life and death, bone and light, opposites forged by fate. And as Diablo roars, they charge.

He does not know if she will ever thank him.

But in this war, standing beside her again…

He does not need her to.

....The sky cracked with red lightning. The ground bled molten fire. Diablo stood—titanic, snarling, his eyes twin furnaces of malice—as the Necromancer and the Crusader faced him beneath the shattered spires of the Black Cathedral.

"COME THEN!" Diablo roared, his voice a cataclysm, shaking the bones of the world. "TASTE ANNIHILATION!"

And they did not falter.

She moved first—cloak billowing, hands casting ancient, unspeakable sigils. The ground groaned, split—and rose. Rotten fists punched through scorched earth, dragging fetid bodies from their shallow sleep. Her army of the dead staggered forward, dozens of undead snarling with ragged teeth. Her skeletal golem—massive, rust-stained, and chained to her will—charged like a siege beast, slamming into the demon's leg with bone-crushing force.

Then came the poison—green, hissing, a wave of necrotic gas that curled around Diablo's hide. His armour smoked, skin blistered. He shrieked.

From the opposite side, the Crusader raised his banner—and light screamed from the heavens. His holy beam, pure and searing, lanced straight through Diablo’s wing. Black blood spilled like oil, sizzling as it hit the dirt.

"By the Light—bleed, monster!" he roared, driving his Shield Glare into the demon’s eyes. Diablo staggered, snarling—but not defeated.

"RISE!" Diablo bellowed, and the shadows obeyed. The Fanged Flayer, a venomous beast with eyes like coals and claws like scythes, leapt from the abyss, followed by an onslaught of demonic soldiers, blades gleaming and howls echoing.

The Crusader turned to meet them—but his hammer cracked mid-swing. Too many. Too fast.

And then—her golem took the blow. It burst apart in a flash of brittle bone, shielding the Crusader. She stood behind him, cold eyes blazing.

“Don’t die, paladin. I’m not done using you.”

He laughed breathlessly, bloodied and grinning.

“You almost sound like you’d miss me.”

Together, they pushed forward.

He guarded her with his shield as she raised more dead from the battlefield itself—reclaiming Diablo’s own fallen pawns, turning them against him.

She targeted the Fanged Layer with a plague of spirits, unravelling it from within. He crushed demon soldiers beneath blessed strikes, his aura amplifying her decay—each death feeding her power.

Finally, with Diablo weakened, snarling, fire dripping from his mouth like molten hate, they stood side by side.

“Now,” she whispered.

He lifted his shield. She placed her hand on it—and her necrotic energy coiled around his holy light, corrupt and pure twisting together.

They charged.

Diablo swung, but they were faster—his blade crashing into her wall of bone, her spell igniting with his sanctified fury.

And then—the final strike.

She cast forth her last spell, the Mark of Death, searing Diablo’s chest with a black sigil. He staggered—

—and the Crusader drove his hammer into the mark, light pouring through it like sunlight through a shattered window.

Diablo screamed.

Not in rage. In defeat.

He collapsed, burning from the inside out—his body crumbling, limbs thrashing until only ash remained.

And in the silence that followed, the two stood together—heaving, bloodied, eyes locked.

“I didn’t think we’d win,” he said.

She didn’t reply. Just looked at him, something unreadable in her frozen gaze.

Then, softly—barely audible over the wind—

“When death walks with light… even Hell must kneel.”

[olivesrcute2]

-Gravebound-

Warnings: None

The damned came swiftly—gnashing teeth, blackened claws, hunger burning in hollow eyes. The man had no weapon. Only fear. He ran… and fell. As he hit the ground, the weight of dread pressed down on him, the shadows closing in like a shroud. He gasped for breath, heart racing, aware that escape was slipping through his fingers like sand.

The last thing he expected to see was her.

Shadows moved before she did—then bone cracked from the earth like spears. The corpses around him twisted, bones jerking upward like puppets, and in a flash of sickly green light, death turned on itself. The ghouls screamed. And died again.

When the silence returned, so did the cold. She stood over him. Cloaked in black, her hands still humming with necrotic power. Her eyes, pale as frost, watched him like something being measured—not saved.

"You're... not one of them," he breathed, half in awe, half in fear.

She said nothing. Just stared.

He coughed, struggling to sit up, blood on his lips. "You saved me."

Her voice was like wind over a tombstone—dry, low, certain.

"I preserved the balance. That is all."

But he saw something in her, even as she turned to leave.

Not mercy. Not warmth.

Something colder. Deeper. A soul that had buried its own softness to walk among the dead.

Still, as she disappeared into the mist, the man whispered into the emptiness:

"Even cold hands can pull someone from the fire."

And from afar, unseen, her steps faltered.

[olivesrcute2]

Found this little stargazing story when I needed it most 🌌

[The Grumpy Star Who Forgot How to Shine]

Once, in a far corner of the cosmos, there was a small star named Luma. She used to glow so brightly that planets would orbit just to bask in her warmth. But one day, she woke up feeling… heavy. Her light dimmed to a flicker, and no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't shine.

The other stars whispered about her: “Is she broken?” “Maybe she’s just being lazy.” Luma grew grumpier by the hour. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?” she muttered, pulling a cloud over herself like a blanket.

One night, a tiny, wobbly comet named Cosmo crashed into her cloud. “S-sorry!” Cosmo stammered, his tail sparking nervously. “I’m bad at directions… and existing.”

Luma scowled. “Go away. I’m not in the mood for comets, especially if they bump into me.”

But Cosmo stayed. Not because he was brave—he was *terrified*—but because he noticed something: Luma’s faint glow turned a little warmer when she sighed.

“What’s… wrong?” he asked, awkwardly.

“Everything,” Luma grumbled. “I’m supposed to shine, but I can’t. I’m just… a failed star.”

Cosmo blinked. “But… you’re still you. Shine or no shine.”

Luma rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re literally made of sparkles.”

“Yeah, but I crash into things all the time,” Cosmo said, his voice cracking. “My siblings call me ‘Cosmic Disaster.’ But… I like my weird path. It’s mine.”

Luma peeked out from her cloud. “…Really?” She had wanted to give him some sort of dead-panned kind of look but it was turned to🥺 at the last second.

“Yep,”Cosmo said, spinning in a clumsy loop. “Wanna see me mess up the Big Dipper?”

Against her will, Luma laughed—a tiny *huff* that sent a ripple of silver light through the dark.

They spent nights like that: Cosmo telling terrible jokes, Luma grumbling but secretly savoring the company. Slowly, she stopped trying to “fix” her light. Instead, she let herself just *be*—a star wrapped in clouds, flickering when she felt like it, resting when she didn’t.

And one day, without even noticing, Luma began to glow again. Not the blazing light she once had, but something softer… kinder.

The other stars still gossip, but Cosmo doesn’t care. He brings her space-dust snacks and calls her “The Comfiest Star in the Galaxy.” And maybe just the coolest too, she just does'nt take credit for it yet.

And Luma? She’s okay with that.

[olivesrcute2]

possibly the best thing ive seen on the internet tday

just got back into gardening so i’ve forgotten. are basil leaves supposed to be this big

[olivesrcute2]

Imagine yandere vampire hunter finding out he married one of the creatures he vowed to destroy. The very monster he dedicated his entire life to kill.

“…no..i-it can’t be..” his voice was barely a whisper, but you heard it loud and clear as if he was right next to you.

You stood still in the darkness, your face was a mask of indifference. If you hadn’t been blinking he would have mistook you for a statue. It appeared you’d been careless and let yourself be seen- by him no less. You could still feel the warmth of the blood dripping down you chin; a curtain of red fell down the front of your dress and stained it.

“Please tell me this isn’t real..” your husband let his eyes wander to the soon-lifeless body laying not far away. Small puffs of air was seen coming for the person, indicating they were not yet dead. The disgusting sound of gurgling in one’s own blood sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes met yours, searching for any sort of confirmation that everything was indeed a figment of his imagination.

“It is, I’m afraid.” You said.

He let out a devestatd choke, muttering ‘no’ over and over while shaking his head, clearly in denial.

You reminded yourself not to show any emotion and stepped forward. “I will not lie to you and therefor I will utter the clear truth in front of you. I am a vampire.”

“No, no you’re not.” He refused to believe it. If it had been his friend; he would prioritise duty before friendship. If it was his brother; he would do the same. Even if it was his own parents; he would die before letting insensible things such as emotions to come in the way of doing what is right. But this was different. It was you. It can’t be you. It could never be you.

But it was. Clearly. The evidence- the body- was right in front of him; unblinking and unmoving.

“You cannot look away from what is in front of you-“

“Stop saying that!” He suddenly shouted, surprising you with the sudden change in tone. “You can’t be one of….them.” He expressed in great repulsion.

Despite knowing how evil your kind is, you still though of yourself as quite good- well, as good as you can be when you’re a blood sucking, murderous creature of the night. So your husbands disdain awoke some sort of defensiveness in you.

“Well I am. And I have been for a while now.”

He seemed to think for a moment. Then he asked, “how long? How long have you been a…a vampire?” He furrowed his brow at the end, not believing he’d connect ‘you’ and the word ‘vampire’ in his life.

“36 years. Not as long as some others, but it should still count as something.”

“Oh god..”

It meant that you were one since the start- no before- your marriage. Was he truly that blind? Had love taken such hold of him that he could no longer do his job properly?

How many vampires had he killed during you union? All that while simultaneously being wed to one himself. While loving one, caring for one and even making passionate love to one. It was like some fucked-up punishment tailor-made for him.

He knew what he had to do.

The first tear fell down his cheek, betraying his stern expression and showcasing his endless sorrow. “You are evil,” he raised his crossbow, “and now you have to be judged for your crimes.” How ironic of him to talk about committing crimes of slaughter as if he wasn’t doing exactly the same. He wasn’t stupid; not all immortals were pure darkness, it wasn’t that simple. They do what they have to in order to survive. Only some killed more than they had to. Still, it didn’t change the fact that they all need to be destroyed.

Your eyes widened when he pointed the weapon straight at you. You expected this. Of course he would kill you. However, a part of you could not stop from hoping he wouldn’t think of you as a monster. That perhaps you’d finally find somewhere you can call home and be accepted for what you are. It was a naive dream. Weren’t you his wife before you were a monster? Apparently not, because an arrow shot at you at incredible speed. It hit you in the arm and you cried out in pain.

While you had physical advantages, it doesn’t mean you are immune to pain.

Ripping it out, you studied the black liquid staining it. Your husband swore and immediately prepared to launch another. You felt your fangs grow in length and you hissed at him. Throwing yourself at him the two of you rolled around on the floor, each trying to restrain the other. You managed to get ahold of his crossbow and threw it away form his reach.

Your husband quickly dug into his pockets to grab a dagger, and tried to stab you. Luckily you stopped him in time, fighting him with your vampiric strength. You had to give it to him, he was surprisingly strong for a human. Despite you having supernatural gifts, he was definitely a match and you had a hard time holding you down. If it was any other situation you would have been impressed and rather seduced by his sheer strength, unfortunately this was not a good situation for you.

You leaned down, planning to bite him, but his fast reflexes let him use his free arm to keep you at a distance. He was now on the floor with you straddling him and trying with all your might to end his life.

Your husband knocked your heads together which was the distraction he needed to kick you off of him. You clenched you forehead in pain and backed away. But there was no more time to dwell on that pain, because it was minor compared to what you felt next. Agony was in your side, accompanied by the dagger you had previously defended yourself against.

Your lover was close. Enough for you to feel his breath, and enough for you to see tears running down his regretful face.

“Why was it you?”

Whether he referred to you being a vampire or you being the one he married, you did not know. It hardly mattered anyway.

In a way, you did love your husband. It was probably not in the normal spousal way but it was there. Maybe if you weren’t a blood-sucker you two would have been truly happy together. Too bad fate had other plans. Even though it was true that you were probably evil, you wanted to live. And despite the one threatening your existence was none other than the man who’d show a you devotion and love you though t you’d never find again, this was not where you wanted it to end.

With a shriek, you used all your power to push him as hard as you could. He flew backwards into the wall. You supposed he’d fainted from the force since he wasn’t making any move to get up. You clutched your side and groaned. You had to get out of there; somewhere safe.

You stumbled to the window and put your foot on the ledge. The dagger he’d stabbed you with must be silver, otherwise it wouldn’t have made as much damage. The wound in your side burned and sizzled with pain. You had no idea if your body would be able to fully heal you in time for when you need blood again- or even at all.

“Ugh….”

You heard a cough from behind you. It was your dearest. He must be sturdier than he looks to have woken up so quickly. He had rolled over to lay on his stomach and had his arms pathetically stretched in your direction.

“D-don’t go.”

You scoffed at his audacity. “What, so you can finally finish me off?”

He whimpered, “ N-no, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that- why did I do that?” The last part appeared to be a criticism on himself. Nevertheless he continued, “please, I won’t do it again. I was wrong, you’re not evil I know that, I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry, please..”

A frown adorned your face. “It’s okay. I’m not evil, but I know I’m far from good- I’m not that delusional.” Then you turned back to the view of the outside world.

“Wait, no-“

“I have to go. I really mean it when I say this, ‘thank you for all these years together, they have been the happiest days I am now able to remember’.

“My love, don’t-“

You ignored his pleas as you jumped from the window. You landed in the dirt outside. You looked back at the house which you’d just escaped from and as you prepared to run off to another town and build up a new life (until you’d eventually have to run again) you listened to the scream of the man who’d been your husband for six years.

What was he screaming? What else if not your name.

-

[olivesrcute2]

If he had one more crow, I'd definitely join him

Ref.

[olivesrcute2]

they're waiting for grunkle stan to pick them up