#it was violent and bloody and ended entire lines

[daisynik7]

Pairing: Takuma Ino x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.7k

cw: explicit language, mentions of a popular horror movie, smut – PIV sex (cowgirl position), nipple play, blow job, mask kink, slight degradation (slut, whore), use of pet names (cutie, sweetie, baby) 

Summary: You and your new boyfriend Ino decide to watch a horror movie together in honor of spooky season. Halfway through, he notices how skittish you are, making him want to play a silly prank on you with his signature ski mask. It’s all fun and games until he realizes that you actually like seeing him in this way more than he anticipated. 

Author’s Note: Happy October y'all! What can I say, I am VERY into Takuma Ino right now and I just had to get this out of my system. This is barely edited or proofread, sorry for any grammar mistakes or typos, I really was just letting my fingers fly through this in a moment of passion LOL. Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated, thank you for reading! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune. 

You turn off all the lights, the only source of illumination coming from the TV screen, paused at the very start of the movie you decided to watch tonight. With a big bowl of freshly popped kernels in your grasp, you huddle beside your boyfriend, Ino, on the couch, covering both your legs with a fleece blanket. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you in closer, reaching to grab a handful of popcorn to stuff inside his mouth. “Ready?” he muffles, pointing the remote to the screen, finger pressed to the center button. 

Nuzzling your head against him, you answer. “Yup!”

It’s apparently one of those cult classic horror flicks according to Ino, who recommended it when you mentioned how you wanted to watch something scary for October. He’s seen it before, many times in fact, but he insists that you watch it. He has no clue how frightened you get over the silliest things, so tonight will be a treat for the both of you. 

The opening scene plays out: a beautiful blonde picks up the phone and the conversation ends quickly short because it’s the wrong number. Normal so far, good. It rings again, but now the caller seems interested in talking. Do you like scary movies? Do you have a boyfriend? The man’s voice gives you the creeps, and you find yourself shuddering from it, cuddling closer to Ino, who glances at you with a smirk on his face. 

You never told me your name.

Why do you want to know my name?

Because I want to know who I’m looking at.

This line gives you goosebumps and you lift the blankets up to hide behind it. “Ew, creepy!” Ino only laughs, throwing a few more pieces of popcorn into his mouth. 

It escalates from here, getting increasingly chaotic and violent. By the time you’re halfway into the film, the bowl is down to its last kernels and you’re crouched in Ino’s lap, peeking through your fingers. He pauses the movie after one particularly brutal kill. “Snack break! I’m going to make some more popcorn and go pee.”

“You’re leaving?!” you whine, clinging on to him as he tries to get up.

He chuckles. “Babe! It’s just a movie. I’ll be right back, okay?” He kisses you on the forehead, heading into the kitchen, leaving you alone in the living room. 

Of course it’s just a movie, but you can’t help feeling creeped out in the dark like this. You reach for one of the nightstands, turning on the lamp. You hear the drone of the microwave, and after a minute or so, the distinct sound of popping. Eventually, it comes to a stop, and the entire house is eerily quiet. You’re tempted to call out for Ino, wondering where he is, but you remember that he had to use the bathroom. 

Suddenly, a shadowy figure appears right behind on you on the couch, grabbing your shoulders and shouting gibberish at you. You scream bloody murder, ready to punch him and run away when Ino lifts his ski mask up to reveal himself, tears streaming down his face, cracking up at you. 

“Ino!” you yell at him, slapping his hands away from you. “You fucking asshole!”

He doubles over, cackling, wiping his eyes. It takes a good while for him to regain his composure as you glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m sorry, baby. I just couldn’t resist.” He sits beside you, stretching his arms out for a hug. “You have to admit, that was fucking hilarious.”

You shake your head, refusing. “You’re such a dick.”

“Oh, come on! It was just a little prank. Now you’ll be way more prepared for the rest of the movie!” He pulls the mask over his face again, everything covered except the holes for his eyes. “See? Not so scary anymore, right?”

You inspect him carefully, still pouting, not saying a word.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Truly. I promise not to scare you again.” He scoots towards you, nudging you in the arm. 

You roll your eyes at him, relaxing. “Fine.”

“Can I get a kiss now?” 

He tries to lift his mask up, but you stop him, pulling it back down. “I don’t want to see your face right now. I’m still annoyed, you know.”

“Aw man! Really?”

You hoist it just past his nose, leaning in to give him a soft kiss on the lips. When you break apart, he smirks at you. “You like this, don’t you? Seeing me with my mask on.”

You shrug, a sly grin on your face, neither confirming nor denying his accusation. Sure, you were a bit upset at first, when he scared the shit out of you. But seeing his face covered like that may have sparked a desire in you that you never knew you had, until now. 

“Oh my god! You do, you do!” he exclaims, shaking your arm. “My cutie has a mask kink!”

“Shut up, asshole!” you yell at him, pretending to shove him off, smiling. 

“You’re a fucking freak!” he giggles, pouncing on you. He starts tickling you along your ribcage, causing you to squirm beneath him as he straddles you, trapping you between his legs. His fingers flutter under your arms, stroking your sensitive skin.

“Ino!” you cry out, laughing from the sensation. 

You can feel his cock growing hard in his pants, balls heavy on your stomach. Suddenly, he stops, mask still folded to expose his lips, leaning down to kiss you sloppily. He pins your hands above your head, locking his fingers with yours. He slips inside your mouth, grazing your tongue with his, hungry for your saliva. “Fuck,” he moans into you, nipping at your bottom lip. “You like this freaky shit, don’t you? Nasty slut.” His playful tone is laden with lust now, low and sultry, mouth brushing along your neck, sucking at your pulse points to mark you. 

You whine his name, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding yourself against him. 

“Look at you, getting so fucking dumb all because of my mask,” he purrs. “What else turns you on, cutie? Tell me.”

Without thinking, you blurt out, “Spit. Your spit. I want it.”

“Oh shit,” he swears, licking his mouth. He traces the outline of your lips, beckoning you to open up, dribbling a thick wad of saliva inside you. You gulp it down, sticking your tongue out for more. 

“Oh fuck, you’re nasty,” he says, doing it again. “Makes me so fucking horny seeing you like this. Seeing my cutie act like a fucking whore.” He slips beneath your shirt, fondling your bare breasts, flicking your peaked nipples with his thumbs. 

“Fuck, Ino,” you whisper, pussy throbbing in your panties, arousal leaking through the fabric. 

“You like it when I play with your tits, huh?” Like it when I pinch them hard like this.” He squeezes them between his thumb and index finger, enough pressure to stimulate you, making you moan his name again and again.

He swears under his breath, shoving his pants down his legs, shimmying out of them until he’s only in his underwear now, erection stiff in his boxers. “You gonna suck my cock now or what, slut?” 

You nod, kneeling in front of him, knees on the carpet, spreading his thighs apart. He lifts his ass off the couch to slide out of his boxers, letting them fall around his ankles. You kiss the tip of his dick, smearing his precum around your lips like gloss before swallowing him into your mouth. 

He lets out a drawn out, “Fuck,” watching you with wide eyes as you bob up and down his shaft. Voice shaky, he asks, “Can I put my hands on you?”

Something about him in this ski mask makes you want to be submissive, makes you want to be used. You grab both his hands, guiding them towards the sides of your head, giving him free rein to manhandle you.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, gripping you tighter, gradually thrusting his hips in tandem with you. His cockhead hits the back of your throat, teasing your gag reflex, but you resist, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, enduring it. 

Noticing you, he pulls out, a string of spit between you. “Baby, baby. Please don’t force yourself. I don’t want to hurt you.” He reaches to his side, grabbing a tissue from the table beside the couch, wiping away the spit around your mouth and the tears in your eyes. “Come here, cutie. I want to make you feel good too.”

You strip out of your bottoms, straddling his lap, pussy wet and aching against him. He moans as you rock back and forth on his shaft, pressing his thumb to your clit, massaging it. “There we go. Now we both can feel good, yeah?”

After a few more strokes, you beg him to fuck you, lifting up to guide his cock inside you slowly, sinking down on him until he bottoms out. You bounce on him, his hands gripped to your waist, guiding you, moaning your name between expletives. 

As you approach your orgasm, you pull up his mask, placing it on his head as he usually wears it. He smiles brightly at you, nuzzling his nose to yours. “There’s my pretty girl. Can you come for me now? Come all over this cock?”

You kiss him passionately, arms wrapped around his neck as he thrusts into you, hands squeezed on your ass now. You reach your climax, moaning into his mouth. He comes with you, shooting his load deep into your womb, filling you up with his cream pie. The two of you continue to kiss slowly, catching your breaths. He caresses your back while you melt into his embrace. 

“We need to establish a safe word,” he suggests, cradling you in his arms. “I want to make sure I’m not hurting you.”

You hum into his skin, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Popcorn."

He chuckles, stroking the back of your neck gently. “Alright. Popcorn it is.” A beat later, he exclaims, “Popcorn! I totally forgot about the popcorn!”

You laugh, giving your boyfriend a wet smooch on the cheek.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Queue me sprinting to the inbox when I got the notice that your inbox was open! First off, congrats on 5k! Ok now business: can I request something along the lines of Ghost realizing he’s become attached his partner (maybe the reader is the same rank or a sniper or something where they’ve known each other a while) but it’s a situation where it’s a harsh realization. Like it was the one time they didn’t go on a mission together and the reader got hurt real bad (like Ghost only found out because he happened to be on the tarmac when the reader’s body was being carried out of a helicopter by medics) and that’s how he realizes he loves the reader. Because it hits him like a ton of bricks that he might loose them and just breaks down but it ends with him being by the reader’s side and confessing in his own way when they wake up

—Blood Like Obsidian

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Simon can only fight against so many nurses as they shove him back from your operation room.] ❞

He doesn’t recall how he felt the moment he spotted your body being dragged out of that Helo, arm limp over the shoulder of one of the men in your unit. He doesn’t even remember what Soap was talking to him about on the tarmac. 

Because at that instance, the entire world seemed to stop in one horrible moment of mute panic and brown, wide eyes. 

Simon watched for a moment in shock, seeing your limp form as the soldier carrying you screamed out for a medic, moving as fast as he could in the direction of the on-base hospital; jostling you. Soap finally looks over.

“Holy hell,” the Scot breathes, head pulling back. 

Simon’s already sprinting. 

“Give her to me,” he growls to the soldier, who looks up at him in shock as he appears like an apparition. 

“S-sir, I—”

“Fucking hand her over!” Simon orders, eye flashing, his accent already making the aggressive voice even more so as he spits from behind his mask. 

The man immediately presents your unconscious form, blood so saturated into your gear that the black looks like obsidian; shiny like that natural glass formed after lava cools. There’s a damn hole in your chest. 

Taking you up easily, your dead weight makes his chest tighten, a sharp inhale sounding off from Simon before he grits his teeth and holds you tighter.

The Lieutenant grunts and takes off, feet slamming into the ground. He glances down at you in rapid intervals, gazing at your expressionless face for long seconds before it snaps back up to the road ahead—it’s no more than a few seconds before Simon slams his shoulder into a door. 

The barrier hits the far wall and nurses all look up in momentary fear.

“Help her!” He sounds desperate, and his hands dig into you harshly. If you’d been awake, you’d be telling him to let go before you developed marks. The nurses are still paused at the sudden appearance of the monster-ish man in black and gray. Simon barks like a dog, stepping closer. “Fuckin’ hell, are you bastards bloody deaf?!”

The others dash forward and tell him to place you on one of the rolling beds, and he does so without another word; heart so violently beating in his chest that he’s panting, breath loud in his own head.

The nurses are calling to one another, yelling to grab an available doctor and get you into surgery, beginning to wheel you away. Simon jogs along, eyes not leaving your face but ever silent with his hands clenched.

He hadn’t given much thought to how he felt about you—nothing was ever going to come of it. Years of missions and companionship with you. You, the ever-present bit of light that had stayed longer than all others. 

You, the only woman he would ever love.

The realization makes Simon’s legs nearly lock from under him, stumbling for a moment as one nurse peels back your vest and takes a pair of scissors to cut away the fabric over the mess of torn flesh and spitting veins.

You leave droplets of blood behind you, trailing off the limp hand that points to the floor from over the edge of the bed. 

Simon grabs at it and brings the hand to your chest, and he notices his own fingers shaking as he desperately moves his eyes up and down your body. He can’t even look at the wound—large, deadly. You jerk around with every movement as if you're already dead.

The Lieutenant feels his eyes burn with stark betrayal but barely pays attention.

As they’re pushing you into a pair of double doors, Simon remembers he was supposed to be with you during this mission, but had been reassigned last minute. The thought is so sudden he nearly forgets to ask where they’re bringing you. But the man recovers quickly.

“Oi!” He shouts, arms pushing him back from the door. Half of the nurses are telling him he needs to leave. He growls and jerks away from them, eyes flashing dangerously but always darting back to the door as it sways back and forth. 

But he knows why he’s out here—and the Lieutenant certainly doesn’t know how to operate on someone no matter how much he did.

He steps back and the rest of the nurses disappear back into your room. 

Simon puts a hand on the back of his head, gripping tightly at the fabric of his covering as he fears his teeth might break from how hard he’s clenching his jaw—grinding them across one another like a cheese grater. 

He loved you. Oh, God, he loved you. 

And he wasn’t there.

Turning away from the door, Simon paces the hallways until Soap re-joins him, any attempt the Sergeant makes at conversation is immediately slashed down ruthlessly. Simon’s shoulders widen; eyes grow more dead the longer you’re gone from his sight. 

It’s five hours until there’s any word, and when there is, the Lieutenant is alone again—his leg jumping along the floor and his hands held in a single fist under his nose; elbows on knees.

When he’s able to see you—stable but the future still uncertain, he sleeps there. 

Simon sleeps on the floor beside your hospital bed for two days straight, and the nurses are too afraid to tell him he can’t do that. So they don’t tell him at all. 

On day three, the man has only left the room to go to the bathroom; no food, no showers, or new clothes. He’d gone through worse, what was hunger? What was the small uncomfortableness in his chest? Nothing. It was nothing. 

During the day he watches your face, standing or sitting doesn’t matter. The nurses come and go, the doctor too, and he lets them work silently. Simon doesn’t speak to them.

But he does speak to you. 

And on day four, he plays with your fingers with a single hand, taking the flesh and watching it move. Feeling your pulse. 

The Lieutenant grunts. 

“Should’ve been there,” he hisses to himself harshly. “Should ‘ave never let you bloody go alone, yeah? Been by my side for ages.” Simon scoffs, glaring at the bedsheets. “My fuckin’ fault you’re ‘ere. No one can watch your back better, should’ve known that.” He misses the small twitch in your hand, too self-absorbed with his faults. 

Simon was never one for airing his grievances; the man was a master at suffering in the quiet nights. But this was a special case.

Your finger twitches again. 

“...Shouldn’t say stuff like that,” your words slur, and Simon’s head snaps up; heart lurching. He goes silent. 

Your eyes are only half-open, body heavy. You’ll be going back to sleep in mere moments, but you’d been awake long enough to understand what was going on. Simon watches, but his hand slips into yours. Grasping tightly. 

An unknown weight is taken from him at the twitch of a smirk on your lips.

“Care about you too, Big Guy.” 

He won’t tell you he loves you—he’s not that kind of person. He won’t explain the panic or the fear. Terror, really. 

But he’ll slip off his mask and let you see him, his thumb running the length of your knuckles. He’ll sigh and those browns will give way to the rare expressions he shows so few. 

He’ll let his head bend down to rest on your thigh as you fall back to sleep. Simon’s hand still holding yours.

You know.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[daenerysies]

deep diving into the episode three line from rhaenyra, “no one is here for me,” and how if the takeaway from that scene is that rhaenyra is a selfish brat you aren’t proficient enough to do anything past surface-level reading.

in episode one rhaenyra expresses to alicent that she hopes her father gets his son, “for as long as i can recall it’s all he’s wanted.” which leads us (the audience) to understand that while rhaenyra loves both of her parents she feels ostracized from her father (and mayhaps even her mother, to some extent, because of her constant pregnancies) due to his ‘need’ for a son to continue the targaryen dynasty. she is a daughter, only seen as valuable for her womb, which is evidenced that she knows about when talking to her mother. rhaenyra wishes to be a knight and ride off to battle and glory, with aemma giving her a gentle reality check on her lot in life. she does not want to serve the same purpose as her mother.

aemma dies near the end of the episode, with viserys ordering her butchered for the chance that his long-awaited male heir might live. this is a violent and gruesome scene, followed by rhaenyra not even being given the privilege of hearing her mother’s death first. she is instead relegated to members of the small council being alerted, even corlys and rhaenys learning about this before her, she is a silent member on the sidelines. she does not know the extent of what has happened, but she knows that something is wrong.

we have to think about how she learns of her mother’s fate. did otto tell her? did rhaenys? did viserys? did she see her mother’s body ripped open? did she see the bloody sheets left at the scene? was she allowed to hold baby baelon, considering he didn’t die immediately? was she there when he took his last breath? maybe it would bring her some comfort, she didn’t get to say goodbye to her mom. maybe she held him until he passed. did her father offer any explanation? we’ll never know, but these are all such heavy questions in regards to what she experienced that day. she’s fourteen, has spent her entire life watching her mother grieve dead baby after dead baby, losing little bits of herself in the process. it’s no wonder this was a traumatizing period for her, fueling her want (her need) to not be shackled down by marriage and childbirth.

even at her mother and brother’s funeral she isn’t allowed to just grieve, to just be. she has to hold her head high, she has to comfort her father, she has to order their corpses burned. was her father happy for the few hours he had a son? she wouldn’t know, she never will be that for him. how long does he spend wallowing is his self pity? he reprimands daemon for not being there for his niece, but where was he, her father? he banishes daemon, takes comfort from his daughter’s best friend. he finally comes to her, tells her of a great danger rising from the north; from my blood comes the prince that was promised, his will be the song of ice and fire. she hasn’t heard from him in days, a targaryen must be seated on the iron throne to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. her mother is dead, and he has wasted the years since she was born wanting a son. she is now enough, her mother never was.

it has now been six months since her mother's death (murder), and she has been heir the *entire* time. her father won't talk to her, she is still the cupbearer for the small council. lord corlys is angry about a war he says has cost him, the crown will not help. she suggests they use dragons, a show of force against their enemies. her father admonishes her, "it isn't that simple, rhaenyra." he allows the lords at the table to belittle her efforts. the only one appreciative is corlys, "at least the princess has a plan." otto says there are better uses for her talents, she has been heir to the iron throne for six months. she's been given the chance to choose a future kingsguard, she wants one with actual combat experience. the hand is exacerbated, she is firm in her decision. ser criston cole will be the replacement for ser ryam redwyne.

alicent has been visiting her father in his private chambers secretly, corlys wants his daughter to be the next queen. viserys begins openly courting lady laena of house velaryon. rhaenyra and alicent visit the sept, she expresses her worry, her mother has only dead for half a year. the lords seek to replace her, alicent convinces her that she cannot worry about the plots of lords and men, she is the heir, however. why shouldn't she worry? she misses her mother.

she meets with her father, he reassures her, "i loved your mother very much." she apologizes for speaking out of turn at the small council meeting, he tells her she will learn (will he be the one to teach her, though?) daemon has taken a dragon's egg and seized dragonstone, bringing news of his future marriage to lady mysaria. the king means to go himself to stop him, otto will not let him. daemon took baelon's egg. rhaenyra is angry. she reaches dragonstone just after otto's party, she knows they were about to come to blows. she confronts daemon, she is the reason he was disinherited. if he kills her, he'd be done with all this bother. daemon scoffs, walking away from her. he throws the egg whilst still retreating. rhaenyra smiles and leaves. her father is mad once he learns what she's done. she left without his permission, but she retrieved the egg and prevented bloodshed, he should be pleased with her efforts. otto would never have been able to accomplish what she did, he relents.

rhaenys lectures her about the order of things. the realm will never accept a woman ascending the iron throne, but it's different for her. her father is the king, rhaenys' father dies as a prince. her father made the lords of the realm swear obeisance to her, rhaenys never had such a thing. the lords chose viserys over rhaenys at the great council, viserys has not given them a choice. rhaenys is the the queen who never was, rhaenyra is the queen to be. when she is queen she will create a new order, rhaenys warns there will be war (unfortunately she is right).

another meeting takes place between father and daughter. he must take a new wife, someone to help propagate the targaryen line. they are vulerable, to easily ended. rhaenyra understands, it is his duty as king. obviously he will marry laena, the daughter of one of the most powerful houses in the realm and of pure valyrian stock, it is a fine match. alicent is still visiting her father in secret.

her father calls a small council meeting, he means to announce his next wife. rhaenyra is ready, she gave him her blessing (why is alicent here? she never has been before.) her father starts speaking, "i intend to marry... the lady alicent hightower." corlys is enraged, otto is pleased, alicent is anxious. rhaenyra was ready, it has all fallen apart. alicent is her best friend, that friendship dies before her very eyes. she runs from the room.

it has been two years. viserys and alicent are married, and they have a son, with one more baby on the way. the boy's name is aegon, it is his second birthday. he has past his infancy, the lords believe it is only a matter of time until the king names him heir, rhaenyra is well aware of this. the queen visits the godswood where rhaenyra sits. she overrides rhaenyra's authority, commanding the singer to leave. she states the king wishes for her to join them, he wants them to have fun as a family. they do not need her to celebrate his long-awaited son. it is the king's command, she leaves unhappily. alicent wishes for things to be different, rhaenyra knows they never can be.

together they all sit, traveling towards the kingswood. rhaenyra asks after alicent's well-being, viserys reminds her that she will be in this position sooner than late (the same position that killed her mother). "it isn't so bad, the days are long but aegon came quickly and without fuss." the queen states. rhaenyra is hurt, she tries not to show it. the king reminds her she has duties, rhaenyra retorts sarcastically. how long will these duties last, once her father names alicent's son as heir over her? her life will be forfeit before long. no one is here for her.

"no one is here for me." translates to "no one has been here for me. i’ve been alone and angry and terrified for years. i am my father’s heir, but what does that mean? what will it cost? you put me here. daemon put me here. alicent put me here. you have a son now, he outlived baelon and my other siblings. how long until i am cast aside again? made to be some petty lord's wife, made to be a broodmare until it kills me? i don't want to end up like my mother. this heirship is all i have. it will soon no longer be mine. i'm only seventeen. no one is here for me."

rhaenyra is never shown the same amount of grace as alicent for her strifes and anguish in life, for the fact that she too was a child from episodes one through five. rhaenyra might not have been a child bride, but she still spent her life being told she was never enough. she was not a boy, she could not be the heir, her father needed an heir. he kills her mother for it, he ignores her unless she can benefit him. he makes her believe that he will marry laena, only to blindside her by marrying alicent. she realizes alicent has been lying to her for months. her father continues to undermine her throughout the years. he names her heir to spite daemon, which she admits she knows about in episode two. he allows the lords to ignore her. it takes him two years to reassure her he won't replace her. rhaenyra is an angsty teen who has seemingly lost everything and has no support to counter that. she is not upset that no one showed up to a two-year-olds birthday party with her in mind, she is upset that her father continuously overlooks her, that he takes and takes and takes everything from her. he took her mother, he took daemon, he took alicent, he had a son. she has not been able to catch a break due to her father's selfishness. in all honesty, she should have acted out worse, maybe burn everything to the ground. viserys would deserve it, she was far too lenient with him.

[yandere-kokeshi]

your yandere price was sooo good 😭

can i please request some yandere ghost? maybe reader is a young spec ops soldier who’s really damn good at their job and the typical obsessive behavior ensues but reader is a really stubborn and prideful person so they just fight against him at every turn

— Stubborn

Warnings: slight violence at the start, Ghost being angry, intense makeout scene (I tried!) And love confession.

A/N: Thank you!! Please enjoy this fic, and I may or may not be barking for this man ^^! This is also male reader. Hope that's okay :].

You're code-name is Cobra. While I thought it fit, in future fics, I may change it to a more gn name.

“I told you to stay in the goddamn post!”

His exploding voice echoed throughout the entire room. You flinched at his suddenly changed voice, watching the invisible steam come out of his back like a dragon ready to set fire to a poor village.

Angered. That was his emotion. He was shooting a sharp, repetitive scowl. He’s holding back, cracking his knuckles, hands clenching against one another before uttering something under his breath now and again.

It’s chilling — terrifying even.

Normally, he was quiet and nice with you — at least to some degree. But today you fucked up.

You watched him turn around, facing the big window in the room, admiring the midnight sky and moon. To some degree, it helps cool off the sweat on your body.

Or try to. It certainly did not help with the anger in the room.

Rolling your eyes, you got up from the chair beside the desk in the room, standing up behind him.

“I’m completely fine.” You raised your arms, dangling them around to show him that no cuts or even bruises were forming on your body. “We finished the mission. That’s all that matters, yeah?”

You heard him scoff, “All that matters?” He shifts on his feet, turning to look at you with a glare.

“I gave you an order. ” He stepped closer towards your direction. “A specific — detailed order to not engage unless I worded!”

With each word, he came forward until he was right in front of you, intimidating you with his darkened-brown eyes.

“I–” You started, before flopping your arms to the side in defeat. You looked at the ground before looking back at him.

“I’m sorry.” You offered pathetically. You saw his eyes twitch — clearly not believing the word you gave out. “I did a stupid stunt. I’m sorry, Ghost.”

“Cobra!” You heard him scream at you, demanding you to turn back and return to your hidden spot. “Cobra! Get your bloody ass out of there!”

Indeed, Ghost ran a tight mission. But when it came out of line, he got extremely serious and violent.

“Keep them off my trail!” You yelled at the radio, hearing Soap curse on the other end. You fired your gun, emptying bullet after bullet into their skulls with near-perfect aim.

Although, without moving a muscle, you could hear his footsteps — thundering right behind you.

Before you knew it, you were pulled away into a random room with a very angry Simon. Legs growing in pain and a yelling leader in your face;

You were simply doing your job, right?

“Yet, you didn’t back out.” He growled, pointing a finger in your face harshly. “You could’ve died!”

“But I didn’t.” You sneered back. “You should be grateful I took them down — killed them all before they killed the hostages!”

“Shut it.” He snapped.

“Really? Why should I? I mean—” You scoffed, “Your the one who decided to come and grab me, push me away when I was alright!” You growled, poking a finger into his chest.

“Then fucking listen. It’s my job to make sure you’re breathing.”

“Really?” You ushered. “Cause if I didn’t do that, there would have been a bullet between all of their eyes!”

Suddenly, you were forced against the wall, watching his gaze tighten and his tattooed arm being pushed up against your neck. You jumped at the loud bang in your ears, mouth going dry.

You could practically hear Simon’s heartbeat — flaming in waves like lava rushing over land.

Your blood was boiling. Fists and legs tingling in frustration. Eyes narrowing in.

“I’m not scared of you, Simon,” You answered, “Wanna hit me? Don’t be a bitch about it.”

You stared into his eyes, hearing him breathe heavily before feeling his arm release you, resting right beside him. “You need to understand that you should come first.”

Your chest heaved, head pounding in adrenaline and annoyance.

“Then, we have two different views.” You rasped. Watching him lean back, his eyes staring into your soul. “My job is protecting people. And I’m damn good at it, so I’m not gonna stand here and let you shit me down.”

You heard him scoff. “Doing it stupidly isn’t protecting people.”

“Then why are you here, Simon?” You snarled, leaning forward to him. Though, you didn’t see him flinch or move an inch. Rather than letting you challenge him by getting in his personal space.

“You’re on some real thin ice, Cobra” He snapped.

You snickered, digging a finger at his chest. “Or what? You gonna hit me, L.T.? Go ahead, I’d love to see you try.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” He angrily blurted out.

“Wha–”

He gripped your shoulders, forcing you to make direct eye contact with him. “You can congratulate yourself all you want. But you need to realize the team almost — I… almost lost you”

You couldn’t think, nor anticipate his next move. What did he mean by that damn sentence?

But when his hand on your shoulder was removed, rolling his mask upward, and revealing his scarred face. You were hotly flustered and surprised.

His chapped lips — scarred nose, eyebrows, and greased smoked paint around his eyes. His soulless, brown-marked eyes were staring down at you. Hell, even his browned hair was somehow styled and perfectly cleaned. What the actual fuck.

He raised an eyebrow at your flustered face, “Cat got your tongue?”

His other hand gripped your jaw, thumb caressing your chin, pulling you into a hypnotic haze.

Pulling his face closer to yours, you didn’t expect to see or feel his skin — his stubbled jaw, his lips against yours, swallowing your fury.

He tasted sweet, almost too sweet for an angry and dangerous man.

Moaning into the kiss, you felt a smirking plaster against his face. Fuckin’ teaser.

You couldn’t breathe — think properly by his addictive smell and taste. His scent was calming, a calm that wasn’t needed now.

His free hand grabbed your side, pulling you closer into the touched makeout, making you feel his chest heave into yours. Slowly, your hand raised, dragging your fingertips into his slick and semi-wet hair, locking them between your fingers.

Kissing him tenderly, you felt him stiffen — slightly unsure how to proceed with this… ‘debrief’

But, he welcomed it a second later, grasping your jaw as his tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring your cavern. Earning a small whine, he departed himself from you with a trail of saliva.

Pulling away, you both looked like a mess; the two of you acted like you had an intense wrestling match, with hair slightly messed up, ragged breathing, and shaky gasps that certainly would be heard from outside the room.

Suddenly, Ghost grabs you, pulling you into his chest as your head rested against him, hearing his pounding heart and heavy breathing.

“I know you’re bloody good at your job. Jus’... never fucking do that again.”

You narrowed your eyes, feeling butterflies form in your stomach. “Didn't expect you to love me.”

You heard him mumble something, but from the shift on his feet, you already knew the answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

My masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

Content belongs to ©️ yandere-kokeshi only.

[bisexual-lemon1]

I wanna talk about the main four mechanisms albums, and the ways in which they tackle tragedy. This shouldn’t be too long, and I’m kinda new to writing essays like this, but it seemed like fun.

Firstly OUATIS, I could go on and on abour OUATIS, like how the tragedy of OUATIS is baked into the genre. from the get go it’s about war and trauma and fascism, all things that while not exclusively, lend themselves to death and murder. You can listen to the first half of OUATIS and realize “oh shit, everyone involved is gonna die” by genre and the thematics of it alone.

Because that’s what war does

That’s what war is

For UDAD it’s a little more esoteric, and I probably have the least to say about it cuz it’s not my least Favoirte, not bad, just my least favorite. I think the best way to describe it is the line from twisted threads “how can you expect to escape if you were caught in a web before you began.” It’s made clear from the base set up that the olympians control everything, and as much as a heroic victory and triumph would be nice, some things just truly are too big to fail. Though arguably, amongst all the albums it has the best ending, the Olympians may not be brought down(in the album), the city might not be saved

But Ulysses gets to die, truly die and rest.

Something billions, perhaps trillions had stolen from them.

HNOC is definitely one of my favorites on this, being such a distinct and fun story and narrative. The tragedy is of the people themselves, and in a way I think it makes it the “most tragedy” out of the four, all of its preventable, yet entirely understandable. Hell, “just this once there could be a happy ending” is literally a line in it. Mordred’s actions are deplorable and violent and ruin everything but they’re understandable. He lost everything, why should the world live? It’s a dip into true nihilism and whag could lead someone to feel that way. Sometimes worlds are saved, and sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes worlds are killed, sometimes they simply grow old, but sometimes they kill themselves. And I think what makes it the most special compared to the other three is when it becomes doomed. OUATIS is about a bloody war, UDAD they were born into a web, TBI yhe conflict itself was resolved 80 years before the modern day the story is told through. But HNOC wasnt doomed from the start, the station wasn’t guaranteed to die, the Saxons weren’t guaranteed to be slaughtered. Yet nonetheless they were.

And finally TBI, now it’s what rly got my brain going on all of this, because I had the question “where does the tragedy become inevitable?” And frankly, there’s a lot of answers. TBI is doomed because the nuclear chaos was on its way before lyfrassir was even before. Because Odin wouldn’t stop no matter what. Because even if they hadn’t of messed with kyvasir there would have been dozens of other bifrost trains. But more than ALL OF THAT I think that the tragedy is inevitable because, as the album says. “A day, a week, a thousand years, means naught to what the train draws near.” It doesn’t matter, even if Loki’s missile had killed Odin and stopped the bifrost, someone else would have come along. Even the victory we got in the album itself, it wasn’t a victory, it was merely a prolonging, inevitable death was merely stalled, that’s the closest thing anyone could ever get to victory against the roiling nuclear chaos.

[pictureofdoriaaaaaangay]

chaotic book ramble so I can stop spiraling into the abyss: dark academia books you've heard of and probably already read edition

I need to talk about books I love to stay sane please stand by <3

Bunny by Mona Awad. I love this book SO MUCH. it's beautifully written, the characters are all unhinged women, there's murder, there's creation, there's a creative writing class. it drips with insanity and eroticism. reading it is like living a fever dream. you can picture the events of the book perfectly, but could never hope to explain it to anyone.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. this book is the entire world to me. I love the characters [they're all terrible and irredeemable people], I love the story [they kill a man then they kill their friend and also worship Dionysus], and I absolutely want a friend group just like the Greek class [to reiterate: they are all walking red flags]. it's a book you have to read once, then again, and again, just to notice more and more so you can analyze it and make deductions. at the end of the day, it goes beyond the age-old "moral implications of murder" and delves into "moral implications of love". don't ask me how many times I've read it. that's my red flag.

If We Were Villains by ML Rio. it was only recently that I read this over the course of twenty four hours, and I honesty have yet to recover. I'm not a Shakespeare girlie, but I still loved the way his work was so inherently and intricately woven into the story of the iwwv characters. it was transcendent. it was a tragedy, it was a love story, it was a comedy. it depends on your perception of it, I suppose. but I digress - it's a really good bloody book. expect the ending to make you cry.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by our lord and savior Oscar Wilde. this, technically, can't really be classified under the textbook definition of "dark academia" since there's not exactly any academia (can Harry even read let's be honest here), but it goes in this list because VIBES. this is one of my favorite novels of all time, and another one I've read one too many times for it to not be a red flag. I mean, the name of my damn blog is my red flag. I love it so much. it's got everything, from art to obsession to murder to gay people to the most heartachingly profound lines you've ever read. I mean, why wouldn't you read it if you haven't already?

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever. this one snuck up on me. towards the beginning, I wasn't sure if I'd like it, but by the middle, I was hooked. by the ending, I was shooketh. reading the author note, I was sitting silently in abject horror. more gay people, more obsession, more murder - what else do I have to say?

this has been a chaotic book ramble. thank you for being here <3

[blueraineshadows]

Stay ❤️

Garreth Weasley x F!MC ❤️🌶 🔞 NSFW

Happy Weasley Wednesday 🦁❤️

The rain pattered consistently from a leaden sky that was darkening into night. MC shivered and held her sodden cloak even closer around her shoulders. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, coating it in blood mixed with rain water. The cut on her eyebrow was still dribbling, blending with the rain to give the illusion of bloody tear streaks on her cheek.

Coming across the troll had been an accident. Her refusal to back down from a fight was entirely her own fault. Still, she was alive, and the troll was not. It was a win.

MC sighed. Maybe she was getting too old for this shit. Mid-twenties and still thinking she was a scampering teen. She ached and was hungry, cold and alone. The last one was the kicker. She was always alone. Again, something she only had herself to blame for. She had the unfortunate habit of pushing away people who cared for her.

Physical wounds healed. Emotional ones were terrifying, and they were harder to soothe.

Her boots splashed through puddles as she scurried along in the rain, her destination one that was a surprise given the later hour. Liar. Merlin, she couldn't even admit the truth to herself.

She opened the little wooden gate to the stone cottage and slowed as she reached the wooden porch. The green front door loomed before her, picture perfect against the backdrop of stone walls and lead paned windows, warm inviting light glowing from within.

Of course she was here. Isn't this where she always ended up when the lonely part of her ached so fiercely that her feet just brought her right to this door, and the man who lived behind it.

She knocked. Rain dripped from the hood of her cloak and the end of her nose. She brushed sopping tendrils of hair back from her face, although any attempt to look pretty was useless against the blood and rain.

The door swung open and there he was, Garreth Weasley, dressed in dark trousers and a maroon woollen jumper, his hair a chaotic tumble of red curls about his handsome face. Some of the tension was already slipping from her taut frame at the warmth and safety he exuded. She ached for it.

He peered out in to the gloom at her, his eyes widening in alarm as he took in her drenched, beat up state. "Merlin, MC," he said. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, fingers gently gripping her soaked cloak. "You're soaked! Get in here...come in and get warm."

She smiled gratefully and stepped across the threshold, his scent wafting tantalisingly under her nose as she passed him. His hands were already helping to remove the cloak, rain water dripping from her to soak his neatly swept floor.

"Your rug," she protested, glancing down. A violent shiver racked her and she folded her arms tightly about herself.

"No matter," he said, eyeing her. "Let's get your wet things off. Come on, I will find you something dry to put on. And then you can fill me in on why you're out in the rain adorned with cuts and bruises."

Relief washed over her. He didn't push for answers, just fussed over her, bringing her a towel and soft dressing robe. Tea was brewing in the pot and he had her sit near the fire, rubbing her frozen hands between his large warm ones.

She watched him through her lashes and lingering glances as he took care of her, admiring the line of his jaw, harder and even more handsome than their school days. There was some scruff growth there as though he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. She quite liked it and wondered how it would feel under her fingers.

Green eyes lifted to meet hers, and she tried to make it look like she wasn't staring, noting the way the corner of his mouth lifted into an amused smirk. "See something you like?" He winked. "Or, do I have something on my face? Oh gods, I havent got a troll sized bogey hanging off my nose have I?"

She huffed a small laugh, her gaze returning to his. His smile was warm, teasing, and her tummy did a somersault. Her hand moved without a second thought and scratched curious finger tips against his jaw along the scruff. "This is new," she said. "Are you growing a beard?"

Oh gods, the scratch of hair under her fingers sent spirals of flame up her arm. She felt her cheeks warming and withdrew her hand, squeezing it into a little fist in her lap. Her eyes however, they were trapped in a stare with his, and she found it difficult to swallow at the way he was looking at her. It was a stretched out few seconds as her heart flexed under the idea that he shared this shockingly fierce fire she felt.

Every time she was near him, this fire seemed to grow and consume her. It drew her back here again and again, any excuse to be in his company, and each time she would get overwhelmed by this need for him.

Inevitably, her fear would talk her out of trying to claim any of it, to reach out and risk the burn, and then she would leave. It was always a wrench to be parted from him, and yet she always left.

She kept coming back, though. Deep inside she feared the day that she would come and there would be another witch here, someone who had been brave enough to embrace his warmth for her own. When that day came, she feared she might shrivel to nothing, cold and empty.

She lowered her gaze from his and looked to the flickering dance of fire in his grate instead. Coward.

"Let me get something for that cut on your eyebrow," he said.

She let him touch her face as he cleaned up her wound, his fingers gentle, her gaze drawn to him despite turning away from him just now. Up close like this, she could almost count the smattering of freckles over his nose, she watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed or spoke. And, helplessly, she stared at his mouth, wondering if those lips were as soft as they looked.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," he murmured.

Her eyes flew to his, surprised. "What...look at you like what?"

He gave her a look suggesting she knew perfectly well what sort of way she had been staring, and heat flooded her cheeks. She squirmed a little in her chair.

"It's very distracting," he said. "Now, keep still. I'm almost done patching you up."

She felt the need to change the subject, lighten the mood. "You should see the other guy," she smirked. "Not much left to patch up."

His look was one of worry rather than humour. "I can well imagine," he said. His hand stilled before moving lower to her cheek. His thumb grazed along her cheekbone, the barest touch, and her pulse flickered and sped up. His gaze was intent, and she could hardly breathe.

"It scares me you know, the way you get into these scrapes. I'm worried that one day, you won't come knocking on my door anymore, and I will never see you again. Every time I patch you up, I'm scared it will be the last."

Well, fuck! So much for trying to lighten the mood. She stared at him, her feelings a blistering whirlwind in her chest. Her hand gently touched the back of his, fingers moving to grasp his wrist.

Kiss him you idiot! He is literally right there, and if that wasn't a confession of caring about you, then what else was it?

But what then? They kiss? He carries her into the bedroom? Gods, the very thought of it makes her thighs clench something fierce. She is so starved for it that she leans forward, just a fraction. She can almost taste the sweetness of that first kiss...

But then her stupid, stupid brain starts flinging doubts at her. What if its a mistake? What if it ruins this special friendship they have? Losing that would cripple her, its the brightest thing in her life, the loss would be intolerable to bear.

And, he had said himself. He worries for her, doesn't like how she jumps into danger without a second thought. But, that's who she is. Give her a fight to face down any day of the week, and she is right there, wand in hand, ready to kick some ass.

But putting her soft, stupid heart out there with the potential for it to shatter. Nope. Up slam the walls.

"Don't worry about me, Garreth," she said, attempting a lighthearted smile. She moved his hand away from her face, stroking the back of it to ease the rejection of his touch. "I'm tougher than I look. And, I am getting better at trying to avoid trouble. It just seems to find me sometimes, that's all. I'll be okay."

His smile was not very successful at hiding the disappointment clouding his eyes. She felt it like a club to the chest. Why was she so good at shoving people away?

He still made her some food though, and the conversation turned to lighter chatter as they ate. Her hair was drying out, his dressing robe cosy and warm against her bare flesh. Colour returned to her cheeks and she stifled a yawn.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your evening," she said. "Maybe I should get out from under your feet."

He looked at her. "Stay," he said. He nodded towards the stairs. "You can take the bed. Stay and get a decent night's sleep somewhere safe. I can take the settee for the night."

"You've already done so much..." She began to protest.

He held his hands up. "And you can let me do more," he said, firmly. "You look tired, and you're thinner than the last time I saw you. Let me take care of you, please. At least for tonight. Sleep, rest and you can be on your way after a proper Weasley breakfast in the morning. Deal?"

His gaze was firm. She opened her mouth to protest again and he pointed a finger at her. "Don't make me use my wand, MC," he warned. Mischief glittered in those green eyes. "Don't think I won't. I'm not above making you stay here. Who knows? Maybe I've already slipped a few drops of sleeping draught in your tea."

She eyed her mug suspiciously and he chuckled. "I haven't, but don't tempt me."

A smile tugged at her lips. Playful Garreth was much easier than intense Garreth. "Next you'll have me tied to the bed post with no escape."

Immediately she flushed. The image of it a lot more sinful in her head than she intended the joke to sound. She watched his own cheeks redden, his eyes widened, but he recovered quickly.

"You need only ask," he said. His cheeky wink nearly tipped her over an edge she had been deliberately avoiding.

He got up, collecting their plates to take to the sink. "I'll get you something to sleep in once I've cleared up," he said.

"Let me help," she said. Her voice sounded strained and she needed a distraction from the throbbing need that was starting to consume her.

Part of her fancied testing him. If she tried to make a run for it, would he drag her back and tie her up, or would she really have to ask? Fucking hell, would she ask? Did she want that?

They washed the dishes and he went upstairs, her trailing behind him. He opened a chest and rummaged around, digging out a Gryffindor Quidditch shirt with a cheeky grin. "Fancy sleeping in this?"

She smiled and took the soft cotton shirt from him. "I remember you wearing this," she said. She pressed it to her cheek without thinking. "Wow, this takes me back."

"Makes you wish you could go back, doesn't it?" He said, wistfully. He tugged gently on a lock of her now dry hair. "At least I knew where you were every night back then."

Her breath caught in her throat. Did that mean he thought about her at night back then? Her heart sped up and she clutched the shirt in her hands. An overwhelming urge to feel him swept over her and she pulled him close for a hug.

"I don't deserve you Garreth Weasley," she said. "You've been an amazing friend to me. I wish I could say the same about myself, but I'm afraid I'm rather rubbish at it, aren't I? You're too good for me."

His arms held her about the waist and it felt safe. Warm. It felt like she belonged there if she was being brutally honest. Her head nestled against his chest and she sighed. "I will try to be better," she promised. "I owe you for everything you've ever done for me."

"You owe me nothing," he said into her hair. "I do it because I want to."

Her heart thudded against her ribs, thudded against him. If only she was brave enough to give it to him.

She slipped from his embrace, her eyes skipping shyly from his. "Thank you."

He nodded, looking down. "If you need anything else, just give me a shout. I'll just be downstairs," he said. He moved for the staircase, paused and looked back. "Goodnight, MC."

"Goodnight," she whispered.

....*....

Sleep was a distant dream far out of reach. MC lay under the blankets in Garreth's bed listening to the rain tapping against the glass of the window. Overwhelmed by the scent of him on the sheets, wrapped in his blankets, wearing his Quidditch top, and the man himself at the bottom of the staircase - it was slowly driving her towards the edge of her restraint.

Her body was coiled like a spring, desire was a wicked temptress tugging in all the right places, and she rolled over for about the millionth time. She eyed the top of the stairs. It was dimly lit below by the last dying embers of his fire. She wondered if Garreth was asleep, and tried to picture his tall frame sprawled along his settee. There was no way that was comfortable, and she felt bad for kicking him out of his own bed.

Yeah, thats the reason she was considering getting up for, and telling him to come up here.

MC sat up, pushing her hair back from her face and sighed. No, she couldn't. He might reject her. She lay back down. She smoothed a hand across a pillow. His pillow. She buried her face into it. Hugged it to herself.

Oh, fuck!

Blankets thrown back, her bare feet hit the floorboards and she padded quietly to the stairs. Wearing nothing but his Quiddtich shirt, she descended the steps into the room below.

He was indeed sprawled along the sofa, and it definitely didn't look comfortable. She paused at the bottom of the steps, her fingers toying with the hem of his shirt that barely grazed the tops of her thighs. It was utterly scandalous and very arousing.

He twisted his head up, eyes blinking sleepily. "MC...everything okay? Can I get you anything?"

Her lips twitched upwards. He was always taking care of her. She moved away from the stairs and into his line of vision. He sat up, pushing his hair back from his face. In the dim glow of the dying fire, his eyes glittered. She could see the way his gaze travelled slowly down over her as he swung his legs around to sit up properly. He slowed to a stop, his lips parting a little at the sight of her bare legs.

"Um...you erm..." He fluffed his hair again and blew air through his lips. "Blimey, MC. That's quite a sight."

She tilted her head, fingers brushing nervously against her thigh. "Good sight or not so good?" She teased.

"Good, definitely good," he said, nodding. He was staring, his hands fidgeting.

MC stepped closer towards him and he visibly swallowed. He looked nervous and it was quite arousing. It made her feel a bit bolder. She took hold of one of his hands and put it on the outside of her thigh. "Gods," he whispered.

She was breathing a little faster, desire pooling thick and fast at the feel of his hand there. His touch was feather light, gentle, as he swept the pad of his thumb against her leg. She nudged his hand, sliding it a little higher until it was right at the hem of the shirt. Having his hand so close to where she ached for him was excruciating.

He watched her do it, a shaky sigh leaving his mouth and then he looked up at her. She met his gaze and smiled, wanting him to know that she was okay with this. It was what she wanted. He slid his hand up higher, his warm palm gliding up to her hip, their gazes locked on each other until he gasped. "What the...bloody hell, MC! You're...you're naked under there!"

She chuckled and flashed the hem of the shirt upwards quickly. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Oh, fuck," he hissed.

Pressing him back into the sofa, she climbed onto his lap, knees straddling his hips. He immediately took her hips into his grasp, his breaths ragged as she settled. She braced her hands on his shoulders and sought his lips, hungry to taste him.

He uttered a low moan at her kiss, his grip on her hips tightening. Her name fell from his lips in a cherished whisper as she pressed soft kisses across them. Soft, perfectly soft, and very, very kissable lips.

"Do you want me?" She asked, softly.

He groaned. "Yes, yes, I do," he said. He pulled her against his lap, urging her to feel just how much. She rolled her hips, grinding against him and his head tilted back, his eyes squeezing shut. "Oh, gods. Yes, I want you."

Deep kisses, the kind that made your toes curl, tongues sliding and swirling, drawing moans and gasping breaths from each other. MC savoured the feel of his hair between her fingers, tugging it so that his head was tilted back for the perfect kissing angle.

His hands slid up to her waist, taking the shirt with him. He broke the kiss to look down, biting his lower lip. "You look so fucking sexy in this shirt," he groaned. He gripped the fabric tightly. "I'm almost tempted to make you keep it on."

She grinned. "I could do that."

"Hmm, well then I won't be able to get a good look at these," he said. He slid his hands up under the shirt to cup her breasts, palming them eagerly, his thumb and forefinger pinching playfully at her nipples. He groaned and shoved the front of the shirt up. "Gods, gimme a bite."

Delighted laughter fell from her lips as he took a peak into his mouth, sucking firmly, his tongue teasing before he bit gently into the tender flesh. Her hand gripped at his hair, her breath hissing through her teeth. He moaned appreciatively, his hands moulding both breasts again. "Delicious," he said, licking his lips.

Desperate to feel more of his skin, MC tugged impatiently at his shirt, so busy concentrating on his buttons that when he slid his fingers playfully through her slick folds she cried out, her hips flexing instinctively.

He chuckled. "Liked that did you? Do you like this?" He swirled his fingers up and around, spreading her slick over her clit. She forgot about his buttons for a moment, her forehead leaning against his as his fingers worked up a tight little rhythm. She moaned, rocking against his precise touch. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me it feels good."

"Y...yes," she whispered. She was lost in the sensation of his fingers, and when he slid one inside, shifting his hand to rub and fuck, she gripped at his chest. "Fuck, yes!"

"Yes, that's it, moan for me. I want to hear you," he said. The low, demanding tone of his voice was sending white hot flares of heat along the edge of her control. He added a second finger, curling them so perfectly that she was gritting her teeth. She rutted shamelessly against his hand, losing herself in his touch.

"Garreth," she gasped. Fisting her hands in his half undone shirt she moaned desperately, shuddering and grinding until she was clenching tightly around his fingers, all the pent up ache releasing in a wave of fire.

He groaned and looked at his hand, his fingers. "Fucking hell, that was hot," he murmured. He then put his fingers in his mouth and sucked. Her mouth fell open in shock.

Something extremely feral exploded inside her. Her hands were greedy and grabby as she yanked at his shirt. He yelped in surprise as buttons pinged loose and clattered onto the floor.

"Whoa..." He cried. She was tugging his trousers open and shoving them off his hips.

"Help me out here, Garreth," she panted. "I wanna fuck you senseless."

The sound he made was like a delighted, shocked laugh, and then he was pushing his trousers and underwear down, she knelt up to get out of his way. And then he was burying his face into her stomach, his head disappearing under the shirt to run his tongue along her heated skin.

She felt the silky hardness of his arousal against her thigh and reached for it, he groaned, looking down to watch as she fisted her hand and worked on him. "Oh, fuck yes," he groaned.

She lined him up, pressing kisses to his face, and sighing in relief as she slid down onto him. She lifted and rolled her hips a little, adjusting to the deeply satisfying size of him. "Garreth, that feels...oh gods...you feel amazing," she said.

She had him as deep as she could get him, her legs widening further, greedy for it all. He held her tightly against him, his head leaning against her, looking down at where they were joined.

"Give me a minute," he said, tightly.

She slid her hands through his hair. "Are you alright?"

"Brilliant," he said. "I just want to savour this for a moment before I lose my fucking mind."

She giggled, the movement making her walls flex around him and he groaned, his hands tightened on her waist. "Oh, shit, don't laugh," he said.

She smirked and clenched her walls around him, teasing him.

"You little minx," he moaned.

She tilted his head back, and she kissed him, tasting his mouth slow and sensual. She whispered against his lips. "What, no teasing jokes, Weasley? Isn't that your specialty?"

She gave a gentle roll of her hips and savoured the look of pleasure on his face, the low moan he gave her. She wanted to make him feel good, she wanted all of it. His hands slid round to cup her backside, squeezing her gently.

"You want jokes?" He said. He screwed up his brow, trying to think as she rolled her hips again and he swore under his breath. "How about this then...oh gods...how about I teach you a new spell?"

She bit down on his lower lip, riding him slow and teasingly. "A new spell?"

He smirked. "Mm, yeah, the one where you make my cum disappear."

MC stilled, processing what he just said. She looked down at him. He had the most ridiculous grin on his face. He was too much. A snort of laughter left her lips, more laughter bubbling up her throat, the force of it making his arousal slip from her. He groaned at the sensation as his own laughter tumbled from him.

She clung to him, giggling, a burst of warmth and happiness wrapping around her like a glow. He was an unbelievable goof, utterly adorable and the light of her life. "Bloody hell, Weasley," she giggled. "I fucking love you."

They both froze, their laughter slipping away. She almost gulped and looked down at him. "Um...I..." She stuttered, a blush flooding her face.

"Please tell me you meant that," he whispered. His eyes were wide, strained.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She smoothed his hair back from his face and swallowed back the sudden burn of tears that were gathering. She nodded. She really loved him. "I meant it," she said. A tear escaped and slid down her cheek. "You have my heart."

She gasped as he crushed her against him, his breaths quick and hot. "I love you, too," he said, fiercely.

....*....

The rain had stopped and weak morning sunlight was creeping up and in through the bedroom window. MC stirred, the reassuring weight of a freckled arm about her waist. She smoothed her hand along it, snuggling back even closer against his nakedness.

She loved Garreth Weasley. The truth of it overwhelming but so right now that it was out in the open.

She smiled sleepily as she felt warm kisses on the back of her neck. He shifted to press more to her shoulder, his hand sneaking up to give her breast a playful squeeze. "Mmm, hello," he mumbled against her neck. "Gods, I love these."

She giggled and twisted around to look up at him. He kissed her. "Good morning," he whispered.

She traced his mouth with her finger. "I believe you promised me a Weasley breakfast this morning," she said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Hungry are you?" He nipped at her finger.

She slid a hand down, teasing her fingers over his hip and down his thigh and nodded. "I am, but I quite like the idea of a different kind of Weasley breakfast...if you get me."

"Oh, I get you," he said. He pulled her hips in nice and close. "Trust me, you will not be moving far from this bed for the foreseeable."

She smiled and kissed his nose. "You won't even have to tie me up to keep me here...not unless you want to, of course."

The look in his eyes stole her breath. "That could most certainly be arranged."

She forgot about her hunger, and the promise of breakfast. Who cared about food when he was kissing her like this?

[llamagoddessofficial]

Thank you @valacre for commissioning some soft Dust Sans in a happy ending with his Soulmate. Val always has the absolute best commissions. I think we all secretly want to see the evil guy relaxing~

A little bit of violence at the beginning, but it's just a dream!

---

When blood and dust mix, the fluid is dark. Almost black. It’s only red when the light hits it just right- when it flies, spraying from open wounds. Viscous... as it dries, it congeals. It sticks. Hands, face, mouth. The stench permeates everything. Musty and metallic... dead.

So many years, surrounded by that stench. He could smell it now. He could feel his blade in his palm, moving through flesh and magic like it was little more than air. Thin veils of dust constantly obscuring his vision. His brother’s voice in his head. The smell, sinking into his clothes. The blood, smeared somewhere on him, no matter how often he washed. Seeping into his joints. Seeping into his bones.

It congeals. It sticks. The smell of his sin. 

... He didn’t care. Nightmare’s cold, black tendrils were already in his Soul. He indulged every violent desire, and more, he could kill and kill and kill and nobody could stop him. Manic glee. He felt nothing but that was good. Entire universes falling at his feet. Even the most powerful beings in the multiverse respected him, feared him, hated him. He never had to feel.

He never had to think.

...

He didn’t want that again. 

He didn’t want to smell the dust that clung to his jacket. He didn’t want to see the red smeared across his hands. He didn’t want to hear screams, not again. He had woken up. He didn’t want to go back to sleep.

i don’t want to go back.

Screaming. Ringing in his skull. He didn’t know whose scream it was, it could’ve been anyone, any of the thousands he had killed for little more than his own enjoyment. He put his hands over his head but the screaming didn’t stop- he heaved, coughing, bloody dust poured from his mouth.

(did you really think you could come back?

heh. no.

you’ve gone too deep.)

...

“Dust?”

The screaming stopped. Like a torturous orchestra coming to a dead halt. A warm hand slipped into his, fingers interlocking with his dry phalanges. “Shh. You’re okay.”

... He was bleary, he couldn’t see. And part of him still felt like he was drowning. He tucked towards your voice, and his head nestled against something warm, his hands balled in fabric. It was finally quiet- finally quiet.

“You’re okay.”

“don’t leave.” His voice was a whisper. Breathless.

“I won’t.”

Lips against his skull. He couldn’t see anything. But he didn’t care. It was so quiet. 

Curled in your arms, he fell back asleep.

///---///

...

This awakening was much, much gentler. 

He only heard faint distant birdsong. There was a beam of light filtering through the curtains- he felt it casting across his bones, a little line of warmth... his sockets drifted open, and for a few moments, he just focused on the ceiling. The little particles of dust floating through the sunlight. His limbs, heavy with sleep, against soft bedsheets.

...

He already knew you weren’t there. He knew from the moment he woke up, his body and Soul were constantly tuned in to the presence of yours. But he turned his skull anyway, silently staring at your side of the bed, sockets lidded and smile low. It was very unusual for him to wake up without you- he couldn’t remember if he ever even had woken up without you since the very first time the two of you shared a bed. Since meeting you, he had been unable to rest without you nearby... sleeping after you, waking before you.

In layman’s terms, he was clingy.

...

That dream had shaken him. It had been a while, since he had a nightmare that bad. He’d grown used to not having them since being away from the unearthly presence of his old ‘boss’- which was for the best. The less anyone saw or heard from Nightmare, the better, and nobody had heard from Nightmare since the pseudo-deity found his own Soulmate.

...

Dust allowed himself a few minutes to do nothing. Even though you weren’t there, the room and bed still smelled like you, and it was a deep comfort to him.

...

“BROTHER. STOP BEING SO LAZY. IT’S PAST TWELVE! GET UP!” 

Just a voice. No face.

... Dust sighed, but eventually, he did sit up. He lingered on the edge of the bed for a minute, still gathering his mind. He sometimes found it hard to come back to reality, when you weren’t in the room. But he was getting better. 

Sunlight. Quiet.

... Changing his outfit definitely felt like too much effort at this time. He was already in comfy sweatpants and a big shirt, so he felt no need to put on anything new. Over the back of the only chair in the bedroom was one of his hoodies- though it was more your hoodie, as of recently.

A small smile crept onto his face, as he picked up the item, feeling the material in his phalanges. He liked when you wore his clothes. It appealed to his instincts, for obvious reasons, when he saw you trotting around the house in his sweatshirt, drowned in both his scent and the fabric (it was two sizes too big for you). But equally, he liked that when you wore his clothes, it also slowly made your smell sink into them. The two of you had an unofficial hoodie rotation system, where you’d each wear something of his until the other’s smell had gone, then you’d swap.

... He pulled the hoodie over his head. Suddenly, it was like he was cuddling you. He spent a few sentimental seconds holding the hoodie neck over his nasal cavity, sockets closed. It made it so much easier to relax again.

“GO DOWNSTAIRS ALREADY! SHE’S DOWNSTAIRS ALL ON HER OWN, AND YOU’RE JUST STANDING HERE BEING USELESS!”

Pap was right, as per usual. Dust made his way to the stairway. As soon as he was there, he could hear something, drifting through the home- quiet singing.

... He went down a few steps until he was midway, then paused, sitting down. From his spot, he could see out the open downstairs window, where your voice was coming from- he had a perfect view of the garden. You’d set up a blanket under the shade of a tree... and the blanket was decorated with food. Some you’d made, some you’d bought, all delicious. He could see little sandwiches, cupcakes, various drinks... candles.

...

Of course. Dust let out a silent breath, as the singing weaved through his thoughts; it was his birthday, wasn’t it? He’d completely forgotten. You hadn’t, oh of course you hadn’t, you wonderful creature. He’d be lying if he said the day had any historical meaning to him, it hadn’t since he’d let go of his mind. He had forced himself to forget the previous celebrations, thoughts of his long-gone universe were too painful. But it had personal meaning now, because it clearly made you so happy to celebrate together. If you were happy, he was happy.

You looked his way, singing cutting, stopping midway through putting a single candle into a cupcake. Perhaps you sensed his intense gaze. To anyone else he would not have been a pleasant sight- sitting shrouded in the shade of the stairway, completely still and with little readable expression, sharp eyelights the only thing visible under the shadow of his hood and staring unblinkingly. But you weren’t fazed, you never were; your face brightened at the sight of him.

...

do i deserve this?

The thought came alongside a wave of love, that made his Soul shake, and his bones very faintly rattle. But love brought other feelings with it. His breath stuck in his chest, looking at you... your smile, your eyes.

do i really deserve an ending this good?

she accepted me, despite knowing what i did. but could she accept me if you'd seen what i did? could anyone, after everything i've done? all the suffering i caused, and somehow, the universe lets me be with someone like her?

Dust could hear the screaming again. Faintly, in the back of his skull, the tide of memories in his subconscious that always threatened to creep forward and drown him. The smell of blood. The taste of dust. Faces... blurred, all of them blurred, even the ones he loved were just out of reach. Even the ones he had convinced himself were dying for a good cause. The only thing that was clear was the sound their Souls had made, shattering into fragments. His LV so high

i don’t know what you see in me. i don’t deserve this.

His left hand squeezed. Trying to remind himself there was no blade there. It wasn't working. No matter how hard he dug his claws into his palm, he could still feel the handle.

i don’t deserve a happy ending.

...

“BROTHER, WAKE UP.”

He hadn’t realised his vision was clouded, until it was clear again. He could see you waving him over.

“DON’T JUST LEAVE HER WAITING.”

...

Dust went down the rest of the stairs. Then he just followed the tug of his Soul, out into the garden with you. It was a warm day, with absolutely no breeze- the food already smelled good... he less ‘sat’ next to you and more ‘collapsed’, immediately laying down with his head in your lap, unwinding into the happy skeleton you called a partner.

“Happy birthday, lazybones. Hope you had a big lazy lie-in while I did all the work.” You teased, your voice as wonderful as always.

He looked up at you. Your face framed by dappled light, you looked like you had a halo. You probably did. He gave you a little ‘course i did’ grin.

 “Now... I know you said no song.” You held up the little homemade muffin, decorated with one bright pink candle, lighting it with an electric lighter. “But blow out a candle for me?”

You held it down at his level. He couldn’t help but chuckle- he gazed at the flickering flame for a moment, bright against the speckled leaves and incredibly blue sky. Monsters didn’t blow out candles on cakes... but your funny human traditions clearly made you smile, and he’d do anything to make you smile.

Dust had told you he didn’t like birthdays. But he probably just didn’t like that he’d had so many of them alone. So many with a hollow feeling in his chest, wondering if it was right to forget so much. So many with the knife in his hand, trying to force himself to forget even more. Some, when he was weak... trying to claw back pieces of what he’d lost.

...

The idea of celebrating with you eased so much pain. He could make new, happier memories. He wasn’t ready to sing happy birthday yet; but honestly? He’d probably be ready by next year. 

He blew the candle out. You made a little delighted sound, removing the tiny cake from its wrapper and passing it to him. He accepted it, gratefully, taking a large bite- delicious as always. He wouldn’t mind more birthdays, if it meant more of your cooking.

You took a cupcake for yourself. “I wanted to make a bigger cake, but there’s not much space in the fridge and I don’t think the two of us could eat a whole cake in the span of a day. Well... maybe you could, if you really put your mind to it. But I’m not going to force you to eat a whole cake on your birthday.” You took a bite, speaking with full cheeks. “We’re pretty lucky the weather was so good today. Perfect for an outdoor celebration. Did you know they said it was going to be cloudy today? You can't trust the weatherman, honestly.”

He knew you wouldn’t mind that he wasn’t very... talkative. He loved that about you. Most days, he could hold a conversation no problem, but occasionally he found it easier to just stay silent. You seemed to be able to just tell when he wasn’t really capable of it- you would talk for the two of you, and he’d just listen, happy to hear you as much as he could.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN? HOW RUDE! I FILL THE SILENCE ALL THE TIME!”

... Dust snickered.

“DON’T LAUGH AT ME, BROTHER!!!”

“Did Pap say something funny?”

He hummed out a little ‘mhm’. He appreciated how understanding you were, about his hallucinations. He had stopped seeing things, once he met you, he was no longer constantly haunted by his dead brother’s face in his vision- he wondered if it had been a loneliness thing. He needed someone that he felt loved him, even if that someone was long dead. 

Dust was loved, now. He felt it in his bones. But there were some things he couldn’t let go of. Even now, at the most stable he’d been in years, he still found himself hearing Papyrus’ voice.

... But even then... Pap was less goading than he’d been, before. Less vicious. He sounded more like his brother.

You had frosting on your nose. He lifted up a hand, wiping it off, but you immediately grabbed his hand and licked the frosting off his phalange.

He let out a proper laugh, this time, not just a chuckle. You looked delighted to have gotten it out of him.

“Nice try, you won’t steal my frosting. I was saving it on my nose for later.” 

...

You started just... playing with his hand.

He couldn’t help but close his sockets, exhaling softly. Yeah, that was what he needed. He felt your soft, soft fingers tracing his palm, his joints, his phalanges. He really liked when you touched his palm... gentle and warm, slightly ticklish, he could completely let himself go because all he would end up focusing on was your touch. It was a wonderful coincidence that he’d lifted his left hand; it was usually so hard for him to get rid of the ghostly feeling of a blade. Like this? He could barely recall what the handle felt like.

You touch moved down, across his arm. He let his hand rest near you, your own left closing around his as your right moved to play with his face. Soon, you were stroking his skull. His jaw, his cheekbones... up to his cranium. It was like magic. He felt himself purring, before he heard it, his Soul was quiet and soothed. He wanted to spend every moment of every day like this.

“I know you don’t like that I’m always forcing you to eat healthy, balanced meals.” Dust could hear the smile in your words- he opened his sockets, he wanted to see it. It made him smile too. “Lucky for you, all that baking has worn me out. We can order burgers tonight.”

Your thumb moved back and forth, slowly, over his jaw. He kept purring.

...

“... I hope you’re feeling better. You seemed spooked, last night.”

His voice was low, still heavy with sleep, but the words were clear. “you make me feel better.” 

You got the cutest little expression- hot cheeks and warmed, bright eyes, you seemed happy but slightly embarrassed by such a direct compliment to you. He couldn’t help but laugh again, softly; if you reacted with this much intensity from just the knowledge that you’d successfully soothed him after a nightmare, he wondered how you’d react if you could look into his Soul and see just how much you did to him all the time.

You were his everything.

“You need to eat a bit more.” You said, getting a lovingly chastising edge to your voice. “You haven't had breakfast, and you can’t just have a cupcake for lunch. I made sandwiches. You’re gonna have a sandwich and some water.”

His mind was quiet. Papyrus was quiet. There was nothing like gentle hands on a broken skull, to make the cracks stop hurting.

“make me.” He said, playfully.

[goomens]

I've had an idea but I won't get around to writing it think.. I imagine Crowley being drunk on wine, taking to Nina after *the event* and just word vomiting, telling her everything about who he is. And then Nina ist like "so when you said 'angel' you actually meant..." maybe you can do something with that? 😂

such a cute idea!!! fic under the cut <3

It’s nine in the morning and Nina is jolted from her sleepy reverie by the violent tinkle of the front door bell; a figure in black slithering into a nearby seat and thunking his head down onto the table. Crowley, she thinks, watching him carefully from behind the counter. Without Mr. Fell in tow, tense around the shoulders, and creating quite a sad display, she feels a pang of something like pity inside her chest.

“Gretel,” Nina calls quietly to one of her newer baristas after a moment of consideration, “Take over for a bit, please?” And she makes her way over to Crowley, not bothering to say hello as she pulls out the other chair and sits down in it. He doesn’t lift his head. By all means, he seems lifeless. Completely still. Eerie, like he isn’t breathing. Her heart stutters in fear for a second, thinking he’s just up and died in her coffee shop, but—

“Oh, calm down.” Crowley retracts his forehead from the cold plastic table with a grunt and glares at Nina—she thinks, at least—through the impenetrable black lenses of his sunglasses. “I would like a mug of coffee with four measures of vodka, please and thank you.”

“It’s not even half nine yet, you know,” She scolds him, not really meaning it, but not willing to serve him alcohol so early either. He’s a bit of an odd fella (or, whatever) but Nina draws the line at serving a customer four units before noon. “No boozy breakfasts here. You’ll have to wait ‘til later—on Saturdays we have a boozy brunch. There’ll be cocktails.”

Crowley doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Pity.” He sighs. Snaps his fingers for some reason. He reaches into his blazer, pulling out an entire litre bottle of ABSOLUT and uncapping it. Nina opens her mouth, ready to tell him off, but he holds a finger up and guzzles down half of it before she can get the words out. When he sets the bottle down, she raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Thirsty?”

He ignores her, choosing to scowl instead, and looks off out the window of the shop looking a bit lost. “Your advice was shit. You and that—that vinyl seller. Thought you should know. Don’t go trying to influence anyone else’s ‘love’ lives, eh?” His words are full of forced humour, but his voice shatters a bit at the end, and suddenly Nina feels like some kind of villain. She looks at Crowley and sees someone in mourning. He’s grieving. He’s heartbroken.

“Fuck,” She says with feeling, and motions for Gretel to bring over two mugs.

Hours later—in the midst of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death’s boozy brunch—Crowley is drunkenly taking Nina step-by-step through his and Aziraphale’s extremely long history. They go back much, much further than she ever thought. Than she ever thought possible, actually. It’s all quite strange. And sweet, and sad, the way he talks about Aziraphale. “He’s so smart,” He says. “He’s good. He’s lovely. He’s the one I love. He’s only gone and returned to Heaven and left me on my own.” He also says, “I’m a Demon, I know I don’t deserve him,” and “He’s an Angel, he doesn’t want me. He could never want me.” And Nina is suddenly putting the pieces together, making sense of it all, her stomach—full of the buttered bagel she’d had for breakfast, half a bottle of vodka, and not much else—turns and swoops, threatening to expel its contents.

Crowley watches her then bursts into a startling laugh. It’s low and surprised. “There’s no way—no way—you’re just now realising what I am. What he is.” She just blinks and stares, and his laugh dies down but the lines of amusement remain etched on his face. “Oh, brilliant. You humans are brilliant. So bloody obtuse.”

“Oi!” She protests, reaching out to push at his shoulder. But she misses on account of being a bit more tipsy than she thought, and he laughs at her again. “I am not obtuse! ‘M quite clever, actually.”

There’s a smile on his—the Demon’s—face now, which is nice, much better than the frown he sported earlier, but when he gestures to his face and grins fiendeshly, she only stares confused for a second before realising that, ah, maybe she is a bit obtuse. His eyes are bright and a little bit playful, without the sunglasses. Big and yellow and snake-like, and oh, that’s what the Eden story had been about. It hadn’t been a metaphor or a weird figure of speech, but the truth. She’d been so busy listening to him she hadn’t noticed the moment he’d pocketed his sunglasses.

Instead of crippling fear or mortal terror, Nina just laughs and laughs. She orders them both a creamy coffee and some malt biscuits, even at his weak protests, and she lets him tell her all about the planets and the stars, Mesopotamia, the crucifixion, the Seven hills of ancient Rome, the burning of witches in the fifteenth century, the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t…

[thepervymermaid]

Would things be spicy if you had 2 ppl being yandere for you? Like Mikey x reader x sanzu or something like draken x reader x inui? It would be so hard trying to escape ngl feel bad for the reader if something like this happens lol. Thoughts on this idea?

Character(s): Mikey, Sanzu, Draken, Inui

Warning(s): Yandere themes, assault, violence's, slightly suggestive, unhealthy dynamics

T_T I’ve been trying to write but being an adult is freaking hard man. Anyways, hope you like it because I have fun writing it!

Mikey x Reader X Sanzu

Did someone order a dysfunctional relationship at table 12?

To start with, Mikey liked you first. You were his beacon in the darkness, one could say. You would like to disagree. You’d just call it human decency, but for him, it touched his heart. He couldn't help but grow steadily attached to you the longer you guys were around each other, mostly forced on your part.

However, Sanzu noticed the very subtle changes in Mikey's behavior. He still treated everyone with viciousness, the dead look in his eyes never changing, but he had a certain softness when it came to you. Whether it was the mention of your name, or the sight of you doing a simple task, his entire demeanor just seemed to melt in your presence… and he really did not like this.

This leads to him confronting you the moment he gets you alone and spewing as many threats as he can to get you to stay away from Mikey, but the longer he’s in the presence the more he starts to understand Mikey's infatuation. There’s just something about you, maybe it’s the way you look at him, that has his last threat ending off as more of a sultry warning than an actual threat.

…and of course, Mikey will find out about this interaction. Do you think he doesn’t have eyes on 24/7? Of course, he does. So don’t be too surprised when you walk in on him later assaulting an already bloody and drugged-out Sanzu who seems to be enjoying all the pain given to him. It’s his punishment for touching you without permission.

You guys will never have a regular relationship by the way. 

Mikey will always have the most control, monopolizing you. I don't think he even really acknowledges that he shares you with Sanzu so much as he tolerates Sanzu begin around you. However, whenever all three of you are together, he hogs you to himself and gets violent if Sanzu tries to get touchy with you.

Sanzu really only gets time with you when you guys are alone, and when you’re alone he’s invasive. There’s no personal space, not a single part of you go’s untouched, and if he’s feeling particularly protestive, he’ll leave hickeys and marks for Mikey to find later, which never ends well for you.

It’s kind of like two dogs fighting over a chew toy… you could try to escape, but then they’d actually start working together, and then you’d really be screwed.

Draken x Reader X Inui

Possibly the best duo to be a part of, because they are very giving and loving.

Most of their yandere tendencies would go over your head because they both act so sweet to you. Though it was never stated or firmly agreed upon, most people who know you guys know not to try and get too close to you, otherwise, they’ll have to deal with both of them.

They both mutually kind of realized they liked you and just decided since the other person was trustworthy and wasn’t someone who would hurt you then it wouldn’t be that bad, and learned to compromise even if no words were officially exchanged. 

You find yourself spending most of your days at the bike shop with the two, and less with your friends. Part of it’s because they’ve been avoiding you in general, but you just feel more comfortable around the two of them. If everything between you three is going smoothly, then they’ll keep themselves in line and you could live a pretty decent life with them.

However, if you do decide to reject their obvious interest in, Draken’s more likely to be the aggressor between the two. He would never actually hurt you, but a too-tight grip, tugs that make you feel like your arm will tear, and manhandling you where he wants you to be, is not out of the question. 

Inui would be mostly hands-off. It’s his words you should watch out for. His insults are often demeaning and blunt, making you feel like you overreacting to the situation at hand. He won’t even argue with you, it’s just the names and the way he looks down on you that makes you feel over dramatic, despite being rightfully upset at the treatment.

This could either be a nice little paradise or an inescapable hell depending on how you act.

[starpirateee]

Fic request please

Ted finding Tinky in human form bloody and near dead in the woods. He has a choice. Save him or leave him to die.

Mind if I swear? That's one fucking brilliant prompt right there, jesus christ

"Fuck-!"

Ted's car screeched to a halt, throwing him forwards against the wheel a little more violently than he would've fancied. He should've known that there was no such thing as an innocent drive through the Witchwood, not even when there no intentions and the drive was just that. A drive. 

Whether it was some manifestation of his awful luck, or some rotten chance that found him in this situation, he didn't know, but somewhere along the line, he'd seen something in the road that wasn't moving from the road, and decided to put his car's brakes to the ultimate test, as he slammed his foot onto the pedal in an attempt to not hit whatever it was blocking his path.

As he regained himself and pushed himself up off the steering wheel, he realised that the thing in the road was a person, and not only that, but they looked pretty badly fucked up. he squinted out of the window, making sure that he was seeing things correctly, and then when his eyes confirmed what his mind thought he was seeing, he slowly got out of the car.

There wasn't a lot that was obvious about this guy in the road, other than the fact that he'd been rather dramatically injured. His blond hair was matted to his forehead with what Ted came to realise was blood, dying the ends of his fringe an alarmingly suiting shade of brown. There was no obvious wound to account for that much blood, but then again, Ted didn't exactly fancy the idea of lifting this guy's blood stained hair from his face to get a better look. 

That to say, he did lower himself closer to the ground, just to see whether he was still alive or not. It would be a damn shame if someone had gone and left a dying bloke somewhere in the middle of the Witchwood for no good reason, but if he were dead, then the question was again why someone had left him in the middle of the road, and not thought to bury the body... If they didn't want to get caught, they would surely do what they could in order to hide the evidence that they'd killed someone. 

He stayed crouched for a frighteningly long time before he saw the guy's chest heave and shake. Thank god, he was still alive. Barely, but what did it really matter in the grand scheme of things?

The stranger's eyes were screwed shut, but dried tear tracks lined his cheeks and gave Ted the all too correct impression that this was the work of someone else. 

"Oh, shit..." he muttered under his breath, daring to get this broken half-corpse into a better position so he could really see what was going on. His eyes darted over enough blood to make him worried, coming from wounds in his chest and staining the jacket he was wearing with viscous blooms of darkening red-brown. "Shit, man, what the hell happened to you?"

He wasn't expecting a response- part of him was expecting the guy not to survive much longer. If he died of blood loss, would that really be such a surprise? It had stained the asphalt, and by the looks of things, it was still going. he wasn't exactly the master of observance, but even he managed to notice that something wasn't right about the blood. From where he was, at least, it didn't seem entirely red enough to pass for anything. There was a strange, almost yellow tint to it, that he very nearly put down to his imagination, or the shocking amount of yellow the figure seemed to be dressed in. That was a trick of the light, surely. Surely the sheer amount of yellow on this guy's body- from the aviation goggles sitting bunched up in his hair, to the startlingly coloured work boots- was just giving him the impression that the blood was tinged in the same hue...

For a moment, the stranger fought to open his eyes. Ted wondered how he had the strength to even attempt to regain consciousness, but then he caught sight of a glittering golden colour behind his eyelids, and froze. There was something way too familiar about those eyes... And yet, he'd never seen anything quite like it before. Surely he'd remember if he'd met someone who's eyes were the colour of mustard... 

As he forced himself to think, the stranger tried to say something, but all that happened was the brief parting of his lips, and then a choked gasp. Ted couldn't make it out from just how he'd seen his lips move, but he had drifted back into unconsciousness before Ted could think to ask about it.

He glanced back towards his car, sitting a little way away from them and still at the offset angle he'd left it in. He probably had the space to let this guy lay out in the back, but there was the matter of trying to get blood out of anything. He didn't think he had anything to cover the back seat, which was maybe the only reason he was glad for his leather seats in the heart of summer. Blood wasn't such a bitch to get out of leather as it was vinyl. Maybe it was even slightly manageable...

Before he could try and position himself so that he could lift the stranger and be able to stand at the same time, there was a flash from inside of his mind, and he startled so hard he hit the ground again. It looked like a lightning storm, but an unsurprising yet incredibly fitting shade of yellow. His fingertips were stained in the yellow tinged blood, and his gaze managed to focus on that and that alone. He saw agony, imprinted into the walls of his mind and drawn out in this blood. He saw death, endless torment, and someone turning a corner in a pristine looking maze, only to slam straight into a wall with the next step. He heard laughter, that sent a deep set chill into his bones and straight up his spine. He flinched violently, scrambling back a few paces, even though he felt he should be aware that it was only in his head.

It was, wasn't it? The only people around for miles were him and this guy, and with the way he looked as if he was barely holding onto life, Ted didn't think he was the one who laughed. 

Something else struck his mind too, something that almost physically resembled the huge pendulum of an old grandfather clock. It hit the blood stained walls, cracking them in the same vein a wrecking ball would. It hurt, and Ted's hands shot up to his ears to try and bring some comfort to his aching temples. Gears wound against one another at the back of his mind, metallic and rusted. Ancient, yet somehow still functioning.

He winced. Whatever had built a clock tower in his head had pulled it from centuries past, with only the worst quality rusting metal that scraped and ticked against the other parts of the mechanism. He felt the need to scream, but he knew better than that. He knew better than to show his vulnerability in the middle of the Witchwood.

Was he crazy, or had something changed? In the time it had taken for him to get his head together (and the time it took for him to realise the pounding headache from the imaginary clock tower had completely vanished in a manner of moments), the stranger seemed to have moved to a different position, and there seemed to be something off about the road too.

He shook his head. No, he was definitely crazy, there was nothing else to it. He saw an injured man in the middle of the road, and everything else was... Well, it could be anything! A product of the woods, or something in the air.

Sure, he was a jerk, but was he so much of a jerk that he would leave this guy in the middle of the forest, to the elements and whatever the fuck was hanging around in this forest?

Apparently, the answer to that question was a resounding no. Before he could really think about it, he had lifted the guy into his arms, and had ambled back over to his car to drop him in the back seat. He didn't know what he was doing, he was no medic by any means, so the first and immediate instinct was to floor it to St Damien's and hope for the best when he got there. This was Hatchetfield, after all, it probably wasn't an unlikely occurence that people found someone in the woods bleeding to death with no explanation, right?

[casinodove]

SACRIFICIAL LAMB . sagau drabble

✧ SUMMARYzz.. 1111

Impostor AU except there's two impostors. One is the real, and the other is the true God, actual impostor is about to get killed yet god!reader pities them and doesn't want them to die! They were, after all, the only person they could relate to since they both went through the same experience. So, as impostor is about to lose their life, reader throws themselves Infront of impostor and basically sacrifices themselves .

✧ PAIRINGzz.. 2222

Sagau x GN!Reader

Mostly impostor x god!reader

✧ WARNINGzz.. 3333

Gore , general yandere themes , pure angst , religious themes , cult au

✧ SIDE NOTEzz.. 4444

ok

THE two of you ran, hand in hand, running through the seemingly endless forest as they clutched their bloody arm. You led them towards a cave, the cave where the both of you had been hiding these past few days.

"Hang on please, we'll be there in a second"

You looked back at them and whispered, snapping your head forward once more, dragging their body along to the depths of the cave.

Once you finally stopped running, you turned to face them. Their tired, gloomy eyes stared into your worried ones. You sat them down on a rock that looked less sharp than the rest and began looking through your satchel to find any medical supplies you could.

Grabbing a few bandages you moved closer to them in order to inspect their arm better, they winced in pain as your fingers made their way up their arm.

The impostors eyes glistened with tears, as you bandaged their arm as gently as you could, it fell onto their lap limply as soon as you let go off of it.

"Don't cry, we'll get out of this mess together."

You kneeled down and wiped the tears out of their eyes, they sniffled and leaned into your touch, desperately clinging onto the last pieces of their humanity left. All this bloodshed and trauma had affected them greatly, you were sure. Considering the fact you had gotten the exact same treatment as them.

Their other arm made its way towards your wrist, which they grasped softly, face leaning into your hand fully, their wet cheeks dampening your palm.

"However will we survive through this, when the entire world is against us?"

They whispered against your skin, voice cracking slightly. You took a shaky breath and tried to come up with something to say, yet the words died down in your throat as soon as you heard thunder from outside.

Snapping your head around, your panicked eyes looked around the entrance of the cave, spotting a purple glow inching closer by the second.

Time passed like a blur, your eyes flooding with tears as the archon grabbed the impostors neck violently and glared daggers at them.

The people that had surrounded the center of liyue chanting for Baal to end the sinners life, you had hid behind a building, yet they hadn't been able to follow.

The loud roaring of thunder send fear pumping through your veins, you had to make a choice, right now. Either hide and watch the life drain away from an innocent person's body, either interfere. Your hiding spot was dangerously close, and you knew you couldn't just stand there and be a coward.

Two other figures stood of archons stood tall and watched the electro archon play executioner, their ice cold glares analyzing the impostor, expressions unreadable.

The archon threw their body across the floor and they fell down like a ragdoll, and right when she was about to strike, you ran and threw yourself Infront of them, her thunder charged sword slicing through your soft tissues of flesh.

With a straight line slicing through your entire chest and destroying any organ in it's path, your limp body fell onto the hard stone. A gasp was audible throughout the crowd as your friend grabbed your body off of the floor, cradling it close to their chest.

It wasn't long until their eyes widened at the realization of golden blood pooling by their loose blouse, yet their mouth didn't dare open to say anything.

Reality sunk into people's bones fully as loud screams of panic filled the air. Ei took one step back, letting the sword fall limply to her side.

The archons realized that the only sinners present were they, feelings of shame and disgust clouding their minds.

During the days after your death teyvat experienced great grief, yet nobody could compare to the one of the impostor. They'd spent most hours of the day crying, and the rest sleeping from the sheer exhaustion. They cried until their tears went dry and they were too weak to move.

The two of you had went through things unspeakable, both falsely accused of blasphemy, just because you bore a similarity to the creator.

You, looking identical to them, and they, having the same eyes, body shape, and a similar voice, their hair colors shade also being similar to that of the creator. Yet they were innocent, the two of you had found eachother while escaping some deranged acolytes.

Teyvat however, survived for a short while extra. Your body was kept in your biggest temple, dressed in the finest of silks, yet you never awoke.

The impostor, nobody had touched from that day on. They were allowed to stay in your private chambers, where your never decaying body laid.

They kneeled by the bed, whispering prayers and words of worship, having long devoted their life to you.

One week, it took one week for teyvat to begin falling apart, yet even while they were about to take their last breath, even while the room around the two of you began getting fully destroyed like the rest of the world, the last thing they dared to utter was I love you.

✧ ENDING NOTEzz.. 5555

This was so sloppy and rushed but honestly I just had to get this idea out of my brain and I had to finish writing this within half an hour so yeah, happy holidays <3 .

✧ casinodove , 20/12/22 .

[astarionsilverbough]

dangerous, tainted and flawed (know that it doesn't hurt me)

The first time he wanders into Raphael's realm, it's entirely by accident.

It must have something to do with the tiny, whispering threads that connect their magic - they're thinner than spiderwebs and more delicate than a scorned man's bruised ego, but they are there.

And it's not like Gale was trying to find his way back to the House of Hope - yes, he and the devil might have something of an understanding between them now, hard-won and tumultuous on the best of days - but he isn't entirely sure he wants to make house calls a habit.

(It does occur to him that he could leave at any point. Any time. Whatever force keeping this place so violently oppressed doesn't seem to affect him whatsoever. A favor of Raphael's, perhaps? It seems... unlikely.)

In any case, Gale doesn't leave. No - he couldn't! Not because of any oppressive spell - he's a scholar, for Mystra's sake! Raphael wasn't wrong when he called Gale out for his rampant, often troublesome curiosity. It's a damn good thing he's not a cat. He'd've burnt through his nine lives and then some by the time he was ten.

He isn't sure how long he's wandered the cavernous, seemingly endless corridors of Raphael's labyrinthine manor when he catches the faintest sound of music coming from the east. A piano, to be precise. Someone is playing the piano.

And... singing?

No... It's more of a drone - a monotone drawl that sends gooseflesh down his arms and thighs. Gale chases the sound of the unenthusiastic rendition of an old Cormyr lullaby to a set of open oak doors at the very end of an incredibly impressive vaulted corridor.

It reminds him of the cathedrals back home. The windows lining the hallway are stained glass; dappled light pours a rainbow of color across the marble floor, splashes of reds and yellows and blues and greens, of purples and opals and softest, rosy pink.

The bedchamber he finds himself wandering into is cavernous. Dark. Everything is tones of crimson and gold. There are what look like leather collars hung on the wall beside the bed. Gale's stomach clenches and his ears heat.

But then - something else catches his eye.

There's...

A bloodied riding crop on the floor. His stomach sours in a different way.

The sheets are in disarray. It smells of Sulphur and sex, of booze and blood.

No one sits at the piano. It stands lonely between a pair of massive stained glass balcony doors and plays on its own as Raphael recites the lullaby over and over and over again.

He's nowhere to be seen.

With his stomach in his throat, Gale follows the sound of the Cambion's voice into the bath chamber and finds there a scene that could outdo all the greatest tragedies - and perhaps even turn some fairytales into one.

Because the worst part - the very, very worst part - is that Raphael is almost devastatingly beautiful in his agony.

The Cambion sits slumped against the side of his stone bath, head tipped back to rest on the floor. His wings spill over the stone like pools of velvet, the joints bent in directions Gale knows can't be comfortable. The water is shiny with soap and oil - in excess, Gale would say, as if Raphael had gone through an entire bar or more.

Beside the bath are three bottles of wine. Two are empty. The third is half empty; Raphael’s elegant, clawed fingers tap idly over the green glass and Gale wonders if a bottle is more like a glass for someone like the Devil he knows.

But he doesn’t know him, does he? Not truly. Not the man beneath whatever mask it is Raphael’s forged for himself.

He’s covered in scars, Raphael. Across his upper arms, along the tender undersides of his forearms. The firelight brings it all into sharp relief, gnarled skin gleaming like tines of gold across the landscape of his body. They go all the way up his throat, too - no wonder he wears those high collars.

A broken devil. What kind of beast has the world made him into? Gale has yet to decide.

And then - a tear cuts down Raphael’s temple. The Devil shuts his eyes and his voice fractures in the middle of a verse that Gale’s mind finishes for him.

- comes the claw.

Raphael takes a shuddering breath. Gale’s resolve becomes as unconquerable as the Weave itself. Slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal, Gale sidles to the edge of the bath. He kneels down and reaches out to touch the water.

“It’s cold,” he murmurs.

To his surprise, the Devil doesn’t startle. His chest - too thin and bony, ridged with more scars - rises and falls with slow, shallow breaths. He keeps his eyes shut as he turns his head towards Gale. One of the devil’s hands emerges from the water and when his claws light gently in the middle of Gale’s palm, he stays right where he is.

“You should not be here,” the Devil murmurs.

It’s the softest he’s ever heard Raphael speak.

It’s devastating.

Settling on the floor beside the bath, Gale gently catches Raphael’s thumb between his own and the side of his palm.

“I could hear you,” Gale murmurs. “In my dreams. You sounded…”

Horrible. Terrified.

Pained.

Raphael’s brow creases as his nostrils furl in subtle sneer. When his lips ghost over the back of Gale’s hand, the wizard’s stomach lurches up between his lungs.

He’s drunk, Gale reminds himself, both fascinated and bemused all at once. Remember that he’s drunk, Dekarios.

“My apologies,” the Devil says.

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up. Raphael’s lips twitch.

“I can smell the shock on you, Dekarios. I might be damned, but I pride myself on my decorum.”

“Such as it is,” Gale says. It comes out… fond. Soft.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then;

“Who hurt you tonight, Raphael?”

He can’t not ask it. He can’t leave this alone, can’t just - pretend this creature is deserving of whatever wickedness has been inflicted upon him. Not when Raphael is thumbing idly over his knuckles and gazing at the back of Gale’s hand as if he’s trying to memorize the sinew and bones beneath his golden skin.

“You’ve a good heart, Gale Dekarios,” the Cambion says. “I can feel it - even though your sweet mistress tried so very hard to blanket it in silence. It beats like a silver flute sings.”

“And you’re even more poetic when you’re drunk.”

Raphael hums. “What can I say? Something about you… it inspires me.”

“You’re not escaping the question, Raphael.”

“I think I’m doing a fine job of it.”

“Raphael. Look at me.”

Gale doesn’t know what shocks him more - that Raphael obeys, or that the devil’s gaze is almost… pleading. Leaning closer, Gale catches Raphael’s hand properly in his own.

“Who hurts you and leaves you like this?” he asks quietly.

The Cambion’s lean throat works around a tough swallow. When he speaks, it’s around the gravel he can’t chew through.

“My lord husband, Dekarios,” he says flatly. “And trust me when I tell you there is nothing - nothing - you can do to help me. You should - you need to go. Now. And don’t come back here.”

His hand slips out of Gale’s. Gale feels a bit like he’s been cut loose to float through the astral.

“Raphael,” he starts; “go!” Raphael shouts, body coiling like a serpent’s. “Leave this desolate place, Gale Dekarios - and do not return. If you reduce me to begging -“

“Then what?” Gale challenges. “What then will you do, if I reduce the great demon Raphael to begging? There is nothing you could do to me that has not already been done by another - no exile, no ruin.”

Raphael searches his face. He’s been rendered speechless - Gale cannot claim victory on his own, though. He wagers the wine had something to do with his success.

“You need me,” Gale murmurs. “And I find myself thinking of you more often than I should ever admit to anyone outside this room. Our tale is not yet over, Raphael - and if you insist on saving my life to preserve the sanctity of our story, then you cannot complain when I attempt to do the same.”

A shaky, wet laugh spills from Raphael’s lips. “My,” he manages, “but I wish I hated you more, Gale Dekarios. You would’ve made an incredible thrall.”

Gale smiles. “There’s still time to grow tired of me. Don’t you worry.”

Raphael’s brief smile fades and he reaches up to gently dust his claws over the curve of Gale’s chin.

“Go, Gale Dekarios,” he murmurs, “and know that I will endure as I always have.”

“You needn’t do it alone.”

It’s Raphael’s turn to finally be surprised. The Devil opens his mouth and then shuts it. He drops his gaze to Gale’s hand where it hovers still above the water and after a beat, his clawed one crawls back into it.

Gale doesn’t leave.

Not just yet.

[brrrkdslek]

QUADRILATERAL LOVE!

✦ 038 ⎯ KIDNAPPING POOKIE XOXO👹

you punched the wall of the bathroom stall multiple times, groaning in anger, only stopping when your knuckles began to burn with an angry red colour spread across them. taking a deep breath, you put on a nice smile and shoved your phone in your pocket, still hearing it vibrate while going back out to your members, readying to get on stage.

hanni attached herself to your side excitedly as she rambled on about the performance and the cool decor that was on stage waiting for them. she goes to intertwine her fingers with yours, you swat her hand away while hissing at the contact with your knuckles, staring as the blood drips from it.

"ah, unnie! are you okay?" she grabbed a few pieces of tissues from the desk and dabs at the wound, "i'm so sorry, should i call-" "no-! i mean, no, don't call anyone," you flash her a small smile, "i'm totally fine." hanni only frowned as she dug into her bag, pulling out a roll of bandage.

she didn't bother fighting you since she knew you were responsible enough to take care of yourself. although, the girl was still a tad bit worried. "aren't you supposed to do a handstand on stage?" she dabbed some medicine on the wound, "yeah, it's fine." you ruffle her hair with your free hand, "i'll manage, i always do."

she swatted your hand away playfully, "okay, be careful though." she plants a tiny kiss on your knuckles as she finishes wrapping the bandage, "there! now, it'll be healed in no time!" she smiled as you giggled at her antics. hanni never failed to make you feel better, even if she didn't know it.

the performance went surprisingly smoothly, although you did see the wound start bleeding through the bandage again after your handstand, but luckily no one noticed since your performance outfits for the comeback were all in bright red.

you and the members stood side by side as the mcs began announcing the winners on the large tv. hanni squeezed your good hand in hers as you all watched the numbers rise along with the other groups.

finally, the numbers tallied and STARLETZ had won as the total points of your group exceeded the other by two thousand points! the girls hugged and cheered as confetti popped everywhere.

after the show, you all descended backstage, resting. you quickly excuse yourself to the bathroom, taking another roll of bandage from hanni's bag secretly before going.

upon entering the bathroom, you look down to see the blood starting to drip down to your fingers. blood seeping through the bandage as your hand shook slightly. you sighed while discarding the bloodied bandage and washed the blood away under the sink, wincing at the stinginess.

gently patting your hand on your pants, you began wrapping your knuckle in the new roll of bandage, eyebrows furrowing at the stinging pain. maybe you shouldn't have been so violent, but how could you not? when your entire family was out to get you.

you knew how traditional your family was ever since you were young. you had found out that your father had left because of the pressure of being unable to have a boy, which was not his fault, of course.

in the ln's tradition, if one could not bear a firstborn male, they are cursed because of their wrongdoings in their past lives. and your mother was labeled as one of them. she ended up being tossed away from the family, only keeping her at an arm's length because of you, her daughter.

even though you were a girl, you were incredibly intelligent and beautiful. the elders thought it was a waste that your mother became crazy and didn't educate you properly, hence your current profession.

when your mother had broken the news to your father, he was devastated and decided to leave her without a word, sending her into turmoil. she began to resent her family so much, which was why she began to beat you. disappointed that you weren't a boy, that you ruined her life, that you ruined the family line.

unbeknownst to you, she had met up with your father out of coincidence a few years after, unexpectedly bearing another child. her psychotic tendencies came back upon giving birth to a healthy boy. a boy. why is it now that the universe handed him a boy? why not then? why not when things were still developing nicely?

she began to hate him too. beating him most days, if you weren't there. you shivered upon remembering the horrid thing she did when you ran away, she stabbed you. well, not stab. she just left a large and long scar along your back.

she had grabbed a knife and threatened to kill you if you didn't stay. of course, you shielded your brother, having him leave first as you faced off your mother.

you distracted her for a few seconds and tripped her as you bolted to the door where boomi's figure slowly became smaller and smaller, relieving you.

suddenly your back burned with a strong stinging pain, bringing you to your knees. you sobbed as she dragged the knife down your back, thankfully not deep.

you still remember carrying the boy to a nearby hospital, how every step you took felt like a knife to your muscles. every breath you took brought pain to your chest; every sob that left your mouth bringing pain to your eyes.

your thought were interrupted when a knock was heard from the door, "yn, come out! ateez is here to congratulate us!" quickly putting on a smile, you answered chaewon with an 'okay!' before going out of the bathroom.

loudness overtaking you as the boys and girls chatted amongst each other, bahiyyih looked over to you. "there she is, our ace!' she patted your back, "what are you doing in the bathroom for so long? did you take a dump-" you flicked her forehead, "don't be stupid, i was fixing up." she giggled and threw an arm around your shoulder, dragging you to the centre where everyone was chatting.

"here's our ace!" bahiyyih smiled in victory as she shoved you between san, mingi and wooyoung on the couch. you stiffen as you look up at the girl, giving her a 'are you serious?' look, wooyoung squealed and rubbed against your arm, "my nn! you were so cool on stage, i almost died when you did that handstand!"

laughing at his words, you shrugged it off, "it isn't a big deal, really. i'm pretty familiar with the move so i'm not worried." you began chatting with the three boys around you as a phone next to san vibrated, "uh, yn?" you looked over mingi and answered, "yes?" he looked at the screen before giving you the phone, "it's yours, right? someone has been calling you nonstop..."

you felt your blood boil when you saw eunji's phone number pop out on your phone. quickly ignoring the call, you shove the phone into your back pocket, muttering a string of curses. "who is that?" mingi asked, "nobody, really." your eyes looked deadly for a second before turning into crescents as you smiled at the boy.

the three boys shared a few skeptical looks at you and each other as you typed away on your phone. after a while, you fell asleep and your head landed on wooyoung's shoulder to your right.

<PREV𖤐NEXT>

©BRRRKDSLEK 2023

[keouil]

and all of its discontents

gojo was rougher than usual tonight. 1k. gojo/shoko. angst. also on ao3.

There is blood in his hands and Gojo isn’t slowing down. 

There was usually never so much of it, this blood, thinks Shoko: and almost entirely never his own. She's already doing a quick scan of his entire body—so tightly wound up, jaw tight and mouth set in a harsh line—but there was nothing that clued her in on the ichor. Not a single open wound, so much a scar. Alarms are going off in her head, watching him stalk closer and closer in an almost possessed haze. His uniform was sullied and torn at the edges. His hands, smudged with dark blothes, lie dead at his side. Bloodied.

“Wait,” Shoko puts a hand out. “Tell me what happened first—”

"Shoko.” Gojo hisses lowly, eyes manic and voice pained. He tugs on his blindfold harshly and lets it fall to the floor. “Don’t.” 

Something's wrong, Shoko thinks. Gojo could be rough, aggressive, maybe even a little violent sometimes: but never so.. hungry. She feels frozen in place, heeding his cold command in fear of reprisal. He’d never hurt her, she knows this; but he also never turned up at her apartment in the middle of the night so obviously still reeling in the adrenaline from a mission and wearing its soils. He at least always had the decency to clean up beforehand. But she got the hint: not today.

“Are you..” Shoko steps closer to him carefully. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Gojo shakes his head. “No.”

Shoko stops just a few paces away and looks over him nonetheless. He lets her, he always lets her.

God, there really was so much blood. Too much of it even for him. Where is all this from? Gojo rarely ever let the spoils of battle touch him. A point of pride it was for most of them: Utahime’s gash a constant reminder of surviving her first special grade kill, Yaga’s chest scars a badge of armour. And Shoko: Shoko and the burn in her lungs, for breathing life in despite all forces that tested her not to. Gojo gets none of this, doesn’t want the spoil, the artificial scarring. He always had to be in control. 

And so for all this—all this open bloodshed—she had to ask: “Gojo.”

But he was already closing in on her, dipping his head low. “Enough foreplay.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, eager hands reaching for the seams of her yukata and tugging violently. Shoko can smell the sulfuric tang of blood in his clothes and tries not to think too much of who was lubricating the bloodlust tonight. He always got a little intense after any trying mission. And Shoko would know: having been at the receiving end for most of it. It was his weird version of a power trip, she thought, needing to offset the violence somehow. He’d always be a little high on the post-mission rush, but never so disoriented. 

“If you would just tell me,” Shoko tries meeting his eye, still dilated and blown out too wide the cerulean was glowing under the moonlight. “Was it—was it that bad?”

Gojo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t so much as break eye contact, then, when his fingers grasp the button on his shirt and slowly start to tug it free.

Ah, Shoko thought. So you have killed a man again.

-

Shoko gets it. This close to him when he got like this: she could practically feel the heat smouldering into his skin, like lava belching off the face of the earth. Only she was the only audience, and everyone knows what happened to Icarus when he flew too close to the sun.

-

Gojo was rougher than usual tonight. 

The bed dips under their weight, and Shoko waits for the trickle of excitement to filter in. The panic, that comes after.

Once Gojo had her on the bed, he didn’t waste a single breath on conversation. His kisses are hot and wet and quick; moving down from her jaw, to her throat and down her neck, until they reach the dip between the folds of her robe. Gojo cursed under his breath, breathing her in on top of it. The fabric of her yukata incensed him, she knew, lighting the fuse for his impatience and sparking a sudden shift in his pace. 

Now his movements grew more hurried, more brusque. Desperate.

“Gojo,” Shoko tries again, pushing at his chest. “Gojo.”

"No.”

Shoko stills. There’s an odd rawness to his voice then, an undertone of almost pleading. It was so different from his usual mischievous nature, the playful lilt in his voice almost always present. That was all the confirmation she needed that he wasn't okay.

Because Shoko gets rough. 

She knows he prefers it on the days he has a kill list too long to fill with all the love in his heart still. Softer, more patient and tender: on the days he feels he needs to be reminded it’s not a sin to be kind. 

Only there’s nothing gentle now in the way he spreads apart her yukata or gropes her breasts. Nor is she misled by the kisses that trail down the centreline of her torso all the way to the tips of her fingers. Shoko is struggling to keep up like she usually did, hands trying to find purchase on his shoulders that never stilled. 

In an attempt to escape the growing sensation in her gut that something was wrong, Shoko squirms, wriggling away from his hot breath beating against her skin. Everything was suddenly moving too fast.

“Wait,” Shoko gasps, breathless. “Hold on. I need a minute.”

Gojo stops completely, hands gripping the flesh on her hips hard. His fingers were indenting into her skin, and Shoko couldn’t control the pained whimper she let out. His head immediately snaps up. 

“I—” Gojo searches her eyes. “Did I—?”

“No, it’s fine,” Shoko says hurriedly, and it’s not, not really: but it seemed like he wasn’t in a place to be denied. He was suffocating her, and she usually let him, but something about this didn’t seem okay. He was never the type to bruise. But she’s never had to tell him no. “I'm — I'm just trying to catch my breath.”

Only then did Gojo marginally loosen his grip.

“Sorry,” Gojo whispers, recognizing for the first time he was hurting her. He lowers his head again and ghosts kisses all over her stomach, fingers kneading lazy patterns around her hips with suddenly more grace. He’s humming impassively as he does, but she can’t shake the feeling he was only doing it to distract himself from something. His thoughts, otherwise, his grief.

Something about the tenderness of it all panics her. Gojo was never a gentle lover.

Only her phone starts ringing then.

Shoko only barely manages to make out the caller ID, before Gojo suddenly reaches out to fling it off to the side. She hears her phone drop to the floor in a violent clang. 

December 24, 2017. 10:30PM. Masamichi Yaga calling.

Shoko looks up at him, brows furrowed. “What—”

And that’s when Gojo’s mouth crashes down on hers.

-

It’s not a love thing, what they’re doing: it is shared grief and no one left to split it with. It is Shoko being paged on the eve of Christmas and told to play God in the lives of so much people, but thinks Shoko: responsibility she never asked for. It is Gojo, for the first and last time, seeing things spiral out of control in a way no one prepared him for. It’s submitting yourself to someone she knew needed to control everything again, if only to feel something. And Shoko: bleeding heart, lets him. 

So it’s not a love thing. 

But maybe:

-

“Why don’t you ever let me kiss you?” Gojo asks.

It’s the 24th of December somewhere in Roppongi, years after, and Gojo is somewhere between her legs. He purposely booked them a hotel far from the school because Ijichi was looking at them weirdly and Gojo only barely managed to control himself from leaving a love bite all over her neck all of summer. Nanami offered his jacket one day and Gojo just about lost it.

Shoko looks down at him. “Because you killed my best friend and fucked me after.”

[lowcountry-gothic]

I just finished season 7 of my Dexter rewatch, and wow, that gut-punch of a scene. I always thought of it as a plot twist, a surprise, as the episode’s title—“Surprise, Motherfucker!”—would suggest the viewer is meant to think about it, but this time around, knowing what’s about to happen, it feels inevitable. As if there were nothing else that could possibly happen. And I’m rethinking the way I view this entire show. The first time around, when it was first airing, I always thought of Dexter Morgan as an antihero, someone like Batman, who achieved justice where the system failed, albeit a much more bloody and violent justice. Now it seems clear to me that Dexter isn’t an antihero, and almost certainly isn’t meant to be one by the writers. He’s the main figure in a sort of modern day Greek tragedy.

The tragedy of what happened to his mother, sure, and the trauma her death caused, and the way it made him fascinated with blood and death...that much is obvious. But what I’m seeing now are things that, for whatever reason, escaped me before. Things like his adoptive father seeing this fascination with blood and death and, instead of treating it as an unhealthy coping mechanism for his trauma, seeing it—and more tragically, explaining it to Dexter in such a way that he believes it himself—not as something he could possibly heal from, but as a fatalistic, permanent, and defining aspect of who and what Dexter is. Harry’s belief that Dexter just isn’t normal, and never can be, and the way this shaped Dexter’s own sense of himself and the possibilities his life could hold. The way Harry uses Dexter to fulfill his own cop vengeance fantasies that he can’t enact, and the way that Harry’s subsequent suicide makes Dexter feel like it’s all his own fault.

And there’s the fact that Dexter builds a normal life for himself first as a mask to hide what he thinks truly defines him, but doesn’t even question the idea of this side of his life as “false” until midway into the show, when he begins to see that he is just as capable of meaningful human relationships as anyone else is, and that his brokenness isn’t something unique to him but a feature everyone shares, though in much less extreme ways. How he only realizes, after so much personal loss and tragedy, that his “need” to kill is only a passing emotional state that doesn’t control him, and the way he only realizes this after so much killing when it’s too late to live a life uncomplicated by murder and criminal guilt and murderous habits.

The way he, based on Harry’s beliefs, makes decisions and prioritizes things in ways that seem very small at first, but it’s soon obvious, cumulatively, that he’s unintentionally hurting those he loves in ways that don’t stab but cut like paper.

And the way his ultimate decision that his “fake” life—his career and relationships—is the most important thing to him, and he doesn’t want to lose it, the way this realization comes too late because at this point he’s already given up so much to the altar of his hidden life that so very little of the “normal” life he now values so much is even left at this point.

And of course there’s Deb, and her love for him, and how it causes her to make so many bad decisions, so many instances of giving up her own self for him, and the way this culminates in such a horrifying way for her at the end of season 7—we’re not really even sure if the shot was intentional or an accident, but that doesn’t matter, not for her. It’s so tragic. And the way that she’s so overcome by horror and grief, for herself and for Laguerta, and the sheer agony evident on her face as she breathes, “I hate you,” a line that not even the subtitles caption—you just have to pay attention and listen or be able to read her lips—Damn.

And above all, how things didn’t have to be this way. If Harry had had more faith in Dexter as a child. If he hadn’t—just like a cop—believed that people’s dark sides are the most important things about them. that people are either good people or bad people and that the former need to be protected from the latter at all costs.

How could anyone see this show as being about Dexter’s little darkly comic adventures and the way he forges his own deadly brand of justice, and not about how his entire life, and that of everyone he becomes important to, is just one sad, devastating story after another????