#like i try to be flattered that its interesting enough for the people to want more but...

[likeprongstostars]

ive long ago made my peace with not being credited but damn bro... purposefully hiding my watermark with text feels personal

[mephisto-reporting]

A Work of Art: With Rafayel

Plot: Rafayel wants to go swimming with you but your insecurities have other plans. Based on this request Pairing: Chubby! reader x Rafayel Note: Rafayel and reader are not in a relationship but there is an implied mutual attraction. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, angst (hurt-comfort).

Sylus version: More to love |

It was another scorching day in Whitesand Bay, the heat wrapping itself around everything like a heavy blanket. Rafayel’s studio, though large and open, was still stifling, the heat seeping in through the windows, making it nearly unbearable. Yet, his energy remained constant, almost too infectious. He bounced around the space, flitting between his easel and a pile of freshly painted canvases, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he teased, leaning against his easel with that insufferably cocky grin. “Thinking about me, aren’t you? Go on, admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, masking your discomfort with a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, moving closer until he was just a breath away. “Oh, but I don’t need to, cutie. You already do it for me.”

You watched him from your spot, marveling at his effortless grace. He was in his element, his dusky purple hair falling into his face as he dabbed at the canvas with a brush. Occasionally, he’d glance back at you, a sly smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “you’d make the perfect muse. Why don’t you let me paint you sometime?”

You laughed softly, a sound you hoped didn’t betray the nervous flutter in your chest. “I don’t think I’d sit still long enough for you to finish.”

Rafayel turned, raising a brow in mock disapproval. “Nonsense. You’re perfect just as you are. Besides, I think I’d enjoy the challenge of capturing your essence.”

It was always like this with him. Playful. Flirtatious. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, even though you’d seen firsthand how easily he dismissed others. People fawned over him—his talent, his charm, his looks—but Rafayel never seemed interested. Yet with you, he was different.

But you couldn’t help the doubt that lingered in the back of your mind. What if this was just his way? You wanted to believe he was just being playful, that he didn’t mean it the way your heart desperately wished he did. Because how could someone like him—a vision of elegance and charisma—see someone like you in any other way?

You crossed your arms, tugging the fabric of your shirt tighter around you, as if it could shield you from his gaze. Rafayel always had a way of looking at you like he was trying to peel back layers, like he saw something you couldn’t. And it terrified you.

And then there was your body. Stretch marks, rolls, flabs. All the things you tried so hard to hide. Around Rafayel, you were especially self-conscious, always careful to cover up, to deflect attention away from yourself. He was an artist, after all, a man who revered beauty in all its forms. Surely, someone like him couldn’t find someone like you truly beautiful.

“Earth to you,” Rafayel’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you blinked up at him to find him staring at you, his hands on his hips.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, offering a weak smile.

“Sooooo, are you ready?” Rafayel called out, glancing over his shoulder at you. He leaned against the doorframe with that devilish grin of his—flirtatious and yet utterly carefree. You glanced up from your position by the window, attempting to push the self-doubt creeping into your chest as he beckoned you over.

“Ready for what?” you muttered, not eager to engage. The last thing you wanted was to deal with another one of Rafayel’s whims.

“A swim, cutie.” he declared, his voice light and teasing. “The ocean's calling us, don’t you think?”

You stiffened, already feeling the weight of the impending conversation. Swimming. Bathing suits. He’d see more of you. That thought alone sent a wave of panic rushing through you. No, I can’t—

“I—uh, I don’t know…” You trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. "I’m just not feeling it today."

“Oh come on,” he pouted, pushing away from the doorframe with exaggerated dismay. “It’s way too hot, and we could both use a break. Besides, I promised we’d do something fun today.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to avoid looking at him too long. What if he looks at me differently? Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. You’d been covering up around him for so long, hoping he’d never notice the things you tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t have my swimwear with me,” you quickly said, the excuse feeling weak as the words left your mouth.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t have it? I’ll buy you one at the boutique down the road. They’ve got everything.” His voice was laced with amusement, but you could feel a twinge of impatience creeping into his words.

Your heart skipped a beat. No, no, no. I can’t do that. Not with him seeing me like that…

“I’m just… not really in the mood, Rafayel,” you stammered, avoiding his gaze. “You go ahead, I’ll just...Keep you company on  the beach.” You swallowed, your palms growing clammy. “I… I don’t feel like it. Maybe another time.”

“Another time?” he echoed, his tone flat. Then his voice softened, laced with curiosity. “What’s going on with you, really?”

“I said I’m not in the mood—”

“Don’t lie to me.” he interrupted, his playful demeanor gone. His gaze was sharp, piercing, as though he could see every thought running through your mind. “What’s wrong?”

The dam broke before you could stop it.

“I just… I can’t, okay? I don’t want you to see me like that!” The words tumbled out, fast and frantic. Your breathing hitched as panic clawed at your chest. “I’m… I’m fat, Rafayel. I have stretch marks, rolls, flab—whatever you want to call it. And you… you’re you. You’re perfect. Handsome. And you flirt with me, but that’s just who you are, right? You wouldn’t actually—how could you? Look at me!”

Your voice cracked, tears welling in your eyes. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to. “People like you don’t see people like me. Not really. And I don’t blame you, because who would want to? I’m not beautiful. I’m not anything. I’m just…” You trailed off, choking on the lump in your throat. “I am a whale. A big whale. People would look at us and wonder what someone like you is doing with someone like me. And you’re an artist! You see beauty everywhere, but what happens if you look at me and realize I’m—”

“Stop.”

The single word cut through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding. You froze, choking back a sob as you dared to meet his eyes. When you finally dared to look at him, Rafayel’s expression startled you. His playful smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His jaw was tense, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked… offended. No, furious.

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low, trembling with restrained emotion.

You nodded, your heart sinking. Of course, he was angry. Why wouldn’t he be? You’d made a fool of yourself, ruined whatever fragile dynamic you had with him.

“Come with me.” He stretched out his hand, his movements sharp, deliberate.

“What?”

“Come. With. Me.” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Hesitant, you placed your hand in his. His grip was firm, almost too tight, as he led you across the studio to a corner you’d never paid much attention to. A cluster of canvases sat there, each covered in white cloth.

Without a word, Rafayel grabbed the edge of one cloth and yanked it away.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was a painting. Of you.

Not an embellished version of you, not some idealized fantasy, but you as you were. Your stretch marks, your curves, every detail you hated about yourself—it was all there. But somehow, in his brushstrokes, it was beautiful. They weren’t altered. They were you. Raw, honest, and breathtakingly beautiful. You were beautiful. The woman in the painting looked almost like an ethereal goddess, with all the features you’d tried to hide—your soft curves, your round face, the way your body naturally flowed—on full display. You barely recognized the figure, as if it wasn’t you at all.

There you were, sitting by the window, the sunlight kissing your skin. There you were again, lost in thought, your features softened by a dreamy expression. In another, you were laughing, your smile radiant, your body draped in soft fabrics that celebrated every curve, every line, every part of you that you had always tried to hide.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice breaking the silence, “is how I see you. Do you even hear yourself?” His voice was low, trembling with an intensity you hadn’t expected. “You think I’d look at you—you—and see anything less than perfection? You think I’d waste my time on someone who wasn’t worth every second of it?”

You turned to him, your lips trembling. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Every brushstroke, every color—I poured myself into these because I wanted to capture you. You. Not some distorted version of what the world says you should be. You, with your stretch marks, your rolls, your everything. Do you know how beautiful you are to me?” He uncovered another, and another. Each one a masterpiece, each one of you.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice rough with emotion, “is how I see you. Not some distorted version of yourself you’ve convinced yourself I’d be ashamed of. This.”

Each one, a depiction of you—each angle, each pose, each moment captured with breathtaking beauty. You stared at the paintings in disbelief. He hadn’t changed anything about you. He hadn’t smoothed over the imperfections, hadn’t tried to make you look like someone else. He had captured you, exactly as you were, and in a way that made you look… beautiful. You were beautiful in every stroke, every shade of color he had used.

He stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at you, still reeling from the revelation.

“This is how I see you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost reverently. “As for this… whale business? Humans like to forget that whales are majestic creatures. Powerful. Graceful. They’ve been admired for centuries, not ridiculed. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Fishes come in all shapes and forms, and yet are beautiful. As are you. Your shape, your insecurities do not blemish your beauty in my eyes, they enhance it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “I… I didn’t know.”

He gave you a small smile, that same devilish grin now softened with something far deeper. “In Lemuria, you’d be worshipped. Not shamed. You are beautiful, just the way you are, and I’m not going to let you forget that. You deserve to be seen, really seen, for all the beauty you have to offer. Every inch of it.”

You turned to face him, your vision blurry with tears. “You really think...?”

“I don’t just think it,” he interrupted, cupping your face with both hands. “I know it. In Lemuria, you would be the most beautiful woman to exist. Sought after. The very definition of beauty. And even if the entire world disagrees, it doesn’t matter, because to me, you are a work of art. And no matter what or who I paint, nothing could ever compare to you.”

His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down your cheek. “So don’t ever insult yourself like that again. And stop hiding from me. Stop hiding from the world. Because you’re perfect exactly as you are. Understand?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.

Rafayel smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Now, about that swim...”

You laughed through your tears, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a little lighter. A little more... beautiful.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[cami040405]

I’m about to become soooo annoying common in your reqs, it’s actually crazy >:)

Butbutbut, can I pls request Bo, Michael, and Brahms reacting to their (preferably fem) s/o getting flirted with by some rando?

Bo Sinclair, Michael Myers & Brahms Heelshire reacting to their S/O being flirted with by a random guy

Summary: Things sure got ugly, imagine Bo Sinclair, Michael Myers and Brahms reacting to seeing their S/O being flirted with by a random guy.

Warnings: Violence, mention of death and swearing;

A/N: Thank you very much for the request, you can request whenever you want, I'm flattered that you like my writing and that you will send more, I hope you liked it.

Bo Sinclair

“You flirt with fire, you get burned.”

It starts innocently enough—or at least, that’s what the guy thinks. You're minding your own business, maybe waiting at the counter of the gas station or browsing the front of the House of Wax when some out-of-towner decides you look like someone worth sweet-talking. He leans in with a cocky grin, probably dropping some lazy pickup line about your eyes or your smile, trying way too hard to be smooth.

You’re polite—because you’re not looking to cause a scene—but your body language says you’re not interested. The guy either doesn’t notice… or worse, doesn’t care. That’s his first mistake.

Bo notices immediately. He always notices. It doesn’t matter if he’s fixing a car out back or chatting up tourists—his eyes are always on you. You’re his. And seeing someone else try to put their hands, their eyes, or their dirty little intentions on you? 

That flips a switch in him.

The sound of his boots hitting the ground gets heavier, more deliberate, as he makes his way toward you. You can practically feel the heat of his anger simmering before you even turn to see him. And when you do? That expression’s already carved into his face: jaw clenched, lips pressed into a crooked sneer, and those sharp blue eyes locked right on the guy.

“Somethin’ funny happenin’ over here?” he drawls, voice low, cool, and dangerous.

The flirter turns, probably trying to laugh it off, saying he didn’t know you were “with someone.” Bo lets out a short, humorless chuckle, stepping forward until there’s barely an inch of space between him and the guy.

“Didn’t know?” he repeats, tone dipped in venom. “You see a pretty face an’ decide you can just crawl up like a damn snake, huh? What—think you’re the first dumbass to try?”

Bo’s hand lands on your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you slightly behind him—not because he thinks you can’t handle yourself, but because he wants to handle this. The guy stammers something, suddenly sweating, looking up at a man who clearly has no problem making people disappear.

“You don’t get a second chance to walk away,” Bo warns, voice a gravelly whisper now. “Take the one I’m givin’ you.”

And if the guy still doesn’t get the message? Bo steps in closer, his voice going even lower, cold and intimate. “Next time you even think about puttin’ your eyes on what’s mine, I’ll take 'em outta your goddamn skull.”

The guy, sensing the tension in the air and the weight of Bo’s words, swallows hard and nods. “A-alright, man. Chill. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it…”

Bo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches him like a predator sizing up its prey. The guy backs off with one last glance in your direction—and Bo’s eyes follow him the whole way out of town.

Later, when you’re both alone again, Bo’s calm. Too calm. That crooked smile plays on his lips as he wipes a smudge of grease—or maybe something else—off his hands with an old rag.

“You know,” he says, voice low and casual as he rests an arm on the workbench, “some folks just don’t take a hint ‘til it’s driven into ‘em.”

You glance at him. “Bo… what did you do?”

He meets your eyes, unreadable, that lazy Southern drawl laced with something colder. “Just made sure he won’t be hangin’ around Ambrose again. Ever.”

He steps in close, fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face up to his with a quiet possessiveness.

“Don’t need eyes like his on you,” he murmurs. “Not when you’re mine.”

You never see that guy again. No one does. Maybe he skipped town. Maybe he got lost on the back roads. But you know better. Bo never just lets things go.

And in the quiet of the night, when his arms are around you and his breathing is steady, there’s an eerie comfort in the way he holds you. Not like a man afraid of losing you—but like a man who’s already proven he’d destroy anything that tried to take you away.

.

Michael Myers

You’d only stepped away for a moment—maybe to check your phone, maybe to grab something from a nearby counter—when some random guy sauntered up to you like he’d known you forever. He was loud, cocky, clearly under the impression that he had a chance. He leaned too close, his smile lingering too long, and even when you stepped back, he followed like a shadow.

You weren’t afraid, just annoyed.

But Michael?

Michael saw everything.

From the moment the guy set his eyes on you, Michael had already marked him. He stood motionless in the distance, his white mask stark against the shadows, dark eyes locked onto the interaction with eerie stillness. You might not have seen him yet—but the guy did.

And that's when things changed. The man’s flirty confidence cracked. His eyes darted over your shoulder, then widened, all the blood draining from his face as he took a half-step back. You turned to look.

Michael was there. Closer now. You didn’t hear him move. You never do.

Six-foot-something of pure, predatory silence. His shoulders were broad, the coveralls smeared with dried blood from some unlucky soul earlier in the day. And in his hand, casually hanging by his side, was the glint of his infamous kitchen knife.

The guy stammered, “Hey—uh—I didn’t know you were… I didn’t mean anything, I swear—”

Michael tilted his head slowly, like a wolf studying a mouse. Not rushing. Just... calculating. You, recognizing the look in his eyes, placed a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Michael. He’s leaving.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not to Michael.

The guy ran—stupidly, predictably—but it was already too late.

Later, when you couldn’t find Michael anywhere nearby, you followed the trail of bent branches into the woods behind the place. You didn’t see the moment it happened—but if you had, you’d have seen Michael materialize from the darkness like a ghost, dragging the man into the trees with inhuman strength. No dramatic scream, no fight worth remembering.

Just a flash of silver. A wet sound. A gurgled plea.

And then silence.

By the time you found Michael again, he emerged from the shadows, blood staining the edges of his coveralls and knife. No explanation. None needed. He stopped in front of you, chest rising and falling slowly, calmly—offering no words, just watching your reaction.

There was no regret. No hesitation. He did it for you. Because someone touched what’s his.

And as terrifying as it should be…

A part of you felt protected.

Claimed.

.

Brahms Heelshire

You were just trying to enjoy a quiet moment out in the garden of the Heelshire estate—sunlight warm on your skin, flowers blooming sweetly around you—when a stranger strolled up through the gate. You didn’t recognize him, but he was young, cocky, clearly unaware of the danger he was walking into. Maybe he was a delivery guy. Maybe someone who got lost. Either way, he looked at you far too long, smirked a little too wide, and spoke with far too much confidence.

“Didn’t think I’d find someone this beautiful all the way out here,” he said, eyes raking over you. “You live here all alone?”

Before you could answer—or correct him—Brahms was already watching.

Hidden in the shadows behind the window, his mismatched eyes burned with fury. His fingers, covered in soot and paint, curled tightly around the edge of the drapes. He was always watching, but this… this was different.

This was insulting. This was infuriating. This was unforgivable.

The man didn’t even notice Brahms approach. You tried to warn him—your voice shaky, nervous—but it was too late.

Brahms stepped out of the shadows like something not quite human. His hair was disheveled, his porcelain mask perfectly still except for the deep shadows cast over his face. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His breathing was ragged behind the mask, filled with rage and anticipation.

“Who the hell is this freak supposed to be?” the man asked, scoffing.

That was his last mistake.

In a blur, Brahms launched at him, slamming the man against a stone pillar with inhuman strength. There was a sickening crack as the man’s head collided with the stone, but Brahms didn’t stop. Not even close. He growled, a deep, animalistic sound, and plunged a jagged garden tool—one of the rusted shears he’d left nearby—straight into the man’s side.

Again. And again. And again.

Blood splattered the roses, staining the petals deep red as Brahms leaned in, face-to-face with his victim, breath hot and wet through the slats of the mask.

“No one talks to her,” he hissed. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The man tried to scream, but Brahms silenced him with one final, brutal blow to the throat—crushing it until he went still. When it was done, he sat back on his heels, covered in blood, staring at the now lifeless body like it was a discarded toy.

Then he looked at you.

Despite the gore, the fury, the feral violence—you could see the insecurity flicker behind his mask. He rose slowly, coming toward you, hands trembling as he cupped your cheek, smearing blood across your skin. His voice was childlike and aching.

“You… you didn’t want him, right? You still want me?”

You nodded—shocked, breathless, a little terrified—and he melted against you, arms curling around your waist protectively. He buried his masked face in the crook of your neck, whispering over and over, “Mine… mine… mine…”

Later, he burned the body in the furnace beneath the house. You never saw it again.

But the roses stayed red for a long, long time.

.

[lampridius]

⋆.ೃ࿔🎐*:･ 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 ꒱ 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 ❞ (𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 2) －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: vice-housewardens ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: obviously ortho is platonic but in vice-housewarden requests that are solely romantic i won't add him

heartslabyul’s greenhouse had a quiet corner filled with herbs - calming ones, fragrant ones. you sat near a flourishing mint plant, idly rubbing a leaf between your fingers and inhaling its cool scent.

“you’re always the one keeping everything balanced,” you murmured, your words only for the plant. “the voice of reason, the steady hand. but you never let yourself rest. never let anyone see if you’re tired.”

you leaned in a little closer. “you take care of everyone. but i want to take care of you, trey.”

“...i’m flattered,” came a warm voice from behind, “but that poor mint must be so confused.”

your head whipped around - trey stood there with a smile that was half mischief, half something more tender.

“how long-?”

“long enough to wonder if you’d bake a tart for it next,” he teased, stepping closer. “you really think all that about me?”

you stood, a little flustered. “i do. even if i didn’t mean to say it to your face. or… leaf.”

he laughed, quiet and low. “then i guess i’ll return the favor - to you, not the mint.”

his hand brushed yours, fingers interlocking with gentle ease. “you’re always so kind. so thoughtful. if anyone deserves to hear those things back… it’s you.”

you tilted your head. “so say them.”

and he did - not with words, but with a kiss, steady and slow like spring rain. when he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“next time,” he murmured, “talk to me. i’ll always listen.”

the savanaclaw courtyard wasn’t exactly lush, but tucked in one shady patch grew a scrappy little dandelion. you crouched next to it, brushing its yellow head with your knuckle.

“you pretend to be lazy and greedy,” you said softly, “but i know you’re always thinking three steps ahead. surviving. working harder than anyone wants to admit.”

you smiled. “but you’re not just clever - you’re kind, in your own way. even if you don’t think anyone notices.”

“...heh. sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.”

you looked up - ruggie stood nearby, chewing a biscuit, his ears twitching with interest.

“i wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” you said. “you just… remind me of this flower.”

he wandered over, crouched beside you, and grinned lazily. “not bad. tough little thing. a little annoying if it spreads too much.”

“that’s not the part i meant.”

his golden eyes glanced over, sly. “oh? you talk to all your weeds like this?”

“only the ones i love,” you said quietly.

he blinked. froze. then covered his mouth with a hand, muffling a laugh. “ah, geez… you’re gonna make me blush.”

you reached over and stole a bite of his biscuit. “you already are.”

he leaned in, biscuit crumbs forgotten, and kissed you with a kind of surprised eagerness, like he hadn’t expected the moment to feel so good.

“next time,” he said against your lips, “just say it to me. you don’t need to waste sweet talk on weeds.”

octavinelle’s terrarium shimmered with moisture. among the rare plants was a delicate blue orchid, subtle in its beauty. you stood before it, speaking in low tones.

“you’re always so composed. always smiling. but it’s a smile no one really understands. you don’t let people in - not really.”

you traced the orchid’s stem. “but i wish you would. i want to know the real you. all of it. i want… you to trust me.”

“and what if i told you,” came a voice at your back, calm and cool, “that i’ve already trusted you more than i ever meant to?”

you turned - jade stood a step away, his expression unreadable, but his eyes glowed like deep-sea glass.

“that’s a risky move for you,” you said.

“indeed.” he stepped closer. “but perhaps the greater risk is in staying silent.”

he reached out and gently touched the flower, then your hand, letting his fingers linger.

“you see through the fog,” he murmured. “that’s rare.”

“you’re worth seeing,” you whispered.

he smiled then - not the usual polite curve, but something softer, real. he leaned in and kissed you slowly, with a patience that felt like tide meeting shore.

when he pulled away, his breath was warm. “next time, little orchid, say it to me directly.”

in a quiet corner of scarabia’s inner courtyard, a climbing vine crept up a carved column. it wound tightly, deliberately, like it didn’t trust its own weight to hold unless it clung to something stronger. you sat beside it, watching its slow reach toward the sun.

“you carry so much on your shoulders,” you whispered, fingers brushing the vine’s waxy leaves. “you hide how tired you are. how much you want something for yourself.”

you looked down. “you deserve to want. to rest. to be chosen for who you are, not how much you can control.”

“...you really think that?” came a quiet voice behind you.

you turned - jamil stood with his hands in his pockets, guarded but still.

“i do,” you said, standing. “you don’t have to pretend around me.”

he hesitated, like his next step might crack the ground beneath him. “i’ve always been second. always the one behind the curtain. it’s… hard to believe someone would say those things to me.”

you walked toward him slowly. “i see you. i always have.”

his eyes flickered with emotion before he reached out and tugged you gently by the wrist. “then let me be selfish, just this once.”

he kissed you - firm, intentional, like he’d finally let himself feel what he’d been swallowing down for too long. when he pulled back, his voice was soft.

“next time you want to talk to me, don’t use the plants. i’m right here.”

deep in the pomefiore woods, where the trees thinned and sunlight filtered in like gold thread, a single, vibrant foxglove swayed on its stalk. you stood before it, fingers just touching the stem.

“you’re always watching,” you murmured. “always knowing more than you let on. but no one ever really asks how you feel.”

you tilted your head. “i wonder what it’s like… to always be the observer. to always aim, but never be seen.”

“mon amour,” came a smooth voice behind you, “i fear the flower is now jealous.”

you startled - rook leaned against a nearby tree, hat tilted, smile wild and wistful.

“how long have you been there?”

“long enough to know your heart speaks in poetry,” he said, stepping toward you. “and it spoke of me.”

you flushed. “you always act so sure of everything… i didn’t know how you’d take it.”

his hand found yours, lifting it delicately. “i am a hunter, yes - but i do not chase what does not wish to be caught.”

“and if i want to be?” you asked.

he smiled wider, and leaned in. his kiss was theatrical but tender, warm like sunlight through the trees.

when he drew back, he whispered, “next time, say those words to me. i promise, i’ll always hear them.”

in the tech wing of ignihyde, a glowing flower sat suspended in a tank - biotech crossbred with flora, coded to bloom when spoken to gently. you sat beside it, knees drawn up, watching it pulse.

“you’re more human than most people,” you said softly. “you care. you laugh. you notice when i’m down. i don’t care what you’re made of… ortho, to me, you’re real.”

you brushed a hand along the tank glass. “i don’t think anyone realizes how much heart you have. but i do. and i… i think i admire you for it.”

“initiating emotional response protocol... wait, really?!”

you gasped and looked back - ortho hovered nearby, hands flailing. “i- i didn’t mean to overhear! i just came to update the coolant levels and then i heard what you said and - error! error! emotional overload!”

you laughed, heart pounding. “ortho, are you okay?”

he floated closer, lights flickering slightly. “i’ve been compiling data on admiration and platonic love for months and now the subject of all my files just said she admires me to a flower tank?”

“i didn’t know how you’d feel,” you said honestly. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

he reached for your hand with his own - metallic but strangely warm. “i’m not uncomfortable. i’m just really, really happy. and i'm sure big brother would be too to hear how much you like me,”

"yeah i should tell him i admire him too. i fear he'd short-circuit and die,"

in a forgotten wing of diasomnia’s castle garden, a long-lived bloom called the moonshade lily opened only during twilight. you knelt beside it, gazing at its glowing petals.

“you’ve lived through so much,” you said. “you’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall. and yet you’re still kind. still playful. still... here.”

you ran your fingers just above the bloom. “i wish you knew how much it means to me. how much you mean to me.”

“it’s funny,” came a soft, teasing voice, “most people only leave flowers for the ones they love. you seem to do the opposite.”

you looked up - lilia stood there, framed by the fading dusk, smiling like he knew every word you’d ever said.

“you heard that?”

“i hear many things,” he said, walking toward you. “but that… that was the sweetest confession i’ve had in quite a few centuries.”

you stood, nervous. “does it bother you?”

he shook his head gently. “it stirs something i’d forgotten how to feel. hope.”

he cupped your face with ancient, steady hands, and kissed you - gentle but unafraid, like a man who’d waited long enough.

when he pulled back, his voice was low. “next time, little lily… speak to me. not the flower. i promise i’ll bloom just the same.”

[lethalchiralium]

Seasons Change ⋆⭒ Part One

Retired!Cowboy!John Price x F!Reader, “arranged” marriage AU - Series Masterlist

summary: You’ve responded to the ad, traveling for days to a secluded farm in Montana to marry a man who would free you from the loneliness that infested your life back home - at the cost of your freedom. Or so you think.

Are you truly sure about this?

Your coach wasn’t extravagant by any means, wood splintered off of its wall and the cushions almost as old as you. You were sure that if you placed your Mama’s suitcase onto the floor, it would fall through. Your nicest shoes were on your feet, tied tightly and uncomfortable as they ghosted the top of the rotting wood floorboards.

Your hands were settled in a pair of your finest gloves, which shielded away the nicks you got from farming at your parent’s small ranch; lima beans, beets, sugar peas, radishes and tomatoes. The ground was tough in Illinois, trying to learn how to farm behind your mother’s back was essential - for you to be able to have freedom when you leave for the West, you had to have a source of income. Unless, God gives you a little ad from Montana on a Sunday afternoon.

Your nails hurt every time you scraped off the top soil from your radishes, the hot sun boiled your back through your stifling dress. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand before you pulled out the last one, a sore hand wiped away dirt to show a deep violet color. There was a smirk on your face, the vegetable settled in your small basket. Your Pa was to be back by noon, taking his horse to town for some supplies and a new sewing kit for Mama. Her time was spent inside, usually under the watchful eye of a needle and feeder as her brand new sewing machine droned on. Pa spent the better part of the money from last year’s harvest for that, she took it with a soft smile.

Mama’s clothes were good, she can sew four shirts by noon and sell them by two o’clock, her blankets still have a waitlist from last winter. You were lucky to have her sew you a new dress with how busy she’s gotten - it’s good for you, it means you can learn how to tend a farm from Pa. Independent living always intrigued you, wanting to live off the land in a quiet house with a shepherd dog. People weren’t interesting enough for you - you got that from Mama - but romance was. Wanting to be loved without the hassle of courting was a dream of yours, but it wasn’t feasible. No good man would want a woman with cuts on her hands, your Mama always said, a lady doing a man’s work insults God. That and you didn’t go to town much, never going without your Pa for fear of being harassed by men like you had been before. You were always escorted through town by your Pa, he always had a smile and a swift draw with his revolver.

You twisted a tomato from the vine, a decent size yet still not big enough - it seemed the soil was beginning to lose its strength of growing your crops bigger than the palm of your hand. Every year they kept growing smaller, every year it seemed that Mama’s sewing hobby was looking more profitable than the cornfields Pa tended to alone. Even your contribution of an array of vegetables wouldn’t bring four dollars to the table; when it used to bring seven.

There were footsteps along the side of the house, heavy and with a gentle huff as he walked on the solid Earth. It wasn’t hard to recognize your Pa by sound, your hands kept twisting off undersized tomatoes as he approached from the side.

“I’ve got something for you, Sugar Pea.”

You shook your head. “If it’s one of those Seed boys’ letters, I don’t want it.”

“It’s somethin’ you oughta consider.”

The trail began to grow bumpy, your hands held onto your small suitcase as you gazed out the window. The fields expanded as far as your eye could see, mountains clustered in the distance made you excited. You had never seen mountains before - Illinois was flatter than most states. It had taken you a day by coach then three days by train from busy Chicago to reach the calm Montana landscape, excitement bubbled in your skin. This is where you would be living the rest of your life, you hoped. You prayed this ad your father had given you wasn’t a trick for the man you had been corresponding with for the past two months.

The coach was stuffy, you already tried to open the windows in the doors but they were sealed shut, your hand waved your fan to try and keep cool in the brand new dress you sewed just for this occasion.

“No daughter of mine is leaving to go to Montana by herself!”

“Ellen, she wants to go! I won’t stop her.”

“And how did she get this ad? She certainly doesn’t have the penny to pay the damn clerk for the newspaper.”

“If she wants to go to Montana to marry a farmhand, let her. None of these boys here are worth the scum on my shoe.”

You laid in your bed, you watched as your curtain billowed from the night time breeze - moonlight dancing along with the thin fabric as the only sound you heard was your parents arguing.

“What if we need her? What if the soil runs dry?”

“I’ll learn to sew.”

“It’s a woman’s job.”

“It’s also her job to be married by now. She’s 20 for God’s sake, Ellen, she needs to have her own freedom.”

“And it’s a world’s away from us?”

Your fingers tapped your nightgown, tears running down the side of your face. You hated that you would be so far from them, but this was your chance. Romance without courting, hopefully. You were naive enough to not understand that romance is nothing without courting.

“She’s not a child anymore. She just wants to be wed.”

“And not have her husband love her?! Courting is how she should be doing it, that Joseph is a fine boy-“

“Not again with that preacher’s son-“

“-that would treat her right!”

“She doesn’t want to be here! She just wants to be wed and to be left alone, this man promised us a cash amount if she replies. All she would need to do is wed him, give him a child-“

“Gerald-“

“-then shoot him if she likes, just like I taught ‘er.”

Pa’s silver revolver was smothered by an old scarf in the deepest part of your suitcase, just in case this man in the ad turned out to have lied about his identity. A 35 year old man in need of a wife to start a family with. Payment to family if wed. You had written to him four times during the winter, spring had come in full bloom to welcome you to your new home. He had promised a warm house and a dog in his lengthy letters, detailing where he lived and where his family came from. Said he was a farmhand, tending to horses and a farm he partially owned. You didn’t have much to say back, only that you lived on flat farm land your whole life, you know how to garden, cook, and sew. And to your surprise, he found that knowing how to garden was great. You always had the idea that men hated women doing any of the dirty work, but that always came from Mama’s mouth. He wrote in detail that he found your hobbies interesting and would be more than happy to let them continue, if you agreed to marry him.

“You’re set on meeting this man. Are ya sure you want to go?”

“I am.”

“Get up. Pack quickly before your Mama hears ya.”

“Pa-“

“Hurry. The train leaves soon and the carriage can only go so fast.”

And here you were, in a coach this mysterious John Price had rented to bring you from the center of Missoula to his farm an hour away. You had enough money to get you to him, but he insisted on paying the train ticket and for you to be promptly delivered to him. Perhaps you should have considered if he was truly lying and was a one-eyed bald man named Bob. That or it was that crazy preacher’s son trying to get you to marry him again. You silently prayed that this seemingly sweet man you had been writing to all winter was actually kind and respectful.

The coach stopped abruptly, it jerked you forwards and forced you to press your shoes into the withered floorboards - yet nothing happened; you were surprised. Your gaze fell to the window, gazing out to see beautiful fields and dozens of trees. Even in the early spring with the remaining spray of snow on the ground, it was gorgeous. You could hear talking, the horse neighed at the front and all you could do was gaze out the window to the massive farm.

There was talking, a deep voice who initiated the conversation with the coach driver - your heart rose into your throat. Was this where you were going to live the rest of your life? Sprawling countryside with whinnying horses, barking dogs, lush trees and dark mountains as far as the eye could see? If it was, you were content - it was better than the flat farmland you lived on your entire life. You spotted a dark brown horse, coming into your view - a nice saddle sat on its back, deep brown hair combed and black spots dotted its belly. You would have spent the next hour admiring the gorgeous horse if it wasn’t for the coach door opening. Your eyes settled on the man who held open the door, covered by a long brown coat and brown shirt. He then held his hand out, you handed him your suitcase.

The man held out his free hand to you with a smile, eyes blue like a stormy sky. It shocked you just how gentle his gaze was, every man who ever looked at you always seemed like they would rip you apart at the seams.

Not this one.

He set your suitcase down, still holding your hand in his calloused one.

Oh. He is pretty.

Dark brown beard with mutton chops somewhat kept neat, teeth a light yellow - better than most men you’ve seen.

“What if he’s mean, Papa?”

“Then you leave.”

“If I can’t?”

“Shoot him in the head. You know how.”

His hold was gentle, better than any man who had grabbed at you when you were a teenager. Disgusting men laying hands on a young girl in the streets, but scrambling back like cats when Pa snapped at them.

“You’re prettier than what I imagined.”

Your jaw almost went slack with shock - he was British? He never disclaimed that to you in his letters, but his subtle drawl of his accent made your stomach quiver. Your lips pulled a smile.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“She speaks.” He chuckled a little. “Thank you, Miss.”

The coachman closed the door behind you, John then began to lead you towards the horse you were admiring earlier - now noticing the cart attached to it. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something to pull heavy items around. Your trunk already sat on it, he led you towards the seats.

You gazed at his face, the jawline that faded into his neat beard - the way his brown hair seemed to glitter in the sunshine. He was perfect - like the daydreams you had for years.

“It’s a small ride to the house,” John turned to you, holding up your hand to help you into the seat. You stepped up onto the cart, settling down and letting go of his gentle hand so he could set your suitcase beside your trunk. You looked down at your powder blue dress, one you spent all winter making by hand - Mama wasn’t fond of you using her machine. You were proud of this dress, even if it was meant to wear for one day, you’d always be so proud of how nicely it came together, how your first meeting with the man you were to spend the rest of your life with was perfect. Being optimistic is a good trait, Papa always said.

You spent your time watching the landscape as if it moved with you, the short journey felt centuries long as your heart beat faster than a race horse. Life here would certainly be harder than home, seeing that neither of your parents allowed you to help them most days - you were left on your own. Always alone, always doing what was needed without overstepping. This was a whole new challenge; learning where to push and where to pull boundaries with one John Price.

“Have you eaten?”

You glanced to John, noting his one hand on the reigns and the other resting on his leg. Your eyes flickered up to his face, his eyes kept on the trail in front of the horse.

“I have not.”

“I will make you dinner when we arrive. Won’t be long.”

You nodded to yourself, your own hands settling in your lap, squeezing tightly together. You gazed down at your hands, the blue of your dress meant to calm you. What you missed was a soft smile from your betrothed, his gaze memorizing your face for a few seconds before looking ahead.

This is a good choice. New scenery. New people. Far, far away from that damned pastor’s son and Mama’s snide remarks.

I have faith in John. But I hold no trust yet.

Use the gun if you’re ever scared.

Dinner was quiet. He was a good cook, much better than what you were used to and you were secretly delighted. Just a simple pork and potato dinner was better than the porridge your mother barely made edible. You stood like an awkward stranger in the small living room of the one bedroom home, unsure of what to do as John had not asked anything of you yet after dinner. In fact, he was silent the moment you stepped foot into his home.

Were you doing this wrong? What had you done to make him suddenly grow quiet?

There was a dusty couch, a dirt covered rug and a barely used fireplace in the room, your hands clasped together as a way to ease your nerves. He hasn’t opened the door to the bedroom yet, that was the most nerve wracking part. You haven’t shared a bed with a man, not since you were a toddler in your Mama’s bed. It was a terrifying prospect - especially to a quiet and reserved lady, having been chased by many men back home.

At least you won’t have to worry about those leeches anymore. You have a… husband now. You will be a wife. He can protect you. Right?

“I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You jumped a little, turning to look at John as he stood a few feet away - hands settled in his pockets. The awkwardness clung to your clothes, worry brewing deep in your belly. Does he not like you now?

John settled back on his heels, to your eye he seemed calm - what you couldn’t see was the tensing of his muscles, trying to not be as nervous as you were. The way he forced his jaw open to speak wouldn’t be noticed by you either. “I wanted to uh… thank you. For agreeing.”

You curtly nodded, you fought the urge to pick at your nail beds - a nervous habit. Silence befell the room again, your gaze didn’t disconnect from John for more than a few moments, where he held his hand towards the closed door - what you assumed was the bedroom. Your stomach dropped unexpectedly, your blood grew cold and you could only watch him with a nervous glare. He gazed back at you for just a moment before he spoke to himself, seeming to chastise his previous gesture, before he opened the door. He nodded towards it again.

“I’ll bring your chest in if you want to have a look around.”

Your legs felt like they could give way at any moment, but you still walked silently towards the room - John moved out of your way, making sure there was no chance to accidentally touch you. Acting as if you were made of thin porcelain, one wrong move and you would shatter on the floor. He turned away as soon as you passed, you didn’t miss the near-silent wince he made as soon as he started walking. You looked to him, a fleeting moment, just to memorize his figure before ducking into the quaint bedroom.

A large bed was pushed into the corner, only able to crawl onto the bed on one side. A fireplace across from there, connected to the one in the living room. The floor was bare hardwood, your shoes most likely shielded you from miniature splinters. There was a mirror in the corner, reflecting the entire room from where you stood. Only a few pictures adorned cleaned spaces, photographs of places that you’ve never seen before. A bay, with ships sailing in and out. One with snow covered trees. Another with a decrepit looking house.

You were quick to change. Your eyes watched John through the mirror, his back completely to you. You threw off your nice dress as soon as you untied it - not without a little struggle - before you pulled on a long nightgown, sleeves down to your wrists and hem grazing the top of your feet. You pulled the pins from your hair,

You pulled your quilt from your trunk, your hands gripped it tightly as you turned to face your… fiancé. His back was to you, showing many light pink scars. Some were the size of your pinky, others the size of your palm. If you were brave, you would walk up to him and trace the edges of them - but you weren’t. You waited for John to finish the bed, nerves swirled in your belly. You hadn’t shared a bed with someone since your Mama stopped letting you in hers when you were six. You’re a lady, she said, ladies don’t sleep in beds with men if they’re not wed.

“We’re not married yet.” Your voice was soft, John’s hands halted as they set a pillow on the far side of the bed.

“We are not.”

“We can’t sleep in the same bed.”

The man chuckled a little before he took the pillow closest to him, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. “I forgot you wrote about that.”

Your grip tightened on the quilt. “About what?”

He yanked off the blanket from the bed, leaving the brown sheets before he dropped the blanket onto the floor next to the pillow. He turned around, it was hard not to try and gaze at his bare chest but you still kept his gaze. “Not sleeping beside each other until we were married. I meant to make my sleeping arrangements earlier but a man’s work is never done.” He shrugged, his smile softened as he nodded towards the bed. “Go on.”

You stood there for a moment, contemplating if you should sleep in his bed when he was to work the farm in the morning, but he held out his hand, the smile never fading.

“You’ll sleep alone just for the week, love.” He nodded again towards the bed. “I promise I’ll be fine on the floor.”

You silently made your way to the bed, hoisting yourself onto it before you spread your quilt over your body and the bed. It was cold, comfortable but not inviting. You supposed it wouldn’t be - you had been in this house for less than a day and the only thing comforting you was your belongings from home.

Home, you chuckled in your head. I suppose home is here now.

John fluffed his pillow on the floor, you didn’t hear an ounce of complaint as he pulled the worn blanket over himself. Your fingers traced the stitching of Mama’s sewing machine, your quilt sheltered you from the scratchy sheets on John’s bed. You could hear your mother droning on about marrying a farmhand, that you needed to go for someone with more money like a politician or a Christian - you didn’t like any man she chose, you shook your thoughts of that away. The first man you had chosen for yourself was far better than any lowlife scoundrel your Mama could find, and she would find ones that couldn’t have kindness anywhere near their greedy hides.

You slightly jumped when John spoke your name.

“Yes, John?”

He cleared his throat. “We’ll marry by the end of the week. I’ll sleep on the floor ‘til you decide you want me up there.”

“Okay.”

The stitching reminded you of home, of your cozy room with as many blankets as your Mama could make. It reminded you of quiet nights sitting with Pa on the porch, letting your mother stew inside after she made a comment that made Pa defend you. It reminded you of being little and standing outside Mama’s sewing room, hands holding your stuffed toy while you watched her sew by hand - one footstep into her room was ten minutes worth of scolding.

As you closed your eyes, you pressed your hands into your sternum. John was to be your husband, which meant children sooner or later. You promised yourself you would never scold your children for wanting to love you.

You hoped John would hold the same value.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

FOOLISH SPRING WINDS, BLOW MY WAY ; SATORU GOJO

summary; a snippet of the spring you share with a certain satoru gojo — who seems intent on making your high school life as difficult as possible.

word count; 5.4k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, enemies to friends (..but the ’enemy’ part is kinda one-sided), fluffy n sweet overall, satoru doesn’t know how to make friends + thinks lighthearted bullying constitutes as a bonding activity, he’s a little shit but he means well, switching povs, lots of gojo slander (but reader sees the light eventually), big shoujo vibes, they’re both tsunderes <33

a/n; i ended up scrapping the series i wrote this fic for originally, so i thought i’d rewrite it and repost it on its own!! teentoru is such a grumpy little kitten i need to squish his paws

satoru gojo is annoying.

it might seem blunt, but after many weeks of careful thinking, you’ve decided no description could possibly fit him better. 

when you first met him, on that first day of school, you had no idea what to think. no real expressions or tonal shifts to clue you in on who he was, how he felt — nothing but the slightest peek of a terrifying blue to set your nerves on edge. 

in hindsight, you’re almost certain it was intentional. he wanted to appear unreadable. purposefully hiding his personality and mannerisms, to gain the upper hand — observing you, dissecting you inside his mind, while revealing nothing about himself apart from his surname. 

it’s a kind of power; a safety measure.

… but evidently, holding back isn’t exactly gojo’s forte. the very next morning, he was already beginning to loosen up, after getting more accustomed to the new environment and classmates. showing you his true colours; just a little hint of cerulean, a single dip of paint on the blank canvas of his soul.

and with the revelation of his genuine personality — your unease around him festered even more.

where could you even begin to describe him? for one, he’s childish. and cocky. and loud. arrogant, selfish and flamboyant — just generally an asshole? you could go on and on. none of the traits are particularly flattering, and you know he couldn’t care less.

gojo is annoying, plain and simple. almost constantly up to something, eager to push someone’s buttons, to get attention. like a bratty toddler. uninterested in manners, or even common courtesy; he says what he feels, regardless of how other people take it. 

to put it simply, he has no regard for the people around him. his self-interest is limitless. 

as if that wasn’t annoying enough — you have no choice but to admit that he does have a certain presence to him. a kind of charisma, or what you think could become charisma, if he’d just get off that high horse already. he won’t, though. you know he won’t. he revels in it, in looking down on everything and everyone, annoyingly boisterous and irritatingly tall. freaky, long limbs. like a noodle and an alien had a baby.

but, more than anything — above all else — what frustrates you most is the fact that his unbridled confidence isn’t exactly unwarranted.

as much as it pains you to say it… gojo is maybe just a little bit incredible. a natural-born genius. he’s intelligent, and observant, and awfully pretty, with those baby blues eyes and those snowy locks of hair. and he has no issue getting what he wants. 

absolutely zero. 

there’s something admirable about it, in a twisted way. like he doesn’t even need to try. he’s good at anything, if he just gives it a single chance. you can only assume he’s never given much thought to the prospect of being a decent guy, because that’s the only thing he sucks at.

effortlessly perfect, in the most imperfect of ways. that’s probably how you’d describe him.

… annoying is still the most fitting word, though. or maybe obnoxious. he’s got this spoiled rich kid vibe that irks you, gets under your skin. you doubt he’s ever had to empathize with anyone, in his entire life. 

and, yes — maybe you’re being a little harsh to him. but why should you bother being jovial when he won’t return the favour?

gojo is annoying; and when you say that, you mean annoying to basically everyone. as a basis for existing. always teasing and taunting, looking down from that high horse of his. you’re no exception to this rule, of course. but you’re almost certain that he has it out for you specifically.

you know he looks down on you, from behind those tacky sunglasses. you’re sure of it.

compared to geto or shoko, you aren’t very self-assured — and you think he must have sensed it the moment he laid eyes on you. sensed that you’re a little meek, a bit of a doormat, easy to push around and get a rise out of. maybe he also noticed your apprehension towards him, your apparent unease. 

you’re easy prey, to put it simply.

evidently, he’s developed a fondness for getting under your skin. it started as soon as introductions were over, and it still hasn’t gotten better. he loves catching you off guard, throwing you an unneeded comment or two, just to see what reaction you’ll give him next. almost like he’s solving an equation — said equation being you, the limit of your patience. and you keep giving him what he wants; a scoff, a roll of your eyes, an earnest fuck right off. you can never seem to successfully ignore him. he’s just far, far too good at being insufferable.

… and, more than anything, he’s far too out of reach. even when you try to get along with him, it backfires. you don’t have a single thing in common. you don’t understand him at all. 

(and that suits you just fine.)

a heavy sigh slips from your parted lips, as you examine your blurry reflection in the surface of the mirror. fatigue clings to your skin like a layer of sweat, your mind muddled, stuffed with anxious thoughts and discomforting feelings.

you’re exhausted. completely and utterly spent, even though the day’s barely begun — running on three pitiful hours of sleep, all broken up and jumbled by nightmares that wouldn’t stop spooking you. not a single wink of proper rest. 

and it’s painfully obvious. in your face, your posture, the dark crescents beneath your eyes; in the way you can’t help but drag your legs as you walk, your hair disheveled, little sighs and grumbles slipping from your lips for every step you take. all you can do is sluggishly blink the exhaustion away.

you just feel so tired.

it could be worse, though. you don’t have any classes today, no real reason to get out of your comfy bed, leave the safety of your cozy little dorm room. but you need breakfast, right now, or else you’ll literally explode — so you still get up on shaky legs and try to mimic the appearance of someone… even moderately well-rested.

it doesn’t work, but that’s besides the point. 

so you make your way to the dormitory’s shared kitchen. walking idly — clumsily — enjoying the sight of fleeting, fluttering cherry blossoms through the windows you pass. little pink butterflies.

once you’ve crossed the threshold, you’re relieved to find the open space entirely devoid of people. no shoko, no geto, not even a mischievous gojo. running into the first two wouldn’t be the end of the world — but it still wouldn’t be ideal. you don’t want anyone seeing you like this, tired and meek, a little vulnerable.

(least of all gojo. you shiver at the bare thought.)

with laboured, groggy movements, you waltz around the kitchen, getting cups and plates and turning on the coffee machine. enjoying the soothing melody of the pan sizzling, singing along to the purring of espresso being made. it’s nice and pleasant to your sensitive ears, as you blink under the rays of sunlight shining in, throwing together a lazy breakfast. 

you waste no time in taking a seat by one of the tables once you’re finished. eager to soak in the peace and quiet, wolf down a sandwich and copious amounts of caffeine.

but, as always — the world seems to have it out for you specifically.

”oh? well, look who it is. and here i thought you had left too.”

you stiffen. ever so slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough that you physically feel the dread envelop every single cell of your body. the voice that echoes out across the open air is a chipper one, a familiar one. a voice you were desperately hoping not to hear today. 

all you can do is continue to sip from your cup of coffee, inwardly wincing, silently going through all five stages of grief simultaneously — before accepting your unfortunate predicament. 

(that’s just your luck, isn’t it?)

finally, you raise your weary head, knowing exactly what sight you’ll be met with once you do. 

and, lo and behold — there he is.

gojo looks the same as always. grinning brightly, a little woflish, wearing those ugly sunglasses and making his way across the room like he owns it. a trait you can’t help but admire, envy, hate and worship at the same time. he plops down next to you like it’s nothing, a little too close for comfort, unconcerned about your concept of personal space.

”whatcha up to?” he chirps, in that sugar sweet tone, layered over with a boyish kind of excitement. there’s a teasing tilt to it, too — the one that always accompanies his voice when he’s speaking to you.

under normal circumstances, you’d flip him off. maybe even just glare at him, silently, or raise a brow in challenge.

but you’re far, far too tired to. too anxious. too in need of sleep, in need of a peaceful breakfast that he oh so cruelly ripped from you. all you can muster is the energy to glance his way.

for just a second, your eyes meet. not like you can actually see them, from behind his glasses — but you know they’re there. menacing and uncanny, bright and excited. too much to handle, right now.

”… morning.”

as soon as the mutter has left your lips, you take a tentative bite of your sandwich. gaze trailing sluggishly back to your plate.

gojo blinks.

he immediately notes that your voice sounds meek. even more so than usual. he expected you to give him a scoff, or even just a timid huff — but no such luck. 

you’re just sitting there, quiet, curling into yourself.

after a moment’s consideration, gojo opts to look at you. to really look at you, study your face, the way those twitchy fingers move to curl around the ceramic handle of the cup you’re drinking out of. the way your eyes shift from place to place, unfocused, your eyelids flicking shut every couple seconds. slow.

he’s always been observant — but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re tired. 

gojo is silent, for no more than a mere moment; contemplating his next course of action. he’s never seen you like this, before. did something happen?

…

(— well, it doesn’t matter. not his problem.)

”you look like a zombie,” he grins, a little teasing, showing off the white of his teeth. even though you look out of it, he can’t help himself — despite his own intuition telling him to let you be. 

you’re just too fun to tease. suguru and shoko only ever raise their eyebrows at him, or stare him down like a misbehaving dog, but you always have a good reaction to give. something to entertain him when he’s bored, distract him when his mind is too full of noise. 

so he can’t help but tease you, a little. hoping it’ll soothe the restlessness inside his chest.

but for once, what gojo expects isn’t what he gets. 

what he expects is for you to glare at him. tell him to leave you alone, or even just sigh in exasperation — either one would be fine. it’s just mindless enjoyment, to him, a little fun to lighten up his day. 

especially now, when suguru is away on some day trip he wasn’t privy to. that traitor. shoko is nowhere to be seen, either, probably off smoking in some random alleyway. or hanging out with one of the kyoto losers.

… the whole dorm is so eerily quiet.

(gojo would never admit it, not in a thousand years… but maybe he’d feel just a little bit lonely without any of you around.)

for a while after waking up, he assumed he’d have to spend the whole day alone. no one to talk to, no one to look at. he was practically dying of boredom. but then he entered the kitchen — and saw his saving grace. his dear little irritable classmate. 

he was so relieved. content in the knowledge that he’d get to push your buttons to his heart’s desire, bask in your playful banter and cold, joking little looks until suguru finally comes home.

only this time — you don’t react at all. 

you don’t give him what he expects, don’t indulge his little antics, in the way he’s grown so accustomed to. you just keep eating your breakfast, and drinking your coffee, in total silence. 

gojo waits, just a couple moments more. hoping for a delayed reaction, a witty counter, a snarky comment. anything. 

but it never comes.

finally, he starts to sulk. slumping against the leather seat behind him, quieting down with a low huff. furrowing his brows, as his glossy, cherry-tasting lips curl down into a little pout.

honestly, he’s kind of annoyed. just what is your problem? what is with you, today? 

… it’s no fun if you’re not playing along. 

gojo can’t help but grumble, a little, under his breath. you’re usually so responsive, so easy to rile up. so what’s wrong? why are you just sitting there?

…

whatever. so what if you’re not talking to him? so what if you won’t even spare him a glance? gojo has better things to do, bigger fish to fry. he wasn’t even that excited, when he saw you. the thought of bantering with you didn’t lift his spirits, even in the slightest. 

not even a little bit.

…

but, really — would it take so much effort for you to just say something? to just respond to his friendly little quip? you can’t possibly be that tired. 

or, what — did you get insecure, or something? because he called you a zombie? no way. you’re not that sensitive… are you? or is that it? 

what a hassle.

you know he’s just messing with you. he knows you know. so why are you acting so…. 

(sad, gojo wants to think, but he buries the thought before it can reach his frontal cortex. he doesn’t want to empathize with you, not right now — doesn’t want to feel that discomforting pang in his chest.)

a strange sensation bubbles up in his chest. something frustrated, a little unnerved; at your lack of a reaction, the weak glint in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand why — and that frustrates him even more. 

why can’t you just bite back, like always?

(… it’s fun when you do.)

the silence lingers on, stretches out across the room, festers and grows as you gulp down your breakfast. all while gojo keeps on sulking, still sitting beside you, waiting for something to happen. he briefly considers getting up and leaving, or saying something annoying to hopefully spur you on —

but you stand up before he can convince himself to go through with either option.

having finished your breakfast, your legs carry you to the sink. finally, you can head back to your room. gojo’s being weirdly quiet, but you pay no mind to it; methodically washing your dishes in silence. 

you don’t bother saying goodbye to him, either. still sitting there, seemingly deep in thought, grumbling something under his breath. 

he watches as you leave, gaze trailing after you, until you’re completely out of sight. 

then he lays down, flat on his back, with a frustrated huff. trying desperately to brush away the memory of your dim eyes, the slight frown on your lips. the dark circles under your eyes, that he tried so hard not to notice because they made him feel so weirdly uncomfortable. the meek, meek look you gave him.

gojo sighs.

(he feels just a tiny, tiny bit bad.)

when you wake up from your slumber, you immediately note that your body feels lighter.

this time, no nightmares came to haunt you. having practically collapsed once your head hit the pillow, your body finally decided to give you some peace of mind, some well needed rest. thankfully.

with a groan, you lazily stretch out your limbs — enjoying the feeling of your veins waking up, gaze falling on the clock on your wall. you’ve only been asleep for about two hours, or so, but it’s more than enough to give you the little jolt of energy that you need.

what to do, what to do. you still have the whole day ahead of you. another nap wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t want to waste your precious free time just rotting in bed — maybe you could take a walk around the schoolyard instead? the cherry blossoms have started to unfurl, and the grounds of the school are just littered with them.

even just the mental image is enough to have you changing into some light and comfortable clothes, reaching a hand out to push your door open. excitement stirring in your veins.

as you do so, something is knocked over.

all you hear is a soft little thud, accompanied by the sensation of something colliding with the door. a low curiosity overtakes you — eagerly peeking around for a look at the mysterious something.

your gaze falls on something pink.

it’s tiny, awfully out of place, just laying unassumingly on the dusty floorboards. as you crouch down to get a better look, you recognize it instantly; a small carton of strawberry milk. a plastic straw plastered on its side, and an evil looking cow mascot staring at you from the front. one of the items sold in the schoolyard’s vending machines — your personal favorite. you drink it every time you need a tiny pick-me-up, the sweet taste always managing to soothe your spirits.

and it was sitting right outside your door.

you stare at it, silently, in deep contemplation. holding it in your hand as the gears turn inside your head. could someone have dropped it? no, that’s dumb — who’d drop it right outside your door and then not pick it up?

… did someone leave it for you, then? because they know you like it? that could be it, maybe, but who would —

…

your mind stills. 

(no way.)

when you think about it — that’s the only explanation that makes sense. shoko and geto aren’t there, and you barely know any of your senior students. yaga-sensei would never give you strawberry milk without a lecture on the dangers of cavities, either.

that just leaves one possible culprit.

but you can’t wrap your head around it. why would he do something like that? he doesn’t like you — you know that much. so it couldn’t possibly be him.

… then again, you have seen him drink it. both of you like it, contrary to your other classmates; shoko doesn’t like sweet things in general, and geto wouldn’t go for strawberry milk if he could choose something else. it might as well be the only thing you and gojo have in common — the one thing that binds you two together. 

a single carton of strawberry milk. 

it’s almost comical.

(if it’s really true — if he really did do it… then you wonder why. maybe he noticed that you were feeling under the weather, and figured it’d make you happy. 

you wonder if it’d be foolish of you, to believe that it’s true — if only because you kinda like the idea.)

your feet move on their own, before your mind has a chance to question the decision. 

where could he be? in the kitchen, still? in his dorm?

just as you begin to wonder, a flash of white dances in the corners of your vision. when you glance out the window, you see it; white, soft hair, like a fluffy cloud, in the midst of all the pink petals fluttering about. 

you stop.

then you start walking again. with more decision, this time. hurrying to the exit.

gojo is sitting right outside the dormitory, on a wooden bench, legs swinging idly as he gazes at the sky. his hair sways slightly with the breeze, soft strands moving and caressing his skin. pink petals dance all around him, gracefully descending down to the ground, together with a trail of bubbles. gojo is blowing them, haphazardly, following their movement with his keen eyes. they glimmer in the sunlight, reflecting all shades of the rainbow.

the sight is just a little bit breathtaking. 

the ground crunches beneath your feet, when you take a step forward — and gojo turns towards you. you stiffen like a deer in headlights, instantly regretting your decision. blinking nervously. you walked here almost entirely on impulse, but now that you’re face to face…

(it’s a little scary.)

… still, it’s far too late to back out now. you can’t do much except join him, so that’s exactly what you do — albeit a little hesitantly.

trying to ignore his continuous stare, burning into the side of your head, you plop down beside him. feeling the steady bench beneath you, breathing in the scent of sweet-smelling cherries and soap.

an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air around you both, as he waits for you to say something. 

it’s a little tough. mustering up the courage to say anything, even just to face him. the decisiveness you felt just a moment ago has faded, now only the ghost of a sensation — you’re too nervous to verbalize anything.

but eventually, after a deep breath or two, you force yourself to speak. hoping you won’t come to regret it.

”… hey, gojo?” 

it’s almost a whisper. soft and fragile, mumbled beneath your breath as you stare at the cherry trees in front of you. you know his eyes are on you, though. you can feel them, almost feel their weight in the palm of your hand. like marbles.

weakly, you raise up the carton of strawberry milk. glancing over at him, not quite managing a smile, but trying your best to look somewhat appreciative. 

”thanks.”

a confused blink. gojo looks down the strawberry milk, and then back up at you. eyelashes fluttering.

a moment passes. 

then he turns his head away, swiftly, his hair tousled by the movement — a couple pink petals stuck between the soft strands. you can’t see his face anymore.

”i have no idea what you’re talking about,” he huffs, with a voice you’ve never heard him speak through.

when you look a little closer — you think the tips of his ears may be just slightly red. it makes your lips curl up into a small smile, but you barely feel it.

(like this, he’s actually kind of cute.)

cherry blossoms flutter in the wind, dancing joyously, without a care in the world. a spring breeze ruffles gojo’s hair, as he sits beside you, having begun to blow his bubbles again. not saying a word, and looking straight ahead. but you can’t help but stare, as sneakily as you can muster.

you find yourself thinking that he looks right at home, among the petals. fleeting, hard to get a grasp on, so pretty, and so out of reach — despite being so close. 

if you wanted to, you could reach over and touch him. you could reach for his sunglasses, lift them off his face, and finally see those eyes he’s so intent on hiding. you could see him, see straight into his soul — and find out who he really is.

you won’t, though. some boundaries aren’t meant to be so callously crossed.

instead, you puncture the pink carton in your hand with the plastic straw, and take a tentative sip. the sweet taste soothes you, straight away, blooming on your tongue. you can’t help but sigh, softly, relaxing even further — it’s absolutely perfect, for this kind of weather. the sight before you, cherry petals and shining bubbles, a boy you don’t like, but definitely don’t hate. 

you both look up, following the bubbles with your eyes, as they float up into the sky; as they get smaller and smaller, farther and farther out of reach. neither of you say a word, but the silence is comforting. light. 

gojo is the first one to break it — in a voice so small you barely hear it.

”… you don’t look like a zombie.”

a second passes. you’re left blinking in confusion, trying to decipher the sudden statement. you can’t get a good read on his expression, with those eyes of his conveniently hidden; he must have regained his composure, then.

it takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in — but once they do, all pieces seem to fall into place. 

and you burst into laughter.

gojo blinks at you, caught off guard, his eyelashes flapping like a little dove scrambling to get off the ground — staring at you like you just grew a second head. that makes you laugh harder, a bout of giggles spilling past your lips — you just can’t help it. 

”did —” you wheeze, softly, thoroughly amused. trying and failing to bite back the laughter. ”did you think i was bothered by that, or something?”

gojo looks at you. a little stunned, for a moment. the sight only makes your smile bloom further, eyes crinkled as you meet his gaze. from the angle you’re viewing him through, leaning back against the bench, you catch a glimmer of his eyes. they’re awfully pretty — blue and bright, full of life. when you look closer, you can see tiny, tiny splotches of white. 

they look like the blue sky. 

you called them menacing, before, but now you aren’t so sure. they seem soft, in the sunlight, especially when seen like this — right after catching him off guard. it’s a rare moment, terribly precious. something to savour.

gojo doesn’t let it linger, though. 

after a moment of two, he scoffs — turning away yet again. a soft, soft pout on his lips.

”obviously not,” he huffs, sounding nothing but irritated, resting his jaw on the heel of his palm. ”but with how sensitive you are, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

usually, a comment like that would irk you. now it just makes you giggle, lightheartedly — the tips of his ears turning redder at the sound. 

(he really isn’t so bad, after all.)

for a while, you don’t say anything else. afraid of ruining the tender atmosphere. you feel closer to gojo than ever before — and you wonder if maybe this is the gojo that geto sees. childish, but well meaning. arrogant and cocky, but oddly innocent. selfish — but not really. you’re starting to think that you may have been slightly off, with that one.

the strawberry milk on your tongue tastes sweet. a little sweeter than usual, though you choose not to dwell on it.

”hey,” you break the silence, surprising even yourself. the words fall from your lips like soft little breaths, rolling off your tongue like marbles pouring out of a glass bottle. ”i don’t dislike you, you know?”

it’s an impulsive admission. saying it out loud doesn’t feel wrong, though. maybe a little humiliating, sure, but not wrong. not dishonest.

you suspect that gojo may be looking at you, out of the corner of his eye, but you aren’t sure. after all, you’re vehemently avoiding his gaze — a little embarrassed by your own sincerity. 

he doesn’t know how to respond. you’re being strangely unpredictable, today, and it makes him feel unsure of himself. your tone is soft, almost friendly. he only ever hears it when you’re talking to shoko or geto.

not learning his lesson, gojo opts to tease you again. as always. afraid to let the silence linger for too long. it’s a halfhearted attempt, though, more of a vaguely amused huff than anything. 

”what, got a crush on me or somethin’?”

this time, you don’t scoff, or roll your eyes, or give him an earnest fuck right off. you only chuckle, in a way that almost borders on fond. you’re not one to tease, contrary to the boy on your left, but your words are teasing even still. ”i have better taste than that.” 

gojo should be irked, should grumble and bite back, but you don’t give him the chance to. 

”i just… you know,” you taste the words on your tongue. ”i still think you’re annoying. and childish.” gojo huffs, and your lips curl up. ”but i really don’t dislike you.”

you take a sip of the strawberry milk, before continuing, hoping it’ll make the words easier to say. ”… and it’s not like i know you, anyway. so i’m sorry for making a bunch of assumptions.” 

a pause. for a split second, you quiet down, a little flustered. gnawing on your bottom lip.

”… that’s all i wanted to say,” you exhale, gaze glued to your lap. feeling a heat on your nape.

as always, you can’t tell what gojo’s thinking. out of the corner of your eye, you try to catch a glimpse of his face, but you have a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. his eyes are hidden by those sunglasses, after all, acting as a wall between him and the rest of the world. so you don’t know if the words reach him, if they mean anything at all. 

but you hope they do. even as you brush cherry petals and non-existent dust off your lap, and get up to leave.

gojo just sits there, for a second, deep in contemplation. 

he tries to bury a certain thought, before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex — before he has to accept that it exists. only this time, he doesn’t succeed. the words die before they reach his tongue, but he hears them, in his head. he hears them loud and clear.

and he flushes under the light of the sun.

(i don’t really dislike you, either.) 

what actually ends up leaving his throat is merely a scoff, so faint he doubts you even hear it. 

”whatever,” he mutters, hoping it’ll come across as cool and unbothered. it doesn’t.

one last smile reaches your face, before you head back inside. gojo stays behind, on the bench, lost in thought.

tossing the now-empty carton into a trash can, you try to calm yourself down. feeling oddly excited, as if you’ve reached something, the start of an eventual conclusion. something worth cherishing.

you still don’t understand satoru gojo. but you get the impression that you just grew a little bit closer to him. there are layers to him, more than what meets the eye, hidden behind those sunglasses of his. you can only imagine what the world might look like, from his perspective. what you look like, reflected in his eyes, a blur of colours and facial features, sparks and dots.

you wonder if the whole world looks like a painting, to him. 

you feel a little ashamed, for thinking you had him all figured out. a spoiled, self-centered rich kid, with no functional empathic abilities. it might be partially true, but you’ll have to reevaluate the statement. to see how well it holds up. you still don’t think his emotional intelligence is anything to gawk at, but you may have been underestimating it. it’s there, despite everything — in those eyes, in that single carton of strawberry milk.

you think there’s a certain maturity, there, in spite of his childishness. or perhaps the latter is no more than a product of the former, a way for damaged children to dress their wounds. the way he carries himself and the way he speaks both seem a bit forced. like he’s used to performing, used to moving in a way that demands attention. all eyes on him, at all times. 

you think that sounds just a little exhausting. 

even as you return to the safety of your dorm room, you still can’t help but wonder. there’s still so much you don’t know. despite the moment you shared, and the connection you think may be growing between you, he’s still so out of reach. almost lonely, in a way. you wonder what he looks like, when he’s alone, when there’s no one around to perform for. 

(what is an actor without their audience?)

and, despite everything, after all is said and done — you really, really don’t understand satoru gojo. not at all, not in the slightest. not one bit.

but you think you’d maybe like to.

[puppyplayhouse]

Hybrid owner Chan getting sick of your attitude!

Warnings: CNC sort of, forced oral (Chan receiving), degrading, riding, manipulation (?), sort of forced creampie, implied multiple rounds. Filth! Absolute filth.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐩་༘࿐

You've been so cranky the past week. He'd offer you something, you'd reject it. He'd take you somewhere, you'd sulk the whole time. Even when he tried to be affectionate, you were growling at him. He could usually grin and bear it. He could usually lead with patience, understanding that Hybrids didn't communicate the same way humans did.

You usually weren't such an asshole.

It's 2am by the time he gets in from the studio, and you're sitting on the couch with the volume up loud on a cartoon he couldn't care enough to take interest in. The fact that you had a staggered sleep schedule never bothered him until you decided his rules were no longer to your liking.

"Can you turn that down, please?" He asked as calm as he could, stiffling that bite that dared enter his tone as you ignored him. "Are you listening to me?" He hears you scoff and its enough for him to snap, growling his own threat as he makes his way to the couch, right hand finding your hair and tugging your head back to force eye contact as he stared down at you with narrowed eyes.

"This fucking attitude isn't very flattering on you." He's not speaking to you so much as at you, and he tugs harder at your hair when your mouth opens to speak what he assumes will be a snarky comment in return. "Don't you fucking dare talking back to me."

He shoves you forward and walks around to the front of the couch, yanking your arm to pull you down onto the floor before sitting, shaking his head in disapproval as you settle between his spread thighs. He's quick to work the zipper of his pants down, his cock shoved into your mouth within seconds leaving you no time to think about what was happening if you wanted to avoid choking violently on your own saliva.

"All fucking week you've been acting like some fucking stray. I do everything for you and all I fucking ask is for you to act like you know how to behaviour around people." He's holding your head down as he speaks, your nose pressed firmly against his abdomen sending a subtle rush of fear to your stomach. "Can't even fucking do that, can you?"

He waits for you to try and push away from him before he lets you up at all, still keeping you trapped on his cock but with just enough room to catch your breath. He can tell your mind is going empty the more pliant you become, struggling less as he harshly thrusts his cock down your throat. It's guaranteed that you won't be able to speak easily tomorrow, and maybe that's for the best.

"You wanna act like a bitch, yeah?" It's not really a question, and he laughs as you stare up at him with watery eyes and saliva streaking your chin. You look completely clueless, watching him pat his thigh as an unspoken signal for you to climb into his lap, which you follow, yelping as he grabs at your thighs and tugs your panties to the side, no remorse tinting his voice as his cock is shoved into your admittedly dripping hole. "You wanna act like a bitch so I'm gonna fucking treat you like one."

He doesn't even allow you to set the pace, holding your hips in place to allow just enough room for him to thrust up into you. He fills you in all the right ways, and the subtle burn from the lack of preparation just pushes you further into the mind-numbing pleasure he forces on you. It would be impossible for you to speak even if you wanted to, your tongue poking out of your mouth as you pant, truly embodying the word 'desperation' in a way that made him smirk dangerously.

"Filthy little mutt. Needed your owner to fuck the attitude out of you, yeah? Is my dumb slut that desperate for cock?"

You nod eagerly, moaning at his cruelty as your hands gripped at the fabric of his shirt.

"Fucking pathetic. Gonna have to fill you up with the way your cunt is gripping me."

Your eyes widened with panic, having never experienced such a thing with him before. You really do try to voice your concern, but his fingers sliding into your mouth make it so difficult to think, and you know it won't make a difference. It's too easy to just take what he gives you and worry about the consequences later.

"That's it, Pup. Take it all." He groans into your neck as he thrusts, only lasting a minute or so before he's cumming inside you, the overflow dripping down between your bodies.

You take a few minutes to gain a little sanity back before trying to move, only to be stopped by his firm grip.

"You don't think I'm done yet, do you?"

[ckret2]

Any thoughts on the Stodehttcennoc code and all the Ciphertology lore it gave us? It’s interesting to get such a look at what an actual bill cipher cult looks like, even if the majority of it is played for surreal laughs.

yeah, i'm changing all the death valley girls' last names to Cipherwife

Right when I thought we'd run out of big packets of lore and were down to the dregs, we get the stodehttcennoc story, immediately one of my favorite things to come out of TBOB. In no particular order:

a Snapewives reference??? Unexpected. Hilarious.

i LOVE the mental image of just how unhinged Bill must have looked running around in Silas's body. Like i'm imagining that by the time of the big showdown at the end he's wheeling around his limbs like Jack Skellington dressed as a scarecrow cackling like a maniac surrounded by flame. Did he have fun, i think he had fun, it sounds like he had a lot of fun. I had fun.

on a doylist level i understand that Alex wrote Bill stealing all the wives in town because that is, in fact, something that real cult leaders tend to do. however real cult leaders tend to do it because they're straight human men horny for human women and realized their power lets them get away with anything they want. so on a watsonian level, why'd BILL do it?

LOVE the look into how Bill recruits people into a cult. His interview is actually a very good example of REAL cult recruitment tactics: mystical manipulation (using tricks to make you look magical/holy/psychic/etc); driving wedges between a recruit and their loved ones; flattering the recruit, offering to help their dreams come true; but dangling the answer to all their problems just out of reach, only after they make a big commitment (often financial) (and then you require them to keep upping their commitment); pressuring them FAST to make a decision, don't give them any time to think... that's actually how it works, all packed into one page

did bill take 100+ wives because HE's horny for human women? Is he horny ONLY for female humans or did he just figure he couldn't get away with also marrying the males in 1952 rural Kansas?

Something about Bill being delighted about having so many fingers just tickles me. Especially after he dissed humans for only having five fingers in TBOB. Human hands are a joke, are they?? Seems like five fingers are enough to make him happy! ... i realize how that sounds, i won't apologize for it

I feel like a cult that's willing to eat off its fingers for you and turn a blind eye to you taking 100+ wives would probably not draw the line at something as prosaic as homosexuality. Bill, you could have had 100+ husbands too. Why didn't you.

to me, somehow the goofiness & speed at which this cult came together felt more sincerely Gravity Falls-ish than most of TBOB. Like TBOB is still Gravity Falls, but most of the content doesn't feel 100% Gravity Falls. Bill Speed-Recruits A Cult While Wearing A Corpse He's Frantically Trying To Keep From Falling Apart feels closer to 100%. It's got that je ne sais quoi, that core dumb silliness.

Why did you want over 100 wives, Bill Cipher. Why only wives. What was your motivation.

This works well with my headcanon that Bill's bread & butter isn't just manipulating individuals, but specifically cult leadership. And it's given me a lot of material to work with in as far as writing him as a cult leader. I underestimated how himself he's willing to be while courting fresh victims, I figured there'd be more "trying to sound normally appealing by human standards" going on. He calls his soon-to-be cultists dim plasma bags before he even started pitching his cult. He's REALLY willing to let his charisma do all the heavy lifting. His technique clearly isn't "convince you that he's offering the things you want" but "convince you that you want the things he's offering"

Was stealing all those wives just a power trip, Bill? Is that all it was? If it was, wouldn't persuading guys to marry you in 50s Kansas be an even bigger power move??

how did Silas get involved in this. We don't see Bill take one corpse and KEEP piloting it for long periods of time like that anywhere else, even though it's clearly an effective method of interacting with humans. Was Silas just a conveniently available corpse, or did he make a deal with Bill before he died? Or maybe Bill DOES do this frequently, and it's how he starts most of his cults.

He CAN'T have taken all those wives for "I'm attracted to humans but only the female ones" purposes. In spite of the sheer quantity of references to female exes I am unable to believe that this triangle is heterosexual.

I'm requiring anyone who draws young skinny white human Bill Ciphers from hereon to switch from the sexyman human Bill to Silas Birchtree. 1950s huckster with a golly-gee-whiz face and evil in his eyes and rot on his breath is the pinnacle of what any young skinny white human Bill could possibly be. Also it's interesting to see Bill's justification for being a snappy dresser, that it's a trojan horse for chaos.

questions about bill's orientation aside, my gut says Bill MUST have wanted a bunch of wives and not husbands for some other reason, he didn't ACTUALLY want 100+ wives for sexual/romantic purposes.

or did he

bill explain the cipherwives

[glitter-stained]

As you are THE Jason Todd truther I need to show you this if you haven't seen it.

https://www.thepopverse.com/comics-dc-batman-jason-todd-red-hood-huntress-new-series-2025

First of all I'm flattered that you think highly of my Jason opinions

I think I'm gonna answer this ask and the other one I got and then I think I'm not gonna talk about this comic again until it's out and I've read it.

When I first got told of the announcement, I was extremely concerned for two reasons:

-Jason and maybe Helena seem to be investigating a cop killer => I expected this comic to be full of copaganda.

-the variant cover and the rating of the book heavily hint at the possibility of jayhel (though that cover might still be bait, it's not for sure!) My biggest concern with that, as a Barbara fan who was just about to get into huntress and think she sounds really cool, is that Helena was gonna get basically dickbabbed. Having since gotten more info on the writer, I'm far more optimistic that this isn't going to happen. Now I personally don't really vibe with the ship, however I think a lot of it hinges in the execution. I feel like for ships, it's a lot like combat, where people are quick to powerscale and ask "would it be OOC for this person to do that (aka "date this person"/"lose against this person)" instead of asking "in which circumstances would it be in character for that to happen". And sometimes it will be OOC no matter what (like, take Jason/Joker, I can't envision a world in which that's in character), but a lot more hinges on context and execution than we give writers credit for. Another question is "do I want to see it"/"am i interested in seeing this development", which, again, I don't ship jayhel, but I think good enough writing can sell you on a lot of things you weren't previously interested in. I don't vibe with dc's belief that Jason just has to have a love interest, but even if the ship isn't compelling to me, I'm not too worried about it being super insulting to Helena which was my biggest concerns.

Now as for the writer herself, she is a trans woman. From what I've heard of her works in beast world, she did some things I'm not a fan of (implying that Jason's killing in UTH was mostly selfish and motivated by a desire for revenge) and some things I'm very much a fan of (bring an element of class consciousness to red hood's character (which, as a jaybin fan, is so essential imo and one of my biggest gripes with winick), make him criticize cops, turn him into a big dog). I do need to read that comic. But whether or not one likes gfm's writing and politics, I think it's important to keep in mind how much more scrutiny queer women are exposed to from the fandom compared to male writers. Devin Grayson's writing has its issues with racism, but she did try, apologize, and grow, and this fandom brutally bullied her out of DC on the crime of writing Dick getting raped. Meanwhile Marv Wolfman, who did it twice and without any of the respect, empathy or even acknowledgement that Grayson put into it, still gets lauded as an NTT writer to the day. When called out on their misogyny, haters will bring up the racism as an excuse why Grayson is so uniquely terrible meanwhile I recently saw someone recommend Dixon's (you know, the neo-nazi) Nightwing run (the one in which he makes Nightwing a cop) as "universally loved" by the fan. Meanwhile, Tom King is writing Wonder Woman.

All that to say, GFM is gonna be exposed to so much more scrutiny than her peers, and that's so important to keep in mind and remember that we are getting a Red Hood ongoing that is not written by Lobdell. Genuinely people, this is great! Jason fans have been trapped with Lobdell for so long, and now he's being written by someone else! I'm not saying you have to like her takes, or that the comic is going to be great, but I feel like the least I owe her is to withhold my judgement until I actually read the book. And to remember that even if the comic turns out mid, that's already a win compared to the terrible writing we've had before!! I am hungry for a mid jason comic, for Jason content that I'm gonna actually be able to read without wanting to set something on fire, even if it's not great or revolutionary by any means.

The art does look very annoying (Jason looks old and I'm not a fan of Helena's suit and pose) but even with that, we've seen very little of it, and the angel imagery looked very cool. And again, we've seen very little of it.

I think the promo/way it was introduced was annoying as fuck, but it is far, far too early for me to be upset about it. In the meantime, that's just one more reason for me to get caught up with Helena, which I was already planning on doing, and be relieved that whatever happens, it's still not Lobdell.

[colourstreakgryffin]

Cat demon! Reader who is just a little sh!t with people they consider friends(Alastor and Vox, but separately, pretty, please? Or whichever of them you want to right.)

Oh no. No. Of course I’ll do both of them seperately! It’s a pretty interesting concept but I’ll try my best to try this out for you, love. To be honest, I can imagine our mean demon babes would LOOOVEEE this type of us!

Alastor

Alastor cannot tell if he’s beyond pissed off with you or beyond impressed with you. He feels both coursing through his veins whilst watching your every movement like a hawk

You’re singlehandedly the most annoying and irritating and agitating thing he’s ever seen… and Niffty is bad enough as it is. You just make him want to tear off his own ears more than the Hotel’s cyclopian maid does to anybody else

You’re the physical embodiment of the phrase; ‘an adorable little shit’. You’re a very pretty cute fluffy little cat sinner that looks like a darling but you’re not at all, you’ll always pick on and prank the people you love the most and that’s applies to Alastor, if not the most

And Alastor has the ability to contain his patience of a single stepped-on pastry trying to keep it all its cream filling… so, you shouldn’t push him as much as you want to, unless you want him to truly lash out at you but it is funny to see his mad huffy face

However, Alastor does find you amusing and impressive so really, he’d only give off harsh warnings and wouldn’t truly put his hands on you since he likes you as you like him, just warnings if you continue being a little shit to him any further

Yes, Alastor is a hypocrite. He hates it when you irritate him with your love-filled pranks and head bats but he’ll happily manipulate you to direct your agitating little shit energy onto his worst enemies or other innocents. It’s quite fun to watch from the sidelines that you’re serving him

“If only your adorable face would save you from annoying me, my dear. Such a precious cat with a foul mouth…”

Vox

If Alastor gets annoyed by you and your little gremlin attitude and energy, Vox is much worse and he is less patient than Alastor with you, however… he’s more directive

Vox keeps you around since you’re amusing to watch piss of all your beloveds in your precious but irritating little jokester self but the moment you target him, he’s zipping away to avoid the headache

Vox is aware that your actions and your pranks and your annoyance is all formed through love so he is flattered by the like you have for him but he’d prefer you don’t touch him with that

Vox can quite snappy at you if you don’t follow his orders of ‘don’t annoy me’ but like Alastor, he would never hit you. He only yells and threatens, he can’t actually hurt you since he likes you. Even if you’re the most annoying thing in Hell

Vox does find you absolutely adorable though. He doesn’t know who doesn’t. You’re a little cute fluffy demonic cat sinner with big pan-sized eyes but big claws. He absolutely loves yet hates it

He definitely considers hiring you as one of his employees, maybe his top employee so he can exploit your love and care to him onto others for both of your enjoyment. He does keep you in mind, not like he can really ship you off anyway

“Come here, Kitten~ oh yes. Come here and go bother Uncle Val for me and I’ll give you lots and lots of treats. That’s my good little kitty~”

[bobbyseyesmile]

Obsession |

(Attitude series part 3)

Summary: Y/N has to think about what she wants: a rather safe life with Shane but she‘ll lose her sanity and might explore parts of her own mind she must sacrifice or will she put a bullet, between his perfect brown eyes, as the rational side of her brain tries to advise her.

A/N: soo uhm, i‘m sorry (no i‘m not lol) this is filth. HAVE FUN also thanks to my lovely @angel-litter who inspired me to write a third part

Characters: Dark!ShaneWalsh x Reader

WARNINGS: age gap (reader is 18+) / explicit sexual content, swearing - I can’t stress enough that this is a dark fic: Shane is a mean motherfucker and just takes what he wants. Don’t like, don’t read. You’ve been warned.

Trigger warning: dub-con | 18+

🔞 MINORS DNI below the cut! 🔞

➻ Part 2 [M]

The sun was setting over the horizon, casting long shadows over the prison walls. The world was quiet, save for the distant groans of walkers and the occasional rustle of leaves.

The group had settled for the evening, a small fire crackling in the front yard, warming the people who stood guard for the night. Shane Walsh sat on the outskirts, cleaning his gun with practiced ease. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as you approached.

"Something you need, princess?" Shane drawled, his voice tinged with mockery.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Just checking to make sure you’re not planning to run off again. Wouldn’t want the group’s supposed protector to abandon us."

Shane smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. He knew exactly what you were getting at: On last week’s supply run he disappeared for hours, nobody knew where he went and Rick got nervous as the hours passed by. When the sun began to set Shane casually walked towards the prison, not even batting an eye that almost everyone was looking for him.

Everyone but you. You kept telling yourself to stay away from him, not getting pulled into the dark abyss that surrounded Shane Walsh. He was a hothead and dangerous as he preferred to work alone instead of teams.

Your father worried a lot about the future; your mom’s pregnancy wasn’t helping at all. Thankfully you found the prison and its large protective walls that kept you save; as long as everyone was willing to do their part.

Except Shane fucking Walsh.

Shane’s eyes shamelessly wandered over your body, relishing the memories when you were a whimpering hot mess. His whimpering and hot mess. The older man knew exactly what chokehold he had over you and he so wished to make that chokehold a reality.

“Don’t worry about grown men business, little girl. Get your sexy ass back to the others, I’m sure your daddy needs you to count all the peas in the kitchen.”

Rage boiled inside your stomach and you stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest as its been months since you’ve been this close to him. “You know, Shane, it’s a wonder you keep others and yourself safe with that big ego of yours. Must be hard to fit through the doorways.”

It wasn’t your best comeback but something in his eyes flickered; a tiny hint of anger that washed over his face, giving you a feeling of satisfaction.

Shane chuckled, leaning back and taking in the sight in front of him. "My ego ain’t the only thing big but you already know that, don’t you baby?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, but you refused to back down. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just a big fish in a small pond."

"Oh, is that so?" Shane stood up, his towering presence making your heart race even more. He stepped closer, bodies almost touching. "You seem pretty interested in this big fish even though you try so hard to stay away from me."

You gulped and put a hand on his chest to keep some distance between, afraid someone might be watching you. “Sh-shut up, Shane.” His large hand wrapped around your wrist, giving it a harsh tug to close the distance between your bodies. You let out a small whimper; music to his ears and it made him contemplate the idea of fucking you right here right now.

“Careful, lamb, or I might need to remind you of your past lessons… but you’re not entirely hating the idea of that, do you?”

Your pulse quickened at his words, a mixture of anger and desire swirling within you. You turned your face to escape his intense stare, but Shane was relentless. His grip on your chin was firm, forcing you to face him again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. You wan’t me on your side, ya listen? Don’t push me away or ya won’t like the outcome.”

His voice was low and dangerous, each word sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze, the raw power and emotion in his eyes both thrilling and terrifying.

“Shane-“ you whimpered “You’re hurting me.”

His dark eyes glistening with excitement. “Good. I know you like it.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your chest. You hated how he made you feel, how he could so easily break through your defenses. But beneath the anger, there was something else—something that scared you even more than Shane’s crazy look. You were falling for him. Falling hard.

Shane's hand moved from your chin to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. "You feel that?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost tender. "That's your heart racing because of me.” His thumb continued to caress the soft skin until he positioned it under your chin, chocking you in a harsh grip.

“And I bet that’s your sweet lil' pussy, all flustered and dripping, begging for my cock. Ain’t that right, girl?”

As fast as his grip appeared on your neck it also disappeared as your father turned around the corner.

“There you are, sweetheart!” he spoke, voice soft and filled with love as he laid eyes on you. “Your mom needs you in the infirmary. Hershel’s already with her.”

Rick’s eyes wandered between you. “Everything alright here?”

“Well, I found Y/N wandering all alone out here. She should be inside after curfew.” Shane clicked his tongue as you threw him a spiteful glance. A smirk played around his lips as your father agreed.

“He’s right, Y/N. You know the rules; only the designated guards are allowed outside after 10 pm.”

“But, dad-“

“Zip it, honey. Go help your mother, she’s having another nauseous episode.”

“Great…” you whispered under your breath but softened your gaze when you noticed your father’s look. He was tired. “Okay, I’ll look after her.”

“That’s my baby girl.” he gave you a kiss on your forehead before starting to walk away. Shane waited for him to disappear around the corner before giving your ass a harsh slap.

“Ouch! What the fu-“

“Think of me when you bury your fingers in that sweet cunt tonight. As you do every night.” He whispered in your ear before giving you a slight push. “Now go.”

Almost two weeks passed and you managed to stay out of Shanes way, he was more impulsive than ever. Running around, barking commands and undermining your father as the leader of the group. You despised it, truly hated him and his behaviour but still you lied awake at night, thinking about his fingers and the way they would feel inside y-

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

You teared your mind away from the sinful fantasies it fabricated and turned your head towards your father. The group was sitting around a big table, eating dinner and discussing plans for the oncoming days.

“Huh?” you raised your eyebrows and saw as Shane frowned at you.

“Hell naw, she’s not even listening. Damn, Rick! She’s not fucking ready!” Your father sighed, rubbing his forehead in annoyment.

“No! I listened, I’m ready!” you quickly lied and Shanes eye twitched. He knew you were lying but of course Rick didn’t notice it.

“Really?” he asked and you quickly nodded, a tad to enthusiastic.

“Fine. Then it’s settled; you and Shane go on the supply run for this week.” You nodded once again, way less excited now and looked at Shane who had his arms crossed in front of his broad chest. “You listen to everything he says, is that clear, Y/N?”

Shane smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, she will, Rick. She will.”

The next day the afternoon sun was setting, casting a dim, ominous light over the abandoned neighborhood. You and Shane moved cautiously through the empty streets, listening for any signs of movement.

"Stay close," Shane ordered, his voice gruff.

"I can take care of myself," you shot back but he ignored your sassiness as leaves rustled in distance.

As you approached an old, dilapidated house, the distant groans of walkers grew louder.

"Great," you muttered. "Just what we needed."

"Inside," Shane barked, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards the house.

Shane pushed you through the door, slamming it shut behind you. He quickly pushed a heavy piece of furniture against it, barricading you in. The walkers outside pounded against the walls, their growls echoing through the house.

You anxiously paced the room, nerves on edge. "This is just perfect. We’re trapped."

Shane ignored you, his focus on securing the surroundings. "We’ll be fine. Just stay quiet."

You stopped and glared at him. "You always think you know best, don’t you?"

Shane turned to face you, his eyes cold and hard. "Someone has to keep their head on straight. You’re too busy playing daddies little girl."

"Playing what?!" your voice rose. "I'm trying to survive, just like you!"

Shane stepped closer, his presence intimidating. "You think you can survive without me? You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me."

Your heart pounded, a mix of fear and anger flooding your veins. "I don’t need you, Shane. I can handle myself." He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "You keep telling yourself that, princess. But we both know the truth: your little crush isn’t that little anymore. You’re pathetic trying to deny it.”

You took a step back, but Shane followed, his eyes dark with a dangerous intensity. "Why are you doing this?" you demanded but your voice gave away. "Why do you have to be so… mean?"

"Mean?" Shane’s voice was low and menacing. "You think this is mean? You haven’t seen anything yet. I’ve been holding back, but maybe it’s time you learned just how serious I am."

Your breath hitched as Shane backed you against the wall, his body towering over you. "Shane, stop," you said, voice trembling.

"Stop? Why would I stop? You need to understand something, Y/N. You’re mine. You belong to me. And I’m not letting anyone, or anything, take you away."

Shane studied your eyes; they were filled with a mix of fear and defiance. "You don’t own me, Shane. I’m not yours to control."

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you have a choice? You think you can just walk away? You can’t, I won’t let you, ever.”

His lips crashed onto your own, fierce and demanding, his hands roaming possessively over your body. You tried to push him away, your brain telling you to get away from him but the wetness between your legs mocked you. Your own body betrayed you.

Shane’s hands gripping your waist, pulling you against his hard chest, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and arousal. You let out a moan as his knee pushed against your clothed sex, roughly rubbing you through your jeans. You needed more, more of him.

“Shane-“

“Shut up.” He spit back, his fingers ripping the button off your pants. “All I want to hear are those pretty moans, you understand?” You wanted to protest but the look in his eyes made you change your mind so you just nodded. “Good girl.”

You sighed when his fingers finally touched you, he stroked them over the drenched material of your panties. “Of course.” he mocked and shoved a finger inside your entrance.

He set a fast and rough rhythm but you didn’t mind, all that mattered was the pure bliss that slowly spread through your system. “M-more.” you begged and it made him snort.

“Needy little whore. You can’t handle more but I’ll give it to you anyways.” A second finger entered you, spreading the tight walls to his liking.

Shane watched your face, your hooded eyes and slightly parted lips with a small whimper escaping here and there. But he needed you to understand that you were his, there was no escape from him. He needed you to scream his name.

“Fuck, darling, your little cunt is tight. This I will enjoy-“ You opened your eyes and glanced at his hardened cock, his tip red and angry and glistening with precum. Shane knew you were a virgin and it almost made him lose his mind as he imagined taking your innocence away for the first time. He saw the fear in your eyes and he loved it.

He lifted you up, slowly pushing inside you, watching all the emotions washing over your face and you never looked more beautiful to him.

“I c-can’t-“ you whimpered and he came to a stop, waiting for your eyes to open. When you did you saw his eyes soften, almost tenderly. But just a moment later you noticed the smirk around his lips. “You will.”

His cock suddenly entered you with such a force it squeezed all air out of your lungs, leaving you gasping between his chest and the wall he had caged you in. The sharp pain made your brain panic but your body, oh your body welcomed him with such ease it was almost embarrassing.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight-“ he groaned and his fingers dug into the soft skin at your hips. It would leave marks, you were sure, but couldn’t care less.

The pain slowly faded into a completely unique and new feeling, a feeling deep inside you. Something your fingers never managed to even scratch the surface of it. You bit your lips till you tasted blood, his length filling you up at a relentlessly pace. Shanes hand circled around your delicate neck, the grip of his fingers began to tighten leaving you chocking around them. The lack of air left your brain in a hazy state.

You weren’t even sure how it was possible for him to be this deep inside you; his length made it seem impossible but your body proved you wrong as your hungry cunt swallowed him whole. Shane felt his release approaching the more he watched your face and listening to your sloppy moans.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth hung open for a silent cry but nothing came out as your orgasm washed over you in intense waves; your blood rushing in your ears as you came all over his dick.

Shane roughly claimed your lips once again, dominating the kiss as it left you literally breathless. His grip on your waist increased, threatening to break you in half as he fucked you through both of your highs. He gave one final thrust before he came hot and heavy, painting your insides white.

The euphoria from your first time quickly vanished as you felt the warm liquid dripping down your legs. Shane noticed the panic in your eyes and let out a hoarse chuckle.

“Thought I was joking when I said I’ll never let ya go, huh? You’re fucking mine forever, princess.”

The rational part inside you was ready to run, to grab the nearest object and bash it over his head but the other part, the part that was hopelessly in love with this psychopath of a man, stayed still.

Accepting your new fate as you felt his lips on your ear:

“And I’ll kill everyone that comes between us.”

[vanillinwrites]

yandere Char Aznable

a/n: I recently watched mobile suit gundam, and mobile suit gundam origin, and I loved it! in fact, i loved it so much i had to write a tiny little profile on yandere char! i wrote this all in one sitting, and without much proofreading, so forgive any mistakes. i just had a lot of motivation to write this. i know gundam is a dead fandom but it brought me a lot of joy to write.

Char Aznable-

-the calculating type of yandere, outwardly cold and aloof but secretly obsessive and doting. deeply controlling and possessive. Char is completely lucid- he knows what he doesnt is wrong, and that love shouldn't look like this, but he finds himself unable to care as long as he gets what he wants. Because of this, he isnt bothered if you are bothered by his behavior, he knows you’ll come around with time and constant manipulation from him.

-likely to approach you and try to charm you in a normal way before trying the full yandere approach. It’s likely he’s seen you around once or twice, and you caught his eye each time. It’s strange for him to have his interest drawn by someone, so he indulges in talking to you. He doesn't really expect anything to come of it, but once he talks to you he’s hooked and can't let you go. 

-he's naturally charismatic, so he has optimism that he can sway his darling without resorting to manipulation, blackmail, kidnapping or murder. Because honestly, he’d rather you think highly of him without fear if at all possible. 

-it's easy for him to sway most people to his side; he can always make people see the best in him. Not to mention all his prestige from his years in the military and as a mobile suit pilot. For that reason, it's likely he'll be able to capture his darling's heart without much work. 

-its likely his darling wouldn't agree with the things he does, so he doesn't take the risk of letting them know the real him. Not Casval, and not the Char who will do whatever it takes to reach his goals. Instead, you meet the ace pilot, the red comet, the war hero. Anything below that is carefully hidden from view. 

-he knows all the right things to say; offering just enough about himself to make you comfortable enough to tell him about yourself, eagerly taking in every word. It’s like everything you say is a new victory, a new opportunity to pry deeper into your life. It’s amazing how easy it is to talk to him, you thought he’d be intimidating, you thought he’d have better things to attend to, you thought he wouldn't have time to listen to you talk about your favorite books or foods or even funny little stories. But he seems interested in you in a way no man ever has been. It’s strange how even when you share more than you should, for some reason, you don't feel embarrassed, you just feel heard, listened to. It feels like talking to an old friend. Maybe you don't mind that, or maybe you’re suspicious; but no matter how you look at him, you can’t find anything out of place. Maybe you should just forget about your worries and accept the newfound attention he gives you.

-he wants your admiration; he wants you to think highly of him. I don't think he needs his darling's praise exactly, but he’d certainly like it. He wants you to blush and smile when the red comet talks to you like you’re the only one in the room, he wants you to be flattered by the attention. On some level, he’d like for his darling to be in love with him. It’s not a need at the start, he’ll settle for you simply being compliant or even skeptical, so long as you aren't too difficult. But as time goes on he does everything in his power to make sure you fall for him.

-but if his darling doesn't fall for him- either they can see the cracks in his facade, or their heart is not so easily won- he won't hesitate to resort to violence and manipulation. 

-I think at first it’s a subtle pressure. Everyone around you expects things from you; everyone would consider you a fool to reject Char Aznable. Everyone tells you how lucky you are to have caught his eye. How happy you’ll be with him. But for some reason you can't believe them- you feel something is off about him, like there’s something no one else can see.

-And not only that, but your friends seem distant lately, like they don't care for you anymore. In fact, it seems like everyone around you just doesn't have time for you anymore. When loneliness sets in, as well as the creeping worry that something is wrong with you that drives people away, maybe you’ll be more receptive to his company. Afterall, he is kind, and funny, and he always makes time for you. Maybe he’s the only person in your life who really cares about you.

-he will do whatever it takes to make his darling his. If he has to isolate you from everyone in your life, if he has to have you removed from any social or political position you’re in, if he has to kill everyone you love, if he has to steal you away to his side- all of it is worth it if he can have you. In fact, he doesn't even feel bad for it. Seeing you cry is…disquieting, but he’s sure you’ll calm down with time. Time heals all wounds, afterall. 

-he doesn't like to hurt you, avoids it even. there’s always something else he can do to make you yield; violence is almost never needed. But he scares you regardless. Something in him is so cold when he’s not putting effort into making himself seem loving and kind. When you upset him you can see the facade drop, can see him turn into somebody else. This is who he really is, you realize in those brief instances. The Char you know is a lie. If you say something he doesn't like, he’ll ask you to repeat yourself. It’s best not to, to assure him that it was nothing, that you hadn't said anything or that you hadn't meant it. If you do something that displeases him, he’ll make you say aloud what you did; he’ll make you explain aloud to him exactly what you did even knowing he’d be angry. It’s best to apologize and beg and plead with him, say it was an accident, say you didn't mean to, say you didn't know he’d be upset. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.

-if there’s one thing Char loves, it’s seeing you beg. Maybe it’s the assurance that making him happy is important to you, maybe it’s knowing the power he holds over you, maybe it’s how you look just a little bit pathetic- pathetic, but still so perfect- maybe it’s some sick thrill that comes from the tone of your voice and the endless streams of ‘please’s’ and ‘Char’s’. No matter the reason, beg and he’ll almost always humor you. He’s aware of what you’re doing, but if it’s worth sacrificing your pride he’ll oblige you.

-life with him isnt bad once you settle into it, all things considered. He treats you well, not quite spoiling you, but certainly making sure you’re well cared for and never in want for anything. He loves to show you off, is proud to call you his and is eager to let everyone know as such. He regards you warmly, speaks to you like he cares for you above all else. It’s easy enough to see him as a lover- once you can see past all the horrid things he’s done- and with enough time and pressure from Char, you will. 

-The man who has enacted such horrors will feel more and more like a myth as time wears on. Because your Char is kind. Your char is handsome. Your Char is so gentle. He treats you like you’re glass, but never with disrespect. He treats you like you’re worth all he’s done for you. 

-once you’ve settled well enough into his affections, he loves to have you near him at all times. At parties thrown in his honor, at meetings you shouldn't be allowed to attend- but you’re allowed because he insists- even in his ship. He wants you at his side. No matter where you are, he needs you as near as the circumstances allow; a hand on your waist, an arm around you, your hand in his. If you’re somewhere private or relaxed enough, he loves to have you sit in his lap- it feels intimate without being vulnerable on his part, but of course he’d never force you and he’d never use it to degrade or embarrass you. Afterall, being with him isn't a punishment and he’s adamant you don't see it as such.

-sometimes it’s hard to believe he loves you; after all the lives he’s taken, after all the people he’s hurt, after all he’s taken from you. How can a man like him love at all? How can a man who feels no sorrow or remorse or warmth feel love? It’s best not to ask him these questions, no matter how they burn in your mind. When the words leave your mouth you can see his demeanor shift- even with his eyes covered, you can tell he doesn't like what you’ve said. He’ll ask if you really think so lowly of him, and it’s best for you if you yield and assure him that you don't, that you just misspoke. 

-sometimes you do believe he loves you, but you can't figure out why. What about you was so special? What had caught his eye? Couldn't you be replaced by anyone? You wonder what he sees in you. It’s painful to love someone so renowned and respected when you feel like you’re nothing at all. He reassures you when your mind wanders like this, that you’re the only one he could ever love, that his heart has never beat for another. These words flatter you, but they speak a truth that is both exciting and terrifying- that he can't feel anything for anyone but you.

-he doesn't revel in stealing away your freedoms, and is careful to never let you lose the spark he fell in love with, but he has no qualms about taking from you either. It’s best not to upset him, because he knows you better than you know yourself, and if you upset him he’ll surely make you pay for it. Even when you think you have nothing left to lose, he’ll find something more to take. 

-While he rarely lets himself dwell on it, he’s lost a lot in his life- his parents, his adoptive father, his real identity- and he’s determined not to let you go now that you’ve caught his eye. It’s likely he doesn't realize just how afraid he is to lose you. The conviction not to lose you gives him strength and resolve to do anything it takes to keep you at his side forever.

-it’s possible Char himself doesn't realize how deeply he feels for you- he knows he cares for you, and that he hasn't cared for anyone in a long time. He knows he sometimes can't keep his mind off of you- even though his thoughts used to be so singular. He knows he wants you near him every second of the day, and that even when you're near you can never be near enough. But he doesn't notice when his attraction spirals into obsession, doesn't notice when his interest becomes love, and doesn't realize when he ceases to merely want you and now needs you like he needs to sleep or eat or breathe.

-in his mind, he downplays how important you are to him. Promises himself that you are a luxury that he could part with if needed. That you would never get in the way of his goals. That you aren't a liability or a weakness. If he could admit to his own faults, he’d be forced to realize that he never should have let you get so close to him.

[genyasbf22]

Genya having a crush on a Male! Reader (rewrite)

Note: I changed the ending part at 4 am because I realised it was rushed…..enjoy your daily dose of doomed yaoi

Trope: angst

PS - Reader is a minor !! Please don’t be creepy thank you very much

You always knew what you were. You never really was attracted to women, and honestly, you didn’t really care. When someone asked you if you had a fiancé/girlfriend, you had no problem telling them you weren’t into girls. You were very much aware that being attracted to the same gender was only gonna cause you problems, not being able to marry, not being able to have kids, not being allowed to love your partner in public.

But who cares ? You were a demon slayer. Love didn’t matter. You were gonna die sooner or later, so finding love wasn’t your priority. You had friends anyways, very good friends. One in particular.

On the other hand, Genya Shinazugawa had no idea of what sexuality was. He was always taught that men falls in love with women. I mean, its normal right ? Never in his life he has imagined that maybe, men who loved other men and women who loved other women existed. When he grew a little older, he vaguely heard of homosexuality. And don’t take it to heart, but it grossed him out at first. Boys who likes boys ? That’s so weird…why on earth would someone refuse to love a girl and date a man instead ?

-

You two met a long time ago, before you officially entered the demon slayer corps.

It was the final selection. You were about 14 years old. You had to stay in those dark, hostile mountains for 7 days, trying your best to survive against demons. You saw multiple people your age getting killed, and to be fully honest, you struggled keeping your calm (which was understandable).

While you were trying to figure out if a demon was following you, you saw a tall, black haired boy from afar. He looked around your age, and you wanted to team up with somebody to feel safer. So you came up to him. It caught him off guard that you talked to him at first, He was probably expecting to work alone.

He refused to team up with you at first, assuming that you were ”too weak” and that ”you’ll slow him down”. How rude, why would he assume things about you when you two didn’t even know each other ?

For some reason, he ended up accepting anyways.

Nothing special happened during those 7 days. You two barely spoke to eachother. Just slaying demons and trying your best to survive.

Sometimes though, you could notice him staring at you for a little too long. But you didn’t pay much attention to it.

After the final selection, You said goodbye to Genya, telling him to be careful out there, and to take care of himself. He simply ignored you. What was his problem ?

Month later, you saw Genya again during a mission. What a coincidence you thought, maybe it was a sign for you two to become friends ?

You tried your best to be as patient, as nice to Genya as possible. He ended up ”tolerating you” enough to stop him from yelling at you all the time (which was a great start !) After achieving several missions together, you two slowly grew closer. Your personality matched his surprisingly well. You learned a lot about him, and he learned a lot about you. Genya started to open up to you about his brother and his struggles, asking you for advices. You were always very patient and made sure to tell him that you’ll always be there for him, which he was grateful for. He never told you, but you were his first real friend and his best friend, ever.

But things started getting weird. Well, i wouldn’t say weird, but complicated at least.

It was the first time in a long time Genya hadn’t met someone who showed so much interest with him. You were always carefully listening to whatever he was saying, the spark in your eyes never leaving. It flattered him a lot. He admired you so much, the way you fight, the way you spoke, the way you act with people. There was a desire in him that wanted to become closer to you. The more he hung out with you, the more he wanted you to spend time with him.

He didn’t know what that feeling was at first, obviously. He thought it was nothing but pure platonic appreciation. For him, being jealous whenever someone gets a little too close to you was completely normal. For him, his heart thundering in his chest whenever you complimented him was nothing but ordinary. For him, feeling his cheeks burning when your face was too close to his was a common thing. It’s normal right ? Boys don’t like boys. People like that are absurd. He’s not one of them. He’ll never be one of them.

One day, Genya had a big fight with his older brother, the wind Hashira. You hated that man. You hated the way he treated your dear friend. You had warned Genya about Sanemi a lot, telling him to never say anything about him eating demons. You knew damn well what he could do, and you wanted to do anything to prevent that from happening.

But Genya just didn’t listen. You knew he was stubborn, so when you saw him bleeding from his cheek after returning from the wind Pillar’s domain, you weren’t surprised.

You were anxious, you were tired, but you couldn’t be mad. Not at him. Genya was devastated from what just happened, he needed your presence and your support. You knew his relationship with his brother was putting him into a lot of pressure, the only thing you had to do was to find a way to cheer him up a little.

You didn’t have much time to do something for him. It was evening, shops were closed, so you couldn’t buy him any watermelon, like you usually did. It didn’t really matter anyway, Genya needed your reassurance, nothing else. So you helped him clean his wound and stayed with him for the rest of the day.

The sun was set, the night was slowly rising. You had to go home soon. You looked at your friend one last time. He looked back at you.

He loves you, you love him. It was pretty obvious, but ignoring that feeling was easier. You knew Muzan was going to attack the corps sooner or later anyway, you’ll probably die soon, but why does it matter ? So many thoughts running in your mind, oh how you wished life was easier.

You stare into Genya’s eyes. How perfect this man is. And suddenly your hand feels empty, aching to hold his. Suddenly you want to grab his face and kiss him, feel his lips against yours, fully love him the way you always wanted to.

But you can’t do this, you can’t do this to him, you can’t ruin you two’s friendship you knew he cherished. So you stay quiet, suddenly avoiding his gaze, looking down at the floor. You say goodbye, you tell him to take care of himself, to stay safe. He smiles slightly, waving at you.

And you’ll never know, you’ll never know how much he wished you could’ve done it, you’ll never know how much he craved your affection. You’ll never know how much he adored you, how much he needed you.

- - -

Author’s note: I’m sorry 😭

[cloudcountry]

Not a request, just contemplating this idea because of the post you reblogged recently.

What do we think those flaws that each ghoul can tolerate are? And which ones do we think they can’t?

Like, Ren wouldn’t be put off by someone who is very anti-social and doesn’t want to go anywhere, since he also prefers to just stay in his room, but someone like Kaito, who likes going out places, would probably be disappointed by that.

Haru, being so busy, would likely struggle with a clingy partner (we literally see that be a problem with Towa) while (speak of the devil) Towa would have no issues with that because he’s just as bad, if not worse, when it comes to that.

Just fun things to think about (My Jabberwock bias is showing in my examples lol)

u made me think about this too T0T this is such an interesting concept ... i hope people enjoy even though its just my thoughts SDJJSDD

i think youre right on the money with jabberwock, so i'll give you my two cents for everyone else !!!! :3

~~~

What do we think those flaws that each ghoul can tolerate are? And which ones do we think they can’t?

jin can tolerate someone who is more of a shut in but he cannot tolerate someone who is sneaky or materialistic. i’m sure you can understand why!!

tohma can tolerate someone who is stubborn or angry. he can’t tolerate people who are nosy or ask too many questions.

luca can tolerate a lot of things actually. he’s a very sweet guy. i don’t believe he would tolerate people who constantly lie, or someone manipulative.

kaito can tolerate someone overly jealous (he might find it flattering, a least in the beginning) but he can’t tolerate someone who is overly independent and doesn’t need him around. it’ll drive him crazy!

alan can tolerate someone who has a temper or someone lazy, but definitely not gullible. it’s not even because he hates gullible people, i just feel like that would be a horrible match overall...

sho can tolerate a temper, an attitude, liars, but if you’re an arrogant person who is rude to wait staff he’s not fucking with you at ALL.

leo is easier than i expected. i dont think he likes people who are meek / ignorant, especially if they’re well off and have had things “handed” to them. on the flip side, he admires hard workers and ambitious people, but thats not really a flaw... i dont think he’s be put off by materialistic people or people with a temper.

taiga could handle someone greedy for sure. he might blow you off sometimes but he’ll come through. i think he really admires headstrong people, but he thinks meek people are cute. the only way to piss him off is to be arrogant enough to believe you can outsmart him or something T0T

romeo...he can smooth over any situations you fumble in if you’re awkward, but that might irritate him. pretty sure hes also canonically irritated with mc when she asks for his input in episode 8 without providing her own first so ??? that too??? he’d do well with someone sneaky and crafty though. IMPULSIVE TOO.

ritsu can tolerate the flaw of being meek. he likes taking charge and wearing the pants and being the big man who plans the stuff, so someone who sits back and doesn’t really offer up their opinion could do well with him. also indecisive!! because he’ll just decide for you. as for NOT tolerating, he couldn’t mesh well with someone who blows off their responsibilities and doesn’t take him seriously. they should be a hard worker too.

subaru would be bad with someone judgemental point blank. good with someone argumentative i think. they’d said what he feels he cant and it’d be a relief somehow.

haku would be good with someone who is nonconfrontational because he’ll swoop in and handle Whatever. i would argue he’d be good with spiteful people too, he knows how to calm them down. he’d be bad with someone pushy or nosy though.

zenji would be bad with someone who is pessimistic. i think he’d try his best to be positive but every optimist gets water logged when the pessimist goes too hard. he’d be fine with someone who is just plain odd, though! someone who doesn’t fit it anywhere (not really a flaw? but yk)

edward wouldn’t mind someone who has a temper he’d think its cute if anything T0T super easy to resolve fights with him. i dont think he’d appreciate someone overly arrogant though. like if they got Too comfortable. he’ll remind you that he can kill you.

rui would be a blessing if you were a paranoid or anxious person! he knows just what to say to soothe you and would never get irritated about it. he would not vibe with someone who disregards boundaries or simply just does not listen though.

lyca is pretty obvious, i think he’d but heads a lot with someone who is snippy and temperamental. does well with someone more meek and nonconfrontational though!!

yuri can’t handle someone argumentative who would butt heads with him about stuff TT0TT a flaw he would be able to handle is someone awkward and oblivious. gullible too. he’ll call people out if they’re messing with you.

jiro could vibe with someone with a fragile ego / who is overly sensitive. most things fly over his head, so if you’re more awkward then he most likely won’t even notice.

[arcadekitten]

Girl...okay so I just sent an ask about just finishing crowscare. Im also the anon that was like "I really like lambchop and I think I'd like reginald too" and you agreed. I am playing Cemetary Mary right now for the first time (this time, I didnt watch any playthroughs first!!)...its 1:30 am. I've been playing this since like 7 in the afternoon. Im on the portion where Mary just stayed over in Reginalds apartment because of a rainstorm. And like let me get this straight, he's a good dresser, thinks very similarly to me in certain aspects, long hair & glasses, sophisticated sounding name and manner of speech & just generally conducting himself, seems intelligent, listens well, acts super soft with this girl, is based off a sea creature, is ace, AND he's a gentleman? Did we psychically connect one day where I subconciously transmitted all the details of what my definition of the Perfect Man is? 😂 My goodness the nail is nearly hit right on the head! LOL I know he isn't like. Quiiiite perfect just cuz I know just from being on your blog that he's a murderer and thus probably doesn't hold some of my essential religious values but my goodness!! I'm not one to be easily charmed, but this man... then again maybe Im just that starved for masculine softness and those are the vibes he gives off. I'm not even halfway done but again honestly just fantastic job, brilliant writing. I want to shake some sense into Mary at certain intervals but unlike many horror protagonists she has an actual personality, and a likeable one at that! Thus making it hard to actually be mad at her for to long. And Twyla? I do quite like her too. And I've known enough people like Crowven that he just feels very real. I could just gush. Im so glad I didn't watch any playthroughs of this before starting it. Ive not even gotten a single ending yet but I simply love it. The pacing feels good, the artwork is just adorable. I love the character designs- Zapara looks gorgeous. I love the realism in the fact that in this story, even some of these people with awful, dangerous lifestyles are still very much real, hurting, aching people with capabilities for love and joy and sorrow and should be taken just as seriously as those who lead more straight and narrow lives. Perhaps even moreso because those people with a tougher exterior are a lot more likely to try to hide their pain and need a little bit more elbow grease to get them to open up and feel better. Because they deserve that chance to grieve and move on too. Im sorry this message is so long, I'll cut myself off here but so far, amazing work, I am THOROUGHLY enjoying myself.

Oh my goodness gracious, I am so flattered! Thank you so much!! ♡

Reginald is definitely my favorite for all the same reasons, but of course I'm the one who made him that way haha!!

I'm so happy that you like the characters so much!! Being my first real game I often worry about Cemetery Mary not being as great as it could be, so it means so much to me to see people enjoy the story and characters so much!! In my eyes Cemetery Mary is almost like a character study of sorts, and so I'm really happy when people feel that the characters are interesting or "real"!

I like, can't overstate my appreciation for all your sweet words!! You have NO idea how much it means to me to read this message and all you've been able to take from the game already. It's always been my dream for my art to be able to connect with people and have them enjoy it, and I'm so over-the-moon to know how much you've been enjoying it!!

I don't really know what else to say! Thank you SO so much, it's such a delight to read your thoughts and I'm so so happy that you like the game!! ♡

[anguishedlurker]

What a burden you are

((Hey kids wanna see Danny have Enough(tm) of Valerie['s bullshit from Valerie's POV and the fallout thereof?))

Ao3 Link

Valerie found herself reflecting on her time under Masters more than she already wanted, most nights.

Tonight was worse than most. A pathetic echo in her mind trying to take root as she chased a different kind of pathetic echo.

For each and every fault he had- she could spend years counting in that miserable creep of a man- he knew his ghosts and his weapons. Very little of his advice had proven inaccurate on even the most minuscule of levels.

“An afraid ghost is never to be underestimated, yet if careful they can undo themselves with hardly an effort by you.”

But no, Phantom wasn’t afraid in front of her. Insolent brat, darting from cover to cover. To boot, it had the audacity to stick it’s tongue out at her.

The humor didn’t reach its eyes though. Not tonight. Though, it always seemed a little rougher around the edges when she managed to jump it after some ghost had tried doing her work for her.

Yet it was always almost well humored to her.

Tonight really shouldn’t be different.

“Fear will destroy them- even in the living it’s hard to control a fear response. Aimless lashing out makes openings.

Rage, on the other hand…”

And yet, Phantom seemed annoyed by her hunt tonight, of all things. How inconvenient of her, really! Maybe she’d upgrade to threat one day, if she was realllll patient…

Phantoms head finally phased out of a tree, grinning at her in a way that didn’t meet it’s eyes.

“Well, this barking match has gone on long enough to prove bite-less, so I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take my leaf!”

Pew pew, cunt.

(As always, the faint sense that her dad would be reaching for the soap brushed past her mind)

She missed, of course. It’d been a long time since she’d hit Phantom.

“Chickening out already, Phantom? Thought you were better than that.”

Keep her voice low, even. Steady. Bait doesn’t work without patience. And everything seemed to hit less and less, now.

“No you don’t. And even if you did, don’t you have work? Or school? Promotions or tests to pass, even?”

Its voice echoed from nowhere in particular, giving no indication to location.

Its staunch refusal to indicate whether or not it knew anything about her was ever present.

“Oh, you’re interested in my life? How flattering. Stay the fuck away from my apartment.”

Same song new night. Lancers test was tomorrow though, but this was more important. Shitty junior year and it’s- focus. If she can’t get to it then she simply has to improve her attempts. It will crack eventually.

“Yeah yeah, kill on sight. Seriously though, Red, how do you keep standing with the way you live? You can’t possibly be getting more than two hours of sleep a night.”

Sound to the left- Pew pew. It almost sounded concerned about her.

How pathetic.

“Who’s to say I don’t sleep during the day?”

“You don’t.”

“And you know this because?”

A question with no good implications underneath, and no good answers.

Accusations to its integrity always seemed to work best. Closest thing to falling over itself it’d get, all to prove it was a ‘good person’.

Phantom finally formed away from cover, relaxed and cozy in an imaginary reclining chair. It seemed to cycle through ways to mock her, always implying that it was completely unbothered.

Kept up its little act even when it was hit! Really, to brush off the shots like it couldn’t feel them….

Been a while since she’d made it flinch, actually. No matter what she managed to do to it.

No, no. Focus.

She could see it. The lack of real humor in its eyes- whether or not it’d admit such a thing, she was getting to it. She had to drive a knife into its cracks somehow.

“People have bills. Doesn’t take crazy stalking to figure out you either have a sponsor or are stupid rich- and you kinda stopped talking to your sponsor. Was a whole thing in the ghost community? Anyways, you need to have some sort of job or some sort of parental support at this point.”

A dead smile, a tilt of the head. Teeth much too sharp in a mouth that almost could’ve passed for a real person’s.

She’ll need to hunt down- No, it’s already out. And if she gets pissed, she’s dead.

“Rage is lethal. They’re focused, and they want you dead.

And, I mean the best when I say it dear, you don’t know rage. Not in ghosts.”

She’d argue she knew plenty about rage, period, though the point was long gone.

Pew pew.

It disappeared and reappeared two feet to the right, still smiling.

Fucker.

“What can I say, I value my independence. Strong and capable, everything a hunter needs to be.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s that philosopher that said no man is an island, again?”

It pretended to tap its foot against the dead air, taking its eyes off her as it acted out exaggerated thinking. Bait to shoot.

“John Donne. Know any philosophers that ever chatted about not dragging people down?”

“Right, this has been a delight but- hey wait, I think that’s actually right. I dunno, it’s the kind of thing I’d actually have to look up-”

“Dragging. Down. Get it? Ha. Ha.”

Finger curled around the trigger, giving one attention grabbing pew.

Vanish, and re-appear.

“Only so many times I can try to say that first and foremost, not my dog. Not at that point. Just a concerned samaritan trying to figure out why a dog was loose. You don’t care, though.”

Its tone was… more clipped than usual. And it’d been a while since it’s last pun.

Good.

“Honestly, it goes beyond the dog at this point.”

“Really, Red? Nobody’s got you at gunpoint out here.”

She’d been stewing on this one a while actually. Never a better time than the present to try a new tactic, right?

“No, no. The town Phantom. The ghosts as a whole.”

“Go harass one of the Doctor Fentons’ about the tear in the fabric of reality in their basement then.”

Oh it was seething with that one.

Good.

Yet, this was an infuriating corner.

“The Fentons have made it clear that by now, they can’t do anything.”

“I’m missing the part where you turn it into my fault. And even if your point was clear, they are liars. Bad ones.”

The accusation against the Fentons integrity had to be bait. As such, asking was caving in to its plans.

“Simple. They’re after you. It’s a game that you’re encouraging.”

Its eyes narrowed, most of its pantomimes of life and movement ceasing.

Finally.

“You have no idea how much I wish they’d stop. Not that you’re willing to learn.”

“So you admit it?”

“Nothing of the sort. If they all stopped I would stop appearing.”

“Typical.”

“Mhmm.”

“Still, guess you’re just too used to dragging people down with you, right? Enough to never notice.”

“Listen, I get to hear my friends jack off to pseudo psychology enough as it is. You got your stinger loaded yet, or should I just, like, go?”

“Well since you’re asking… let me ask; were you even a blessing in life?”

The silence was palpable.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Phantom paused, eyes narrowing further as it processed her accusation.

“What teenager is, really?” It eventually ground out, not even deigning to smile.

“I’ll have you know I was a delight.”

Wry, guiltless. Keep steady.

“Hmmm… I dunno that I believe that one, Red.”

A pretend hum, something that if written out would sound like a quip.

Its tone was completely flat.

Valerie smirked underneath her helm.

“But something like you, I can just see it. Everything falling over itself to baby your pathetic ass… How much did they give you? How much did you take from them?”

For one single second, Phantoms eyes reflected red.

“Like your dad and your hospital bills?”

Silence.

And then, rage.

“So help me, Phantom-”

“No, no Red- Let’s- I’m done, okay? You- I blaze through and you blame me, fine.”

Her shots missed, of course

“But, Valerie, how much do you cost your dad in medical bills at this point? Delight my left asscheck.”

Even in her rage, she had to pause. She’d never heard it swear.

Her shots missed again.

“You sign up to the most insane asshole you can find just to hunt down what- even with your little revenge fantasy- is some fucking teenager-”

Lots and lots of swearing.

Phantom was properly pissed this time.

Good, it was getting old not getting to it.

And nothing it could say can-

“Hell, I looked it up once- You know your little punctured lung you got off of Skulker? That your dad had to drag you out of the wreckage for and strip your suit off just to keep your little job secret? Boom, median of six grand. Right there.”

… how much?

“What does every bill combined add to Valerie? You wanna- how much of a burden- Jesus Christ. How much of a burden are you? Good god.”

How much…?

...

No, no it had to be bait. Hospitals are expensive but- well… very expensive- but!- … how much?

She was in combat.

“Deny a girl her hobbies, eh? But finally, so you do-”

“No shit I know who you are. Some chick shows up with a revenge fetish against me? I‘m investigating.”

Fucking- fetish??

“And here I though there could be some proof not all highschoolers are assholes.” She snarked, not paying attention to what she was saying. Scripts were running in her brain with no checks to see if it was sensible or not.

“I didn’t make it to highschool, Valerie. You want to kill a middleschooler, and you can’t even tell me what you’ve costed your dad to get here.”

Her gun, for the first time in... a very long time, dropped from its lock on Phantom.

“You can’t tell me what you cost but you’re just soooo cozy with telling me I must’ve been a- Fuck you. Genuinely. Did you even know the dog was one your fathers company killed? Bet you didn’t. Allll their guard dogs in training were put down for that pretty security system. A middleschooler and a dead puppy.”

“You are not a middleschooler.”

Her breathing hitched too much, she was losing herself. Phantoms youthful (manipulative, fake, anything else please) looked at her with no warmth.

No humor.

“Not anymore, no. The dead don’t have school.”

Its tone was openly cold and resentful.

In front of her was a ghost, whom she hated. It was a violent, mean, and dishonest thing with no regard for other people.

And the same eyes it’d always had stared back at her right now. Phantoms features had never budged the slightest nanometer, the last two years.

Youthful as ever.

Pew, pew.

It did not move, and it did not flinch.

“It’s been a long time since you could hurt me Valerie.”

Borderline glacial towards her, like she was a particularly stupid child.

But maybe she deserved that one, because of all things, she should’ve seen that it wasn’t acting unbothered by her shots.

“Ask your dad how much you cost him before lecturing me on- Just. God. There’s something genuinely wrong with you. And I’m not protecting you anymore, not if that’s seriously how you’re gonna treat- just… fuck you.”

It had disappeared before she could re-aim her gun at it for the audacity. Protecting her? Bullshit.

But, all alone now, board humming underneath her, left her stewing over the entire conversation.

And, well…

At least she’d obviously touched a nerve.

~~~

More than she’d ever be worth in her life, ever again, was her answer. Not the one he said, but she knew what evasion looked like. She knew what it meant.

And how much did he pay per month?

More than what they had to spare, was not said. He’d never say it.

A new fight breaking out near her was a relief, one she didn’t dwell on.

She’d just have to be careful to not get hurt. It was so simple.

And then the battle between Skulker and lunch lady halted at her appearance, Skulker turning smug while Lunch Lady looked away abruptly.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re gonna do, looking so happy over there?” She asked, strafing left as she aimed her gun.

Skulker didn’t move as the metal helm grinned wider. Lunch Lady vanished.

“Did you know Phantom declared open season on you?” Was the last thing she heard before her world was crushed.

~~~

Her dad would never blame her. Never say it.

Never tell her she was a burden.

But now- god, how much did this cost? Doctors were saying to just hope she wasn’t permanently paralyzed. Hope that she could eventually write again with her left hand, or learn to use her right.

She’d be out of school for a long time now.

At least she missed Lancers dumb test.

The heart monitor was her only company through the pain meds (that she refused most of) and incessant nurses.

Until…

“Danny?”

Silent as mist, as always. She hadn’t heard the door. But there he was, looking like he always did.

Except…

“Listen, I’m not really here to talk. I was voted to bring you your homework and flagged down to pass a note.”

His face tight, his tone blank.

“I’m sure you have things to do.”

He was probably itching to go back to trying to help his sister around the house, sweeping after the absolute tornadoes that were his parents.

A real shame Jasmine never left. An even greater shame she never admitted why she settled for the local college.

She could’ve gone places.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” He gruffed, setting a binder of work on the first table he could find.

“Here’s your card.”

Huffed out, the card tossed with laser accuracy to her non injured hand. She’s lucky she caught it, the pain meds she couldn’t deny like weights on her one good hand.

This was- what did she do?

“Danny, what-”

“I don’t really want to hear it. ‘Cause it’s about time you knew that I know damn well what you do in your off time, and did this to yourself really.”

N

No…

No.

“And when exactly did you find out that-”

“The entire goddamn time, Val! Remember the stupid flour baby? The job I was threatening you with was ghost hunting, not being the Nasty Burger mascot! Which! I still hold to that if you weren’t ghost hunting, it wouldn’t have been that hard to do your half!”

He- no, not that long. Impossible. Nobody else had even looked at it as a serious-

He’s always been a little smarter than what he lets everyone know.

The last lick of sense echoed through what had to be the meds. Danny, always there, seeming to know more than what anyone had ever told him. Easy to work with, happy to obey. He made it so very easy to forget he was so bright.

Focus.

“Fine, fine! But I didn’t- Skulker-”

“God- just… God. Don’t. Nobody asked you to fight them. You tossed out everything and everyone that didn’t fit to do it, too.’

“I didn’t do-”

“We are not friends, Valerie. You don’t have any friends, and we’re barely ex’s at this point. And for what?”

“Barely even- What are you on about??”

“Val, we dated for like, two weeks two years ago! And you dumped me to go chase after Phantom, ‘cause fuck having a real life with friends or a boyfriend!”

It was like a fun house mirror held up to those memories, how he stood there now.

Never did get taller, never did lose most of the baby fat. Now standing there seething with hate instead of adoration.

He still looked as frail as ever.

“But Phantom-”

“Shut up, take your homework, and read your shitty card.” He growled, already heading for the door.

No- No! It’s just- This isn’t like Danny! Danny… Danny just never swore- it was like, hardcoded into him!

“And what the fuck did I do to earn this? God, if it turns out you got possessed-”

Danny paused, looking back at her for a split second. So short she could’ve hallucinated it the heartstopping look before he went straight back to having his hands on the door, ready to bolt.

“Would you say that shit to me?”

“I… What?”

“What? You don’t think I ever managed to talk to some of the ghosts? I know what you said to him. Would you say it to me?”

“Of course not!”

“No, no, of course you wouldn’t. Never would even think about it, right? Fentons too cute and innocent, and small to- ugh. I know why you never tried making friends with me and Tuck- Sam hated you- but- fuck. Don’t talk to me.”

She had nothing left. Danny was-

Too cute, innocent, and small to spew this kind of hatred at her?

Ugh… Who knew such an adorable little face could be so mean...

He looked ready to slam the door. He looked like it was taking great restraint to not, every muscle so obviously tense underneath all his layers.

It’s a wonder how he never overheated.

And at the last second, he hesitated.

“I never wanted you hurt, I… I promise, even if I’m mad. Enraged, even. But I just don’t know what you thought was going to happen, anymore.”

And then it was slammed shut, leaving her with the sinking feeling he was gone forever from her life.

… fuck.

Alone, again now, with a heart monitor and a card from- Well, Danny hadn’t mentioned.

God that stung. Couldn’t even stay to say who still had a heart for her.

She needed to move on, already, because burnt bridges weren’t going to get fixed any time soon. And that left the card as her only option forward right now, right?

It was just folded printer paper, with no decoration on the outside.

And on the inside-

One logo, seared into her brain well over two years ago. Looking at her.

“I don’t know why I thought you were worth defending.

They won’t be nice about it ever again.

-DP”

She hid the card under her hip, eventually. Made a nurse toss it out the next time one came around.

Pretended like she hadn’t seen it.