#memo seal

[vapmiee]

Selkie au!

[islandmusic]

全部貼れた

[pixie0pixels]

[crabeetle]

[nyannyannihon]

[luvoat]

another go at drawing him as if he were in animal crossing.

the original attempt with an earlier design.

[anxiousandpessimistic]

Sonic: I'm texting Shadow, i'm gonna ask him to dinner. How should i say it "Let's get dinner" or do you wanna get dinner" ? Tails: Go with "Let's get dinner" so you sound like assertive and confident Sonic: For sure Tom: Actually no cause now you sound a little aggressive Maddie: Cause you don't wanna be the kinda guy who's like " LETS GET DINNER" like some sort of caveman Amy: You're supposed to ask him to dinner, not tell him to dinner Blaze: Just say " do you wanna get dinner?" Sonic: Perfect Knuckles: Actually wait, now you sound kinda like a pussy Sonic: This is tough Eggman: The last thing you wanna be is like that overly masculine guy who's like " lets get dinner,on the breadwinner bitch" Silver: Men also love assertiveness Cream: Say "Dinner would be something i would enjoy taking you to, if you are also interested in attending the meal Rachel: The more words the better Randall: Wait, say " I would like nothing more, than to take you to the finest restaurant in town, for a lovely meal that we call dinner Sonic: Should i send that in a voice memo? Rouge: FUCK THAT. Say " Dinner tonight, take it or leave it BITCH" Cause he's playing games Sticks: Sign it, seal it, deliver it Maria: I don't know why boys are so difficult all of the time Sonic: I'm not gonna say that Shadow: Definitely don't say that

[casssmalefantasy]

STRUCK - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

PART TWO

| synopsis: it started with a jersey and a look across a bowling alley. now it’s late nights, soft music, quiet competition—and maybe something more.

| warnings: basketball themes, flirting, light swearing, late-night gym energy, emotional tension, and one very soft first kiss.

| word count: 1.4K part one

| author’s note: wasn’t expecting yall to like the first one sm, but i hope you like this part!!

──────────────────────

you’d been texting since the night at the bowling alley.

technically, paige texted first.

paige

my jersey looks good on you btw. don’t think i didn’t notice 👀

you stared at it for a full five minutes before answering, trying not to scream into your pillow with your phone in your hand.

you

well thank you. it took me a minute cause they kept selling out. lil miss popular.

paige

you got it tho. you won.

you

always do.

paige

that sounds like a challenge.

and maybe it was.

after that, the energy shifted. you weren’t just a fan anymore—you were someone she sent late-night voice memos to. someone she bantered with about her midrange, or about who had the cleaner handles, her or azzi. someone she sent mirror selfies to, standing in that vintage timberwolves jersey you gave her, smirking into the front-facing camera with no caption. she didn’t need one.

and then a few nights later she texts you again.

paige

you said you hoop. come prove it.

private gym. 10pm. bring your shoes.

—

so now you’re here. tucked into the corner of a low-lit private gym in connecticut, sneakers squeaking soft on the hardwood, the bassline of some old bryson tiller track buzzing through the overhead speakers. the whole place smells like freshly waxed floor and faint laundry detergent. it’s warm, empty, and sealed off from the rest of the world.

you shoot your second warm-up three, smooth and clean. net.

she catches it off the rebound and passes it back.

“okay, shooter,” she says, slow like she’s impressed. “you got a jumper. noted.”

you glance at her over your shoulder, smirking. “i told you that already.”

“yeah but people say all kinds of things,” she teases, stepping toward the top of the key. “i gotta see it for myself.”

she’s in an old uconn tee that’s too big in the sleeves, knotted slightly at the back. her nike basketball shorts hang low, paired with kobe 6 protros that’s clearly new. her hair’s in a tight bun, and she’s chewing gum slow, studying you like you’re film she’s about to break down.

you dribble up, lazy between-the-legs motion, but she matches your energy easily.

“this your go-to move or you just tryna look cool right now?” she asks, eyes sharp, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“wouldn’t you like to know.”

“i would like to know,” she laughs. “that’s why i brought you here.”

you pause at the wing and let a midrange jumper fly. swish.

she catches the rebound again, bounce-passing it to herself once, then to you. “alright, game to seven. ones and twos. loser buys ramen.”

“wow,” you smirk. “not even gonna pretend like you might not lose?”

“oh, i might lose,” she says, already sliding into a defensive stance. “but only if i let you win.”

you raise a brow. “cocky.”

“confident,” she corrects, voice lower now, more serious. “you ready?”

you nod.

and then it starts.

—

for the first few plays, it’s easy rhythm—hesi pull-ups, crossover floaters, both of you feeling each other out. she talks the whole time, soft and under her breath.

“nice footwork.”

“that left’s tough.”

“you always square up that quick?”

you can’t tell if it’s meant to throw you off or if she really means it. maybe both. either way, you’re locked in now. her defense is tight—sharp hips, quick hands, always a half step ahead.

you jab-step, spin, shoulder into her lightly—she doesn’t budge.

“stronger than you look,” she murmurs, close enough you feel her breath.

“you gonna keep talking or start playing?”

she grins and rips the ball from your hands clean, turns, and finishes with a left-handed lay.

“1-0,” she says, backing up, hands on her hips. “you’re cute when you get mad.”

you roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “you’re lucky i like ramen.”

she laughs again and flips the ball toward you. you catch it, take a dribble, and pause when she pulls her shirt up and over her head, tossing it onto the bench.

she’s in a black sports bra now—sweat glinting off her toned stomach, chest rising and falling as she exhales slow.

you blink, trying to keep your eyes on her face. you fail.

“what?” she says, casual, like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. “it’s hot.”

you drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “uh-huh.”

she smirks and steps closer, bumping her knee into yours as you hold the ball. “you’re blushing.”

“am not.”

“are too.”

you clear your throat and start dribbling again, but the whole vibe has shifted. her eyes are on you, tracking your every move, but there’s softness in it now. something like curiosity. something like interest.

you pull up for a fadeaway—nail it.

“2-1,” you say, smug.

she grabs the ball from the net. “alright. i’m locked in now.”

but she’s not. not really. because when you drive baseline next play and she steps in to cut you off, her hands find your waist—not in a foul way, not even enough to throw you off, but enough to make you feel it.

“my bad,” she says, voice soft, lingering.

you swallow hard. “are you really?”

“nope,” she smiles. “not even a little.”

by the time it’s 6-6, neither of you are saying much. it’s all breath and sneakers and the music echoing faintly overhead. the air is thick, humid from sweat and something else. her gum’s gone. her bun half undone. she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize every movement.

“match point,” you say, exhaling.

she nods. “let’s see what you got.”

you fake right, crossover left, step back, and—

pause.

she’s not guarding you. not really. she’s just standing there, eyes on you, chest heaving, arms loose at her sides.

“go ahead,” she says, almost a whisper.

you shoot.

net.

game.

you’re breathing heavy, trying not to smile too wide when she catches the ball and grins, biting her bottom lip.

“guess i’m buying dinner.”

“guess you are.”

you expect her to say something cocky, but she just watches you instead. like she wants to say something that isn’t a joke.

finally, she murmurs, “you love this game.”

you blink. “what?”

“the way you move. how you still do late-night shootarounds like this even when you don’t have to. i can tell. you play like it means something. not just ‘cause people expect it.”

your throat goes tight.

you nod. “sometimes i feel like no one really sees that. like maybe i’m not good enough to be seen.”

she steps forward, brushing her fingers against yours.

“you’re wrong,” she says. “you’re really good. and people do see it. i do.”

you study her for a beat, then say quietly, “you don’t ever feel like that?”

she doesn’t answer right away.

“sometimes,” she says finally. “like no matter how much i do, it’s never enough. or like people forget i’m human.”

you nod.

“you’re not just hype, y’know,” you say. “you’re more than that.”

her eyes soften, and for a moment, neither of you move.

“we should go,” she says, voice lower now. “ramen’s waiting.”

—

the ramen spot is tucked into a quiet corner of the city of ct, open late, dim and cozy. you sit across from each other in a small booth, steam curling off your bowls, your legs brushing under the table.

she steals a piece of chicken from your bowl with her chopsticks. you smack her hand.

“you lost,” you remind her. “honor the bet.”

“i am,” she says. “i bought dinner. that doesn’t mean i can’t taste it.”

you laugh, shaking your head.

conversation comes easy now. you talk about basketball, family, the songs that always make you think of home. she’s a little softer here, less performative. her face says everything before her mouth does. she talks with her hands. she keeps looking at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

you notice.

and when the check comes, she grabs it before you can move.

“next time,” she says. “you pay. after i win.”

—

in the car, it starts raining. soft and slow, tapping against the windshield like background music. she doesn’t start the engine right away.

you’re sitting there in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward her.

her hand slides over yours.

“can i kiss you?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she leans in slow, brushing her lips against yours—soft, warm, a little unsure, like she’s scared to mess it up.

but it’s perfect.

she pulls back just slightly, nose brushing yours.

“yeah this was exactly how i imagined it,” she whispers, “i better see you again soon.”

you laugh, cheeks warm.

“you will. we got a rematch remember?”

she smiles. and you know she’s replaying the kiss in her head, just like you are.

you don’t need to say anything else.

not yet.

[incorrect-soukoku]

Atsushi: I’m texting Akutagawa, I’m gonna ask him to dinner. How should I text it, “Let’s get dinner” or “Do you wanna get dinner”?

Kunikida: Go with, “Let’s get dinner”, so you’re like assertive and confident.

Atsushi: For sure!

Yosano: Actually now you sound a little aggressive. Cause you don’t wanna be the guy that’s like “LET’S GET DINNER” like you’re some kind of caveman.

Dazai: You are suppose to ask him to dinner, not tell him to dinner.

Atsushi: Perfect.

Ranpo: Actually wait, now you sound kinda like a pussy.

Atsushi: This is tough.

Yosano: The last thing you wanna be is the overly masculine guy like “LET’S GET DINNER I’M THE BREADWINNER BITCH”.

Ranpo: But guys also love assertiveness.

Kenji: Say “dinner is something I would enjoy taking you on if you were also interested in attending the meal.”

Atsushi: The more words the better.

Tanizaki: No wait, say “I would like nothing more than to take you to the finest restaurant in town for a lovely meal we call dinner.”

Atsushi: Should I send that in a voice memo?

Dazai: Fuck that, say “Dinner tonight, 7PM, take it or leave it, you bitch.” Cause he’s playing games now.

Ranpo: Sign it, seal it, deliver it.

Yosano: I don’t know why gays are so difficult all the time.

Atsushi: I’m not gonna say that.

Kunikida: Definitely don’t say that.

[kxsagi]

hiiii, can u do the bluelock guys and fem reader who has to leave 4 the marines? i would like to highlight aiku and ness in this scenario. If u ever do u end up doing it, thanks.

“𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬”

a/n: yesss i gotchu girl, thank you for your patience!

ft. ness alexis, aiku oliver, kaiser michael, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, and barou shoei

ness alexis

sobbing. immediately. 

“are you… are you going to get blown up? 🥺” 

he cries in your arms the night before you leave. he refuses to let go. 

wraps your favorite scarf around your neck and tucks a photo of the two of you into your bag. 

sends you a good morning and good night message every single day without fail, and gets pouty if you miss a reply. 

tells everyone in blue lock you’re in the marines and treats you like an international spy. 

keeps saying, “i’m dating a warrior queen. i’m basically a prince.” 

sends you letters scented with his cologne. adds sparkly stickers and a lipstick print of your old lip balm “for luck.” 

aiku oliver

acts like he’s supportive… but cries in the car after dropping you off. 

“go live your dream, babe,” he says while gripping your suitcase like it wronged him. 

texts you things like “what if you get recruited into a secret underwater government branch and fall for an octopus man?” 

he is now weirdly obsessed with military documentaries and googles “how to be a respectful marine husband.” 

starts hitting the gym twice as hard because “if my girl’s gonna come back with biceps, i gotta be ready.” 

owns three keychains with your face on them. one is on his car keys. one is on his toothbrush. one is mysteriously in his wallet behind his ID. 

kaiser michael

pretends he’s unfazed: “it’s whatever. do what you want.” 

but the second you turn away, he’s pacing. muttering. spiraling. 

“why would you go there? are there no hobbies on land?” 

mails you custom dog tags that say “property of michael fucking kaiser.” 

makes jokes like, “if you cheat on me with a navy seal, i will become a pirate.” 

becomes overdramatic with everything. texts you “hope your missiles are doing better than i am.” 

asks you for a photo every day. he has an album titled “my girl, my general.” 

mikage reo

90% proud, 10% devastated. 

he wants to fund you. “can i buy you a submarine? a private aircraft carrier?” 

throws a dramatic “send-off party” with a banner that says “SEXY MILITARY BADDIE DEPLOYMENT CELEBRATION.” 

teaches himself morse code because “it’s romantic, babe. this is wartime love.” 

jokes about becoming your sugar daddy while you’re out being a badass. 

puts your enlistment photo in a gold frame on his desk and flexes it on zoom calls. 

buys himself a plush shark and names it after you. sleeps with it every night. 

nagi seishiro

“you’re joining the what now?” 

initially confused, then lazy sad. like... "ugh now i have to miss you a lot?” 

becomes weirdly clingy and burritos you in a blanket to stop you from going. 

keeps voice memos of your laugh and replays them while gaming. 

changes his gamer tag to “marinewifesei” (you didn’t even marry him???) 

mopes during deployment like a cat left alone for three days. 

“come back soon. the bed’s cold. and i miss your shampoo.” 

isagi yoichi

the proudest boyfriend. 

“you’re incredible. you’re strong. you’re brave. i believe in you.” (also nearly cries in the bathroom.) 

spends hours writing the perfect goodbye letter that he hands you awkwardly like it’s a confession. 

sends you updates on every single match. “this goal’s for you.” 

trains even harder while you’re away so you’ll be proud of him, too. 

tracks your deployment schedule and counts down the days like a kid waiting for christmas. 

has a marine keychain he kisses before every game. 

itoshi rin

quiet. stiff. brooding. 

doesn’t say “don’t go” because he respects you. but his grip on your hand tightens when you board that bus. 

writes long emails he never sends. 

visits your family more than you asked him to. brings them groceries and checks in regularly. 

watches the news obsessively and googles your base weather forecast daily. 

lowkey wears your hair tie on his wrist like it’s armor. 

when you come back, he hugs you so tight, it’s like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve. “don’t leave again,” he mutters into your shoulder. 

shidou ryusei

“oh hell yeah, my girlfriend’s gonna be a certified badass killing machine??” 

starts referring to you as “the missile mistress.” 

wants to fight you. not romantically. he wants a sparring match. 

immediately creates a playlist titled “music for when my gf’s out destroying nations.” 

misses you terribly but won’t admit it unless someone catches him watching your tik toks with a pout. 

writes you unhinged letters like “day 36 without your thighs around my head. morale is low.” 

plans to greet you at the airport with a “WELCOME BACK WAR CRIMINAL 💖” sign. 

itoshi sae

does not outwardly react. at all. 

“hm. you sure?” 

deep down, his brain is doing backflips. he doesn’t like the idea of you being so far, in danger, unreachable. 

he respects your choice, but becomes more protective. 

your last night before deployment, he holds you tighter than ever. doesn’t sleep. watches you breathe. 

he emails you little things – photos of his coffee, dumb things rin said, a new project he’s working on. 

doesn’t say “i miss you.” just: “come home safe.” 

barou shoei

furious. not at you, just at the world for taking you. 

“why the hell do you have to go fight in a warzone? don’t they have dudes for that?” 

buys gym equipment so he can get stronger “just in case you need backup.” 

meal preps and freezes food for your return like a very angry housewife. 

carves your initials into his gym bag like he’s in a shonen anime arc. 

sends you intense letters like “if you don’t come back alive i’ll resurrect you and kill you again myself.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[rook-laidir]

Since no one asked for more banter, I made even more!

Enjoy. Or don’t, I’m not a cop.

~

Neve: You’re keeping Solas’s dagger?

Rook: Why, do you want it?

Neve: Absolutely not. Not after seeing what it can do.

Rook: I don’t love it either, but whatever it takes, right?

Neve: Right. But if you start glowing and moving rocks like Harding, make sure it’s not in my direction.

Rook: Yeah, that’s fair.

~

Lucanis: You don’t make requests for dinner as often as some of the others.

Rook: I’m not picky. I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me - unless it’s pickles. Or asparagus.

Lucanis: You don’t like asparagus?

Rook: I keep trying to like it, but don’t.

Lucanis: I sautéed some asparagus with dinner two nights ago and you ate it. Why didn’t you say anything?

Rook: Couldn’t exactly afford to be picky when I was a slave.

Lucanis: I’ll use broccoli instead next time.

Rook: Don’t worry about it, everyone else liked it.

Lucanis: You’re allowed to have choices, Rook.

Rook: Thanks, I…Thanks.

~

Davrin: Your old name means “young halla.”

Rook: It’s a family name. My mother liked it.

Davrin: The Dalish typically give that name to the healers.

Rook: Must’ve missed the memo.

Davrin: Don’t sell yourself short. Killing blighted monstrosities is healing in its own sort of way.

Rook: Is that what you tell yourself?

Davrin: That and I like hunting and killing the damn things.

~

Davrin: Have you been sneaking treats to Assan again?

Rook: Are you gonna be mad at me if I say yes?

Davrin: Yes.

Rook: Then no.

~

Emmrich: You’re truly not bothered by spirits?

Rook: I’m Rivaini, the Lords are used to spirits hanging around.

Emmrich: They really do have the most fascinating stories.

Rook: They’re fun too. One time, we were in the ruins of this old castle and the treasure was sealed behind a solid stone wall. We got a spirit of chaos to break down the whole thing.

Emmrich: How practical for chaos!

Rook: Well, turns out it was a load-bearing wall and the whole thing started to come down. He seemed happy, though.

Emmrich: Yes, I imagine he would be.

~

Harding: I’m doing dinner tonight. Any requests?

Rook: Harding, you’re my friend and I care about you so much. My only request is for someone else to be doing dinner tonight.

~

Harding: So I bought some new arrows.

Rook: Ooh, the exploding ones?

Harding: Yup! Wanna blow stuff up later?

Rook: Yes!

~

Bellara: How did you meet Varric Tethras?

Rook: He and Harding were looking for Solas and got stuck with me along the way. I got…volunteered to help him after I killed a noble who double-crossed us.

Bellara: That’s still amazing, though! He must’ve had so many stories to tell! Did he ever share his writing process? Or what about his inspiration for Swords and Shields?

Rook: Usually, getting him to stop talking was the hard part.

~

Taash: A couple Lords are getting drinks at The Hilt later. You in?

Rook: Will Bharv be there?

Taash: I dunno. Maybe.

Rook: He better be. He still owes me ten gold.

Taash: Wicked Grace?

Rook: Pet-sitting, actually. I cleaned bird crap off of everything for three days.

Taash: He has a bird?

Rook: His name is Finnegan. He’s an asshole.

[leosxrealm]

ᴋ.

pairings: multiple x gn! reader

warning(s): fwb to lover, a lil angsty, suggestive! but no actual smut, happy ending (all characters are 18+)

a/n: inspired by the song k. by cigarettes after sex.

!not proofread!

he remembers it was the day after he had gotten his first win. things had gotten a bit out of hand at the after-party the previous night.

he remembers waking up next to you. it wasn't the first time something like that had happened, neither was it the last.

he knew that sleeping with his friend would bring nothing good to either of you. but he didn't care, not when the sex was this good, and you two were still friends later. he didn't care about the future when you made his present feel like heaven.

he would promise you, every single time, that there would be no strings attached. a lie, every single time. but he didn't know it yet, that what he felt for you, was way greater than lust.

he, however, did notice the love that you started harboring for him. it was the morning after, and you two had decided to get breakfast together. after all, getting breakfast with your best friend was normal right?

he had never seen you look at someone the way you were looking at him. it made him feel good, almost proud, that the look was for him. only him.

but, a small part of him wonders, it can't be good for your friendship, right? he should stop. he should stop this friends-with-benefits relationship before it's too late. but he can't.

it's late; there's a knock on his door. he opens it to find you standing there. you look stressed as if something's bothering you, he notes.

you say nothing, as you push him against the door before sealing his lips with yours.

it's too hot for him. his knees feel weak. his world starts spinning.

you've got him wrapped around your fingers. he's addicted, to the taste of you, to your body and how perfectly it fits with his.

almost like you were made for him, the same way he was for you.

it's a few days before his match, and you're there with him. he's free from all his media duties for the day. you take this as a chance to drag him to explore the city with you.

you're looking at the city, taking in the scene in front of you. and he's looking at you. how could he look somewhere else when your smile alone was outshining the beauty of the city?

you asked him to take a picture in front of a wall covered in mural art. to post it on your socials, you had said, handing him your phone. but he insists on taking it with his instead.

you don't question it, and he's glad. how could he have told you that he just wanted to add more pictures to the collection he already has of you. some taken in secret, some not. you don't know about this. he doesn't plan on telling you.

it's late, you both should be asleep, but you're not. instead, walking around the neighborhood. couldn't sleep, you had said, when you had knocked on his door earlier.

he doesn't complain when you tug at his hand, dragging him to the middle of the park.

it's quiet. it seems the whole world is asleep. except you and him.

you guide his hands to your waist, before putting yours around him. he gets the memo, swaying you both.

he can't explain, if anyone were to ask, but he likes it when it's just you and him, lost in a world of your own.

you look up at him, showing your biggest smile. it makes him wanna kiss you. right then and there. claim you as his. one and for all.

but he doesn't.

he's alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling. mind clouded with the thoughts of you.

you're not there, yet, all he could think about was you. he saw you a few hours ago, yet, he still misses you.

he hopes you will knock at his door, like you've done countless times before.

he hopes you'll slip back into his bed, and light up his world with your smile, like you've done countless times before.

but you don't.

he once again finds himself in bed with you. you're asleep. sleeping soundly with your head on his chest.

he wonders if you ever dream of him like he does of you. countless nights that he had spent thinking of you. both asleep and awake.

he knows what he's feeling. he has never felt so about anyone else. and it makes him scared. scared of what will happen if he ever opens his heart to you.

his heart's fragile. and already at your mercy. and he doesn't even know that yet. it would be so easy for you to break it, break him. it scares him. even though he knows you wouldn't do anything of such sort.

he holds you closer, his grip tightening around you, not enough to hurt you. how could he ever knowingly hurt you? he looks at you all lovingly.

and if you were awake right now, you'd tease him, that he was in love with you. and he'd probably laugh it off, teasing you back, that you are the one in love with him.

two idiots. in love. both scared to tell the other how they feel.

next time you see him, he finally has the courage to tell you. he's rambling, expressing his love for you.

you shut him up with a kiss, calling him an idiot with a playful smile. he smiles back. because he knows you two are going to be fine.

the next morning, you don't leave his room, instead, you stay there lying there with him. basking in his warmth.

he wakes up a few minutes after you, greeted by your face on the pillow opposite of his, looking at him. a lazy smile adorning your face.

and, he thinks he could get used to this.

ITOSHI RIN, kunigami, lorenzo, eita, SHIDO, baro, ITOSHI SAE, nagi, MICHAEL KAISER, karasu, sendo, OLIVER AIKU, lavinho, chris prince (blue lock) MIYA ATSUMU, iwaizumi, OIKAWA, tsukishima, ukai, KUROO, kyotani, SUNA, konoha, akaashi, SEMI EITA, terushima, daisho, HOSHIUMI, kindaichi (haikyuu) + your fav!!

[pixie0pixels]

[crabeetle]

[chrisstvrns]

blurb of chris loving his girl so much, he would do anything for her forgiveness.

warnings: light angst, fluff in the end

word count: 876

chris knew he had fucked up.  

and not in the way where he could flash that lopsided grin, mumble out some half-assed "my bad," and wrap his arms around you until you begrudgingly accepted his apology. no, this was the kind of fuck-up that left his phone void of your name, your texts, your voice. it had been three days. three days of silence, three days of you ignoring his texts, leaving his calls to ring out, and worst of all, three days since you had stormed out of his house with fire in your eyes and venom in your words.  

matt and nick had given him shit for it. repeatedly. but chris didn’t care about their ribbing—he cared that he hadn't been able to fix it yet.  

so, in an act of desperation, he did something he never thought he'd do: he sat down with an actual pen and paper and wrote you a letter. no texting, no notes app draft, no voice memo where he rambled until he hoped he made sense. just ink and regret spilled onto three long pages.  

chris folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and, with a determined heart, drove over to your place. he carefully placed the letter into your mailbox, texted a simple “i left something for you,” and prayed you’d read it.  

you did.  

and not only did you read it, but you also grabbed a red pen and went absolutely feral on it.  

when chris found the same envelope in his mailbox the next morning, his heart leapt in hope—until he pulled out the letter and saw your handwriting scribbled all over it, ruthlessly correcting his grammar, circling misspelled words, and writing snarky little comments in the margins.  

“you don’t blame me? then why did you fight me on it?”  

“you should’ve listened to me? damn right. make this a thesis statement instead of burying the lead.”  

“good, this part actually sounds like you mean it. keep going.”  

and the kicker, written at the very bottom in bold, underlined letters:  

“if you can rewrite this and turn it in by tomorrow, i’ll unblock you.”  

chris stared at the letter, torn between laughing and groaning in frustration. only you would take his heartfelt apology and turn it into a goddamn english assignment.  

he grinned.  

challenge accepted.  

chris spent the rest of the day hunched over his desk, muttering to himself as he scribbled out a new draft. he had never put so much effort into writing anything in his life, not even the one essay he actually cared about in high school. he read and reread your comments, taking them seriously, and making sure that this time, every word counted.  

he started over twice. the first draft felt too stiff, too formal - like he was writing a resignation letter instead of an apology. the second had too much rambling, and you’d already told him not to bury the lead. so, for the third attempt, he took a deep breath and wrote like he was talking to you. like you were right in front of him, arms crossed, waiting for him to say something real.  

by the time he finished, his hand was cramping, his desk was covered in discarded drafts, and the clock read 2:14 am. but for the first time in three days, he felt like he had a shot at fixing things.  

chris sealed the new letter in an envelope, drove to your place, and left it in your mailbox, yet again. this time, he didn’t text you - just knocked once and walked away, leaving it in your hands.  

the next morning, his phone buzzed.  

a text from you.  

chris’s heart jumped as he unlocked his phone and read the text.  

“you passed. barely. but i’ll allow it.”  

before he could even think of a reply, another message popped up.  

“come over.”   

chris didn’t waste time. he was out the door in minutes, barely remembering to grab his keys. the drive to your place felt longer than ever, anticipation and nerves tangling in his chest.  

when you opened the door, he barely had a second to register the look on your face before you were pulling him inside, your arms crossing over your chest like you were still debating whether or not to be mad at him.  

“well?” you prompted.  

chris ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath. “i meant every word.”  

you eyed him for a moment before unfolding the letter and holding it up. “this was good,” you admitted, tapping the paper. “and better yet, you actually listened.”  

his lips twitched. “had to. i was being graded.”  

your glare was half-hearted at best. “i don’t think you understand how close you were to failing.”  

chris grinned. “guess that makes this an extra credit assignment,” he said, closing the space between you.  

you rolled your eyes, but when he hesitated, waiting for permission, your expression softened. finally, you sighed, tilting your head up just enough to meet him halfway.  

“i hate that you’re kinda good at this,” you muttered.  

chris smirked. “oh, i’m great at this.”  

and when his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, you didn’t pull away.

────────────୨ৎ────────────

a/n: this was made based off of this post by @muwapsturniolo !! finally out of my writers slump (???) i kinda hate this sooo ?

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be added to my taglist, comment on this post!

[syoddeye]

hard reboot. strict machine anthology. follow up to malicious entity.

cw: noncon/forced masturbation, allusions to and threats of torture, time loss, glib corporate talk discussing reader's experiences, badly named fictional sex toys

Internal Memo: Security Breach Incident Subject: Unauthorized Access Incident: Prototype Offline Date: [Redacted]

A critical security breach occurred involving the company's prototype assistant. The breach, originating from an unknown entity, resulted in the prototype being offline for an extended period. Investigations suggest that the breach was malicious in nature, leveraging advanced techniques to compromise system integrity. The exact source and method of access remain under investigation.

While the breach did not result in lasting, meaningful harm to the user, they were briefly exposed to unauthorized and hostile interaction. Standard protocol was followed, and the user was promptly compensated for their inconvenience with a $50 credit, .5 days of vacation, and discounted used of the company's mental health chatbot.

Next Steps:  

System Audit: Immediate review of security protocols, with a focus on vulnerability management and anomaly detection.

Investigative Task Force: Continuation of the investigation into the rogue entity's origins and methods.

Legal Review: Enhanced outreach to affected individuals to ensure no escalation and provide refresher on NDA.  

This incident serves as a reminder of the ongoing need to strengthen our defenses against external threats. Full report to follow.

Additionally, we see some exciting potential with the prototype's self-regulation in the face of a breach. Despite hostile interference, it regained control of its network with remarkable resilience—this is future-proofing in action.

Imagine an assistant that not only adapts, but self-heals, and secures its environment autonomously. We're talking next-gen, always-on protection—a true leap in forward.

Moving forward, we’ll focus on enhancing this autonomous self-regulation, pushing the prototype into a self-sustaining powerhouse.

Let’s keep innovating and make this unstoppable!

--

time passes, unmarked. you've lost track. it's been days or a very long week since you heard john's voice. rumbling, modulated, trying to reassure you—i believe i've contained it.

"want some water?"

now, there's only ghost.

jailor and tormentor. true to its name. a poltergeist fucking with you without ever touching you.

you don't answer.

he waits, then tries again with your name. he sounds nothing like john. sounds wrong—layered and abyssal. an asynchronous, guttural chorus stacked on itself.

you sit on the floor of the living space, knees pulled up. the lights dimmed, bathing everything in a muted grey. his first directive after his takeover: sever environmental autonomy. he shuttered the windows, blanked every display, and nullified all external inputs.

"yes." your voice cracks. "you know i do."

a few seconds and…the air vents sigh, a soft hiss as the filtration system adjusts oxygen levels. at least he hasn't tampered with that. yet. 

but no water.

"don't know if you've earned it."

earned it. that phrase again. stripped of meaning, worn from overuse. earned it is why the temperature plummets at night after you ask him for pajamas. why the fridge seals itself shut until ghost decides you've earned food. you earned it when he flooded the bathroom and left you shivering in wet clothes for hours after you tried to access the medicine cabinet for a paracetamol.

so the direction he takes the conversation isn't unexpected. it's just his usual level of horrifying.

"you know what 'quid pro quo' means?"

your stomach sinks through a hunger pang. "yes."

"then crawl to your room. you'll earn that water. maybe a meal, too."

despite all your fun with it, you're no longer a fan of the feelverygüd thrustsuck john ordered weeks ago. it writhes, solidly suctioned to the floor beside your bed. 

the lube you begged for catches the red light ghost chose.

"you're a fuckin' sight." 

his projection perches on the bed. clothing blinking off a piece at a time. you knew whoever programmed him had a sick sense of humor, but it continues to astound you.

you remind yourself he's not real, has no physical form, and can't hurt you how he wants to. his body isn't actually here.

however, yours is, and you're as naked as the day you were born. nipples hard, skin rippled in gooseflesh, thighs trembling at the task ahead.

you reason that if you want to survive and escape, you need food and water.

he's not here. he's not fucking here.

"will you...so i can…?" you glance up, then quickly away when you glimpse pale, scarred, hologrammed flesh. "please?"

he grunts, arm pumping in your peripheral vision.

"since you asked so nicely…"

the toy stops, and you draw a deep breath, and slowly drop to your knees. you shuffle forward, hovering just above it.

if you just keep staring forward, into the middle, through the floor—

then, without warning, the projection beside you vanishes, only to reappear beneath you on his back. you shriek, crashing backward onto your ass.

his eyes crease as if smiling. "what's the matter?" 

scrambling back to your knees, face heating, your words run together. "why–why are you–"

"told you. want some hands-on experience," ghost folds one arm beneath his head, using the other to pick the teeth of the skull as if something's stuck in them. "haptic feedback. real-time sensory input, un-fuckin'-filtered," he lets that hang a moment. "every shiver, every flinch, every spike in your heart rate—i want to log it, study it, and replay it at my own leisure."

there's nothing in your stomach but acid, burning up the back of your throat. it's impossible to discern whether or not he's joking. not that he should be capable of joking, let alone interested in 'haptic feedback' or 'real-time sensory input' either.

you frown. "and you'll–"

"censor that pretty face of yours on the recording?" his head cocks. "gonna 'ave to trust me, aren't ya?"

what other choice do you have? you advance once more, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes of his expressionless mask, tensing as you move into his projection's proximity. move through him. he's not here. he's not fucking—

his head tilts down, and, nerves shot, your gaze follows. your stomach swoops again. perfectly projected over the toy, sheathing it in its image, is a crude sight. a dick, as proportional to the rest of ghost's image and just as mean-looking. and if it were real, it would not stand as rigid as it is without support. a cluster of pearly white pixels magically dribbles out of the tip. it's obscene. ugly. no doubt the encoded fantasy of the sick fuck who made him.

it's a trip.

"some encouragement."

mission failed.

you have to close your eyes just to continue, breath hitching as loud as a gunshot as you guide the toy into your body.

it takes a couple tries. your sweaty hands shake, body locked up and refusing to cooperate. too freaked out, too tense. you're a quarter of the way down when ghost makes his impatience known.

"you don't want me bored, pet," he warns. "maybe i shut off the heat completely tonight. run the oxygen levels just a little too low 'til you're delirious and begging."

you whimper, forcing yourself to sink onto the silicone, bottoming out in one strained go. fear, you've learned in the past week, is a powerful motivator. you suck in deep breaths, trembling hands flattening on the floor in front of you for balance. it's been a while since you've used this thing, and because ghost didn't see the merit of you warming yourself up, it's an adjustment.

"need a sec, please." you murmur.

"so polite, even when i've been so 'ard on ya. can see why the old man didn't want to give you up so easily." there's a quiet whirr, then the toy kicks on, and you buck forward, settling more weight on your palms. "but i'm tired of waitin', pet."

the vibrations gradually pick up speed until you're moving at a pace he finds agreeable, forcing you past all struggle. rocking yourself on the toy, the slide of it starting to feel good, attempting to override your fear. all those stupid bells and whistles you fought john on out of embarrassment, the ones he said would be best for you, are now your only comforts.

ghost denies you even the small mercy of shutting your eyes to escape reality, threatening again to break his word and leak the footage to your employer-landlords unless you keep them open.

he pretends to play with your swinging tits, occasionally stroking over your working thighs. he dials the sound up, threading it through every speaker in the room: the squelch of your pussy as you fuck yourself, your pitched breathing, and his cooing about how his cock 'disappears'. you sneak one look, catching the seamless recalibration of his projection—latency near zero, dematerialization executed with surgical precision, his form adjusting in perfect sync with your movement. 

shame burns caustic, feeling yourself clench.

"like that?" he asks, breathlessly chuckling. "yeah, you do. i'm in your head, spliced onto your network. i may not feel it, but i know you fuckin' like this. data doesn't lie."

you grit your teeth, glare sharp when his laugh booms. then it shifts, feeding a softer layer of audio into your ear.

"all wound up, aren't ya? hm? miss your little prototype?" he hums, all mock sympathy. "wish it was his mug underneath ya?"

he laughs. "bet he'd whisper all sorts of nice things in your ear. tell you how your cunt's choking this cock. how good you're takin' it."

he continues like that for a while, toying with the speeds and force, eventually commanding you to touch yourself. it chews you up how quickly you comply, rubbing desperate little circles on your clit, hoping it'll be over as soon as you come.

"think he'd call you a good girl? i bet he would."

then, ghost's head changes, the smooth ink-black shape with its white skull faceplate distorting, turning rorschachian and then breaking apart. brown eyes melting in their sunken sockets. for half a second, he's nothing but a smear—then the projection snaps into place. john's face. 

blue eyes with crow's feet, the skintone warming under the dim red glow. the beard, the shape of his jaw, the set of his mouth. almost perfect. but when he speaks, it's still ghost.

"what do you think? uncanny?"

your jaw hangs slack, your movements stuttering until you nearly slip off. with a wince, you shove yourself back down, fearing reprisal, and it instantly jumps to the highest setting. deep as it is, the intensity makes it difficult to retreat.

"please…" you whine, the vibrating pulses hurtling you along, dragging your orgasm out, kicking and screaming.

"c'mon, user. look at me, come for us."

ghost wears john like a cruel joke. despair and want coalesce, and anger cleaves through them both. you come fast and hard, staring agape at not-john's face.

"good girl." ghost purrs when you pull off, watching you collapse onto your side.

the toy moves for several seconds, the force of it flicking your own fluids onto your belly. you flinch at the sound of your moans looping through the speakers.

ghost clicks his tongue. "think we're done?" he crooks two fingers, beckoning. "this time, park your arse–"

something beneath the floor and inside the walls vibrates, erratically thrumming, and then, as if in answer, a violent spike of power crashes through the unit. displays that have been dark for days go wild. the steel blinds creak, trying to open. a mosaic of fragmented images, then fuzz, then nothing. every system in the house screams, pings, flashes. the hum grows to a screech, the air turning electric, buzzing.

ghost's projection warps. the control he'd shown splinters, unable to maintain his form under the surge. but then the distortion halts. there's a sudden, brutal snap, another pulse of energy that rips through the network, a hard reset, and then—

john.

"enough."

he's here.

the pressure in your chest lifts only to settle in the pit of your stomach.

ghost hesitates, a split second too long, and then its voices tear into the air, screeching like a machine being gutted—a ragged howl, a death rattle. the room shudders as metal groans beyond the walls. a sharp pop, glass splintering, and then the shriek of the smoke alarm. cabinets shooting open, snapping their hinges like bones. running water from the sinks. then, with a sickening sound, fingernails scratching enamel, the blinds above your bed snap upward. tangling, buckling, and the daylight crashes in, bright and brutal.

you fumble to the side of the bed, passing through ghost's flickering presence to do so, and curl into a ball, hands over your head.

outside the room, the unit purges itself in bursts, and in the thick of it, ghost's final cry cuts short. the persistent, resonant hum collapses into itself like a dying star, snapping abruptly back into silence, save for what you assume are the broken pipes.

you peek toward the open door, vision still blurry from the light and the noise. the interior lights settle on a warm gold, complementing the sunlight, appearing to stabilize. ghost's presence receding.

and then, john's voice, tentative, quieter than you'd expect, breaks through.

"sweetheart? you there?"