Court Proceedings

Tempting Fate. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader [SMUT]

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy power dynamics, not SFW, implied past dubcon/noncon and verbal humiliation.  Word count: 4.7k.

A single frayed thread can unravel even the grandest of tapestries.

You’d like to delude yourself into thinking you’re ready. That those weeks of mental preparation, practicing mannerisms and pretty smiles in the mirror would bear fruit. Is it foolish to hope and yield a bountiful harvest from what you’ve sown when the soil is barren?

Dallying in your thoughts won’t do any good. However, what else is there for you to do? You’ve paced back and forth in your quarters until your heels ached, fussed over your appearance, the shade of rouge on your lips, and washed away the incriminating ink on the skin of your wrist. That experience could be compared to a trivial trial for what was to come.

You thought your heart would overwork itself to death with how it pounded away, like a war drum before a decisive battle.

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It’s Graduation, Isn’t It?

Yan Gojo Satoru x F Reader.

Warnings: Gojo Satoru, yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, weird roundabout guilt tripping and emotional manipulation. Word count: 5.5k.

It’s a shame the sun sets in the west. 

The celestial body is indifferent to your plight, its energy refined and unrelenting. Its golden beams chase after the dark fabric of your uniform as if sucked in by a black hole. You’ve done what you can to withstand the heat's attack — tying your hair up, opening rickety windows, downing enough water to last a lifetime — but sweat still stubbornly glistens along your temple. 

Worse than the sun and its heat, however, is the other heavenly body present in this stuffy room. An individual with abilities so far beyond your comprehension, he’s earned the privilege and burden of calling himself the strongest. Those two words are the closest anyone could come to accurately describing the immeasurable scope of his strength. What does the most honored one do in this four-dimensional playground the rest of you carbon-spaced species have to occupy? How does someone who can see infinite realities burn his free time? 

Does he tilt the Earth off its axis for curiosity’s sake? Create a vacuum that swallows the atmosphere’s nitrogen, oxygen, and argon? Beckon the moon closer to turn the ocean’s reign of 71% to 100%? 

No, Gojo Satoru does none of these things because he’s busy. Busy lazing around on a desk you just cleaned (and will have to clean again, the dirt wedged into his soles taunt), sucking obnoxiously loud on a sweet treat. 

You point your broom handle at him. 

“Hey, you.” 

Gojo plops the cherry-flavored lollipop from his mouth and points to himself, faking incredulity. “Me?” 

“Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘many hands make light work?’” 

“I have now, sensei.” 

Content, he resumes savoring his lollipop. You ignore his jab at the occupation you don’t hold yet, but have both set your sights on. 

“Do you find anything about it convicting? Doesn’t it make you want to, y’know, pitch in?”

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p.’ The single-file lines of kindergarteners whose bright yellow hats remind you of ducklings dutifully following their mother have better manners. By a lot. 

You roll your eyes. It wasn’t like you were expecting anything from him, but you thought he’d be more creative with his excuse. You’d just barely begun cleaning this classroom when Gojo invited himself in as a (not) silent spectator. If you ever wanted to get out of here and enjoy your Friday evening, you knew ignoring him would be the best option. The only option. That strategy is easier said than done. Ignoring someone like him is like defying gravity. You think you can after the leap is made, but with every tumble back down to the ground, you’re reminded not everyone gets to ignore the laws of physics. 

Gojo shifts until he’s sitting criss-cross. “Why are you doing this, anyway? Isn’t Shoko s’posed to have cleaning duty?” 

He has some audacity sounding exasperated, as if you’ve chained him down until your task is finished. The supposed prison doors are wide open. He could waltz out at any point, unimpeded. Instead of doing something that makes sense, he’s chosen to needle you for attention. It wouldn’t be a first. At least he isn’t levitating the cleaning supplies like last time…

Regardless, you’ll miss the chaos that always nips at Gojo’s heels. A pang tugs at your heart. You snip the ligature in two. 

“She asked to switch out as a favor.” 

“A favor, huh?” Gojo hums, tasting your words as much as the artificial cherry on his extra red tongue. “I keep telling you, one of these days, someone’s gonna come along and take advantage of you. You’re too nice.” 

“Hah. Only you could turn a compliment into an insult.” 

“And only you could turn an insult into a compliment,” he replies, grinning. You return his dumb smile, which feeds his. “Seriously, though. I sometimes wonder if your blood is made of sugar, because—” 

“—You’re way too sweet.” 

“—You’re way too sweet.”

Your voices overlap in a dissonant harmony, your tone far flatter than his. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

And then you both burst into fits of laughter. Gojo appears sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck until your laughter dies down. It’s an unusual look for him. A healthy dose of humility would do him some good. What a shame his immune system will defeat this foreign invader before his system can absorb it. 

“That obvious?” 

“That obvious,” you reaffirm, still wearing the smile he gave you. 

“How reassuring. If you can mimic my thought process, you can’t be sugar, spice, and everything nice.” 

You lean your weight on the broom that’s lost its traditional purpose. “What could you possibly need reassurance about?” 

Rather than responding verbally, Gojo keeps his attention on you, dipping his head just enough for his sunglasses to slide down his nose. You tug your mask off and set it aside. You were almost finished cleaning and this conversation is proving more interesting, anyway. 

Gojo dips his head slightly. His circular sunglasses slide down his nose, revealing the two celestial bodies that inhabit his eye sockets. His long eyelashes flutter with every blink, reminiscent of winter’s first snowfall. As always, his silence is difficult to understand when you’re so used to never hearing it. He accounts for this by giving you extra time to think about what he’s communicating. How considerate. 

Does that mean…? 

You. He’s looking at you. 

Frowning comes easily.

“Is this your way of saying I’m an incapable sorcerer?” 

Fourteen-year-old Gojo would’ve said yes before you finished the question. Seventeen-year-old Gojo might if you catch him on a bad day, but those never seem to happen when he has you to be around. 

“You’re at the level you should be.” 

This is the closest thing you can receive to a compliment from the almighty Gojo Satoru, although ‘compliment’ tests the dictionary definition. 

‘Slightly-above-average-acknowledgment’ fits better. To most, a third-year such as yourself obtaining the rank of Grade Two is highly commendable. Most finish their time at Tokyo Jujutsu High at Grade Three if they’re still alive. But, compared to Gojo (everyone compares themselves to him, no matter what they claim), you might as well be sitting at the kiddie table. The four dimensions you can’t go beyond, the same four dimensions that serve as his starting gun. 

You can’t bother feeling offended. You’re not fourteen anymore yourself. 

“What did you mean, then?” You ask, your tone holding no acidity. 

“Exactly what I said — that someone’s going to come along and take advantage of you,” Gojo fixes his sunglasses back into place. You no longer see his eyes but you feel them. “You’ve never been good at spotting a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or a wolf in wolf’s clothing, for that matter.” 

“Wh— that addendum doesn’t even make sense!” 

“It is for those capable of abstract thought.”

The deadpan delivery of such a pompous line, even by his standards, earns more laughter. He grins at the delight he’s caused, the apples of his cheeks prominent.

“Okay, okay, let me run this through my Gojo translator. Is this your weird, borderline rude way of expressing concern for me?” 

“Only borderline? Oh no, I must be losing my touch,” he gasps, his hand flying to his chest. “Let’s kick the rudeness up a notch. Alright, you’re—” 

You wildly wave your hands. “Cut, cut! We can leave it at the abridged version!”

He bites down on his lollipop. His patience to savor its taste must’ve dried up. You listen to his molars crunch his treat into pieces, which he soon swallows. You don’t doubt there’ll be plenty more where that came from. His rosy lips become rosier when his tongue runs over them. 

“See what I mean? That should’ve been your cue to lay into me.” 

He’d need to do far worse than that if provoking such a reaction is his wish. 

“One, if I laid into you every time you said something tactless, I’d die from asphyxiation. And two, you’re not making a fair comparison. Of course I have more grace for you than some rando.” 

Gojo looks like a man who’d just won the lottery. “Oh? Why’s that? I’m just that special to you, an exception has to be made?”

“There could be research studies conducted on your ego,” you murmur, shaking your head. You know he’s acting, but he could be a little less convincing. “I’m this way for all my friends, which you managed to weasel your way into being. Of course this extends to you.” 

He clutches at his chest and sputters as if he’d gotten shot. “Just… a f-friend…?” 

To give his acting further credence, he stumbles back. The momentum pushes him off the desk’s edge. Your eyes widen as his body falls back. The broom topples to the floor as you lurch forward, wanting to break his fall. When you get to where he should be, there’s no sign of him. Not even a stray hair. Blinking, you’re about to call out for him when a presence manifests behind you. One that could bend the Earth, inhale its air, and conquer its moon. 

You pivot out of instinct and launch a high kick at the unknown force. 

Your attack doesn’t land, it suspends midair. In the second it takes for you to comprehend what just happened, the ‘unknown force’ throws his head back and guffaws. You lower your leg from infinity’s repulsion. Huffing, you cross your arms over your chest and glare up at him. While he laughs at your expense, you consider the impenetrable barrier that protects him from any unwanted contact. 

For some reason, you once asked Shoko what would’ve happened if Gojo wasn’t on your side. 

“We’d all be dead,” was her nonchalant answer. “It wouldn’t even be a fight.” 

You didn’t shiver then and you don’t shiver now. That what-if is useless, an inert product of the three pounds of gray matter in between your ears. Speculation lives so it can die. You’ve buried this one and see no reason for its exhumation. 

Gojo stuffs his hands into his pocket and bends down to your level. 

“Uh oh, that look means I’m in trouble,” Gojo says, not sounding bothered by the prospect in the slightest. “What’re you thinking? Dinner on me? We should hit Nakamise-dori before the 9-5 crowd lets out.” 

Tempting as that prospect is, you must stay strong. He messed with you, so you’ll mess with him. It’s for balance and all that. This definitely isn’t born from pettiness, no, you’re not fourteen! You’re seventeen. Which might be worse, because you’re running out of years to use your age as an excuse. Or did you run out already…?

“And what if I said I wasn’t thinking about you? You’re not the center of the universe, y’know.” 

“I kinda am, though.” 

(He’s got a point. He kinda is). 

“Right, right. Well, I’m sure the universe’s center would prefer to eat alone, rather than with this insignificant pebble.” 

You’re plenty capable of carrying out your own melodramatics. This classroom has served as his amphitheater long enough, he deserves to be the chorus now. You go to and fro, collecting cleaning implements and putting them in their proper place. The window cleaner suspiciously evades your grasp until you shoot Gojo a non-threatening glare. He snickers and releases his infinity. Finally finished, you head out of the classroom, not sparing him a glance as you brush his shoulder. Interestingly, this contact is allowed. His innate technique relaxes just long enough for your own theatrics to play out. 

Gojo wastes no time in chasing after you. His long legs close the paltry distance with little effort. 

He pokes your cheek. “C’mon, at least give yourself some credit! You’re more than an itty bitty pebble.” 

You make the mistake of turning to face him. His boyish grin immediately gives him away. 

You mistake the poison ivy in his hands for an olive branch. His boyish grin gives the secret away, but it’s too late, he’s already all your eyes can register. 

“A rock would be more fitting.” 

He looks far too proud of that line. You’d rate it a 6/10 at the most. 

You hasten your pace, navigating the school’s engawa with practiced ease. Gojo falls into step almost immediately, his persistence infinite. He whines your name, prolonging the last syllable. He must recognize that you’re heading back to the dorms. 

It’d be impossible to count all the times you’ve walked this specific path over the past four years. Not everyone who once accompanied you is still here to do so. The fleeting thought brings the scent of antiseptic, the hum of air conditioners, the cold chill rivaled only by the dead bodies it held. 

After graduation, you’ll leave many things behind. The morgue won’t be one of them. Not in this line of work. 

You remember the confusion you felt upon learning two of your underclassmen were sent on a mission, only for one to return. Once the initial shock wore off, you rushed to where the body was kept. You couldn’t protect Haibara, but you could still console Nanami. In the end, this proved to be too great a self-imposed burden. Nanami’s composure eclipsed yours.

(Sterile lights overhead flickered, reflected on an edifice of cold lockers. 

“Nanamin,” you croaked, your voice hoarse. You pointed toward the silvery storage. Rows upon rows, mostly empty, for now. “Why are there so many?” 

It was quiet, save for the cooling system’s thrum. You wondered if he hadn’t heard you. Began to hope that was the case, once you recalled you were supposed to be here for him, not the other way around. 

Eventually, he spoke your last name. 

“I respectfully disagree,” he said. “Truthfully… it might not be enough.”)

Sweat and tears were shed on this campus. If you put them on a scale, which side would outweigh the other? 

You shake your head like that’d erase these thoughts.

It won’t be much longer. Morgues won’t leave your life, but this particular one can. 

Gojo whistles a song that’s been topping the Oricon Singles Chart recently. You’re grateful for the distraction his questionable rendition brings. It pulls you out of your stormy thoughts, and reminds you that the sun will set and rise another day. 

“Are you really abandoning me on a nice evening like this?” He probes, as if he’d ever let you. He isn’t above throwing objects at your window to lure you out. You could be meditating, studying, or listening to music through the cheap pair of headphones you bought from the convenience store on your iPod; he wouldn’t let up. 

Shoko once offered you 2,000 yen to stop ignoring him after a miserable wasabi and toothpaste switcheroo prank. Utahime upped the bid to 3,000 yen on the side of prolonging his torment. Gojo overheard the bidding through a cracked window. He promised 20,000 yen on top of Shoko’s proposal. 

In the end, you came out without taking anyone’s money. Watching Pride and Prejudice during your weekly movie night was his punishment. 

(“This might actually be what does me in,” Gojo complained. “Not all the assassination attempts, or that Zenin reject. Wear something skimpy to my funeral or I’ll haunt you.” 

You whisper-yell, “This is important to the plot!” 

He obeyed for three minutes before pestering you again. 

“This the type of guy you go for?” He asked, jutting his thumb toward Mr. Darcy on the screen. “Rich and emotionally stunted? Cause if so, have I got some good news for—” 

You pressed your pointer finger to his lips. For someone who loves blabbering on, he looks terribly pleased about you shushing him. He must’ve relaxed his infinity to give you the chance. 

“What I like about him most is how taciturn he is.” 

This quieted Gojo for five minutes before his pestering began anew.)

“I want to at least get changed,” you explain. 

“Oh, you’re getting all dressed up, just for me?” 

“Pfft, no way. I just feel sweaty and gross from cleaning in that inferno,” you roll your shoulder, lamenting at the aches it’ll bring tomorrow. “I’m gonna miss that one yakisoba stand when I’m home. I’ve got to freeload yummy meals off you while I still can.” 

“Say ‘pretty please, Toru,’ when you’re back and you’re more than welcome to keep freeloading, stingy woman.” 

You laugh at the high-pitched inflection he uses to imitate your voice. You’ll miss this, you’ll really miss this. You’ll miss Gojo. You’ll miss painting Utahime’s nails while she vents about him. You’ll miss Shoko chastising you for not eating breakfast and you chastising her for not eating dinner. You’ll miss naming Suguru’s collection of curses after Pokémon. You’ll miss offering to tutor Nanami in subjects he’s better than you at just to see his reaction. 

In the end, even all of that can’t compare to how much you’ve missed home. 

“Absolutely not. My parents are planning to visit when I do, I can’t risk having you embarrass me in front of them.” 

It is said that when Gojo Satoru was born, the balance of the world shifted. 

You’ve never been fully able to conceptualize what that means — how it’d feel for the universe to hold its breath in anticipation over a birth. 

This current in the air, the inexplicable thundering of your heart, and churning of your stomach… 

… Was that moment anything like this? 

You no longer hear Gojo’s footsteps on the wooden floorboards. You turn around, noting how he’s firmly planted himself in place. The glint of his sunglasses prevents you from seeing his eyes. You give him a few moments before breaking the unusual silence. 

“Toru? What’s wrong?” 

“Just a moment ago…” he trails off, evidently deep in thought, “You said ‘visit.’”

“I did.” 

“Didn’t you tell me way back you want to become a teacher?” 

The ebb and flow of his cursed energy is odd. You’re used to its enviable composure, never fluctuating beyond its baseline. He effortlessly maintains it better than those who have dedicated their entire lives to the art. This abnormality lasts about a millisecond before smoothing itself over. Any fluctuation from an unfathomable generator of cursed energy like Gojo can’t go undetected. It’s like a soft wind picking up to 200 mph. 

Your current stance is one you’d take upon coming face to face with a curse above your capabilities, a subconscious call from your body. If Gojo notices, he doesn’t point it out. You relax your muscles. 

“I do. Back in my country, we don’t have any formal educational institutions for jujutsu like there are here. Forming an organized response to curses and other threats is real messy. I want to apply what I learned here back home.” 

Gojo… he never asked for specifics on your plans after graduation. This realization injects guilt into your veins. You just thought he knew. You mentioned it to your classmates who asked. Gojo never asked. He just assumed, the same way you had.

Internally panicking, you continue, “I’ll visit, too. A-And we can stay in touch. We have our phones, emails… we won’t fall out of contact. I promise.” 

It’s as if you’ve been thrust into a trial with a life sentence on the line.

A gentle breeze passes through, rustling the canopy overhead. Flecks of austere and amber peek through the branch’s interstices. They dance like a flame’s dying embers. Gojo is silent. There’ve been very few instances you’ve seen him this way. Uncertain, hollow. The latest is after the failed assimilation of the Star Plasma Vessel, Riko Amanai, almost a year prior. 

“Toru, I’m so sorry, I thought— I thought you knew,” you murmur, taking a step forward. “Let’s—” 

“Would you reconsider?” Gojo interrupts. He hasn’t done that to you since you first met. 

You wet your lips. “I mean… this has been my intention all along. I want to protect where my family lives, train other sorcerers up… I can’t just let that go.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. You can feel it, the scrutiny of his Six Eyes. How he’s picking you apart on a molecular level. The dilation of your pupils, how electrical signals encourage your heart to pump faster, and the subsequent increase of blood flow throughout your cardiovascular system. 

Anxiety wraps its thorny appendages around your person. You should’ve made it clearer, made sure there wasn’t any room for interpretation. 

“The higher-ups are finicky about anything far from their purview. They won’t approve of you teaching.” 

His words come out as cool as the ice his eyes resemble. They are calculated, unfeeling, slicing straight to the bone. Frostbite’s a horrible death, since you feel parts of yourself die before you’re granted the same privilege. 

“I’d follow any regulations they want. It doesn’t even need to be a huge thing, I’d be okay with just pointing potential sorcerers here. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.” 

You’re trying to grasp his angle here. It’s one thing to voice his concerns, but he’s erring on belittling you. You won’t accept that. Not when it comes to this, the raison d'être that pushed you to overcome impossible odds. Boarding a flight with a one-way ticket to Tokyo by yourself at fourteen, standing in your classmate’s shadow, fighting tooth and nail for your grade. 

You get him being hurt by this revelation, but is that all this is? There’s an unidentifiable variable here.

Still, you want to keep things civil. This is Gojo, one of your closest friends. Someone who actively laughs in the face of authority, uses your head as an armrest and spams your phone at three in the morning because he’s bored. There’s nothing to feel threatened by here. 

Gojo gazes down at you through his eyelashes. “What if a special grade shows up under your watch? You gonna run at it and get yourself killed?” 

The kindling inside you threatens to combust from the oil he just poured. You subdue it as best as you can. 

This is Gojo, this is Gojo, this is Gojo…

“I’d follow proper procedure and report it back here,” you reply, trying to match his aloof tone. Yours isn’t as nearly as convincing, since unlike him, you’re acting. 

He closes the remaining distance, standing tall and imposing before you. 

“And in the meantime? You’ll just sit pretty, twiddle your thumbs, wait for help to arrive?”

Stab, stab, stab. 

Each word expands a wound that can’t be sutured shut. 

“Gojo, what’s gotten into you? Is it that difficult to respect my decision?” 

“If it’s a stupid decision, then yeah. Hard to respect that.”

Your heart plummets. So does your view of him. 

Stunned into silence, you fail to notice how close he’s gotten. You take a step back. He takes a step forward. The process repeats itself until your back hits the shoji behind you, halting your retreat. You could very easily rip through it and run further, yet, what good would it do? What would it solve? 

In the distance, you hear the distinct thump of a shishi-odoshi.

Gojo sighs. It’s a heavy sound, unbefitting of someone his age. The following silence is just as heavy. You can’t tell if it’s a stream you hear rushing in the distance or if it’s your blood. He removes his sunglasses, folds them, and tucks them away. His eyes are beautiful. They are the cosmos, infinite and chaotic. More than that, they’re elusive. Infinity means you can’t determine the start and end. The beginning and end are concepts concocted by humanity, in its hubris to place parameters on an unknowable universe. Parameters are nice. You can work with parameters. 

Consider the sun. It’d take 1.3 million Earths to fill the star closest to you. That’s a high number, seven digits, but a million can be understood. The Earth is a touchstone in that way. The universe doesn’t stop at your solar system, though. It goes and goes, stretches and stretches. Gojo Satoru’s familiar with that stretch, you are not. 

How many of you would it take to match his strength? 1.3 million? What can possibly serve as a touchstone?

How do you measure the immeasurable? 

“We’d be dead,” you remember a voice saying. “It wouldn’t even be a fight.”

You shiver.

Gojo bends down to your level, but not quite. He cages you in — one arm stretches out and settles on the shoji’s thin sheet beside your head. Thanks to his infinity, he can ‘lean’ against the frail partition without ripping into it. Intrinsically, he knows the limits of things. How much he can push and pull before they collapse. 

He knows your limits too. He knows them very well. 

Or maybe he doesn’t, because he parts his lips to speak again. 

“How you fear and love look so alike,” he says, plainly, like it’s a normal observation. “I can see it. The surge of neurotransmitters and hormones, everything is illuminated. On display for me to interpret. For example, when I do this…” 

His large hands wrap around your neck. He applies the slightest pressure, enough for you to register it, enough for your breath to catch in your throat. His pupils dilate from the show your body’s various systems give him. 

“Your sympathetic nervous system just glows. You must feel it. The heightened respiration, heart rate, that primal instinct to flee, fight, or freeze. Y’know when your flight’s about to land at night? How the city lights look as you descend? It’s similar.”

Gojo’s breathing picks up. At least he can breathe. You still can’t bring yourself to. 

“Then, if I do this,” he murmurs, his hands cupping your face and eyelids low, “Your hormones go crazy. Everything lights up.” 

His lips brush against yours as he speaks. 

“So crazy, in fact, I can’t tell which of the two you feel more right now.” 

He kisses you. 

It’s sweet in flavor alone — you get a taste of the artificial cherry he enjoyed earlier. Apparently, he enjoys you more, because he takes the time to savor your taste, instead of crunching you down to your basic elements. The shock, confusion, revulsion, fury, and hurt, so much hurt, pierces through you like a gunshot. You swaddle yourself in cursed energy. Unleash it, let it scald him like liquid flame. 

His burns hotter. Like the sun, like the largest known star. His cursed energy, his strength, it doesn’t eclipse yours, it transcends. Forget 1.3 million. That number is a joke. A gnat he could swat aside. 

You splay your fingers against his chest and push. He detaches himself from you, not putting up the slightest resistance. 

The way he looks at you is animalistic. Unquantifiable. You start to think you might understand him, only for a new facet to reveal itself, as crucial as what came before and what will come after. Lust. Yearning. Pleading. Demanding. And hurt, its tint overlays every new dimension. Hurt that you made him care. Hurt that you want to leave. Hurt at how he plans to make you stay.

Gojo Satoru didn’t ask for your plans after graduation because he didn’t want to ask. You didn’t tell him your plans for after you graduate because you didn’t want to tell him. 

This is Gojo, this isn’t Gojo, this was always Gojo…

Where there’s infinity there’s paradox. 

“If you felt this way about me…”

You make a point of saying ‘this way’ instead of ‘love,’ because love is only supposed to hurt up to a point. That’s what you believe. No one would willingly endure it otherwise. 

 “...Why didn’t you say so sooner?” 

“... Why didn’t I say so sooner, right?” 

Your voices overlap, although Gojo deviates slightly from the script. 

He runs his hand through his tousled hair and laughs. It sounds forced. 

“Didn’t I, though?” He asks, his grin crooked. “Who do I spend every waking moment beside? Watch movies with, no matter how shitty? Hey, no need to answer this pop quiz, I already gave you all the answers.” 

His long and lithe finger presses against your trembling lips, shushing your protest. 

“Maybe it isn’t fear and love so much as a fear of loving me.” 

This speculation makes you wince. 

“I get that, baby, I do. I have a bad personality. One of the worst, really. And you? There are some bad elements. Like your penchant for wanting to be loved, so long as it’s quiet and unobtrusive. You’re a naughty girl in your own right. But, bad elements aren’t the whole of you. That pesky niceness overrules everything else. Hence my earlier conundrum.” 

Ah, yes, the wolf in wolf’s clothing. He couldn’t have made it any more obvious if he tried. Maybe this is your appeal to him. You give the benefit of the doubt at the cost of yourself. He’ll happily accept every ounce you empty from your coffers, because he knows if he doesn’t lap up your self-destruction, somebody else will. His ego can’t accept that. The implications are too damning. If this is your nature — which he’s proven it is — then that ‘somebody’ could be out there. Waiting for their fill. 

Gojo just lucked out because he struck first. He sunk his teeth into you before anyone else could have a taste. 

You’re way too sweet, after all. Sweet is his favorite flavor, but it’s a popular flavor, which incurs some risk. 

He could apologize right now and you’d want to forgive him. Those are your dimensions, your start and end. He won’t apologize, though, because infinity can’t have parameters like you do. Not beyond the consonants and vowels that make it a word. He’ll let you feel its mass and weight, but he won’t let you understand. 

“Satoru,” you speak in a soft voice. His eyes shine brilliantly, like splintering glaciers reflecting the sun. How they fall to your tingling lips and linger there isn’t lost on you. “I don’t want— we can’t part on these terms.” 

“Rest assured then, because we aren’t parting.” 

“That isn’t your call! You’re right, okay? I wanted all the loose ends to neatly tie themselves up so I’d feel better about going home. That was wrong of me, so I get why you’re upset and acting all— whatever it is you’re doing.” 

“If you’re worried about your family, they could always move here,” Gojo suggests. “Hell, it doesn’t just have to be mom and dad, you can bring everyone on over. Second and third cousins too. I’d take care of everything.” 

Deep down, on a microscopic level, you know this is the closest thing to compromise you’ll get from him. 

He keeps going upon noting your uneasy silence. 

“It’s not like I want you to be a miserable hikikomori. There’s plenty here for you, just give it some thought. Like little Megumi, for instance. He’s taken a shine to you. I can teach him, yeah, but you’re by far a better influence for the non-jujutsu side of things. And this school!” 

Gojo motions to your surroundings. “You’d still get to teach, train, whatever you want. And when we help bring up the next generation of jujutsu sorcerers — that will be how change comes about. Everything you need is right here.”

“... Because you’re here?” You tentatively ask.

“I was gonna leave that unsaid, but yeah, that’s a major selling point.”

Gojo’s grin loses its sharpness and relaxes into a closed-mouth smile. Your heart feels like it’s being drawn and quartered. Various influences tug on the organ, refusing to give you up, even if it causes agony in your chest cavity. Amazingly enough, you want to plant yourself in the poor soil he’s spreading. Seeds of forgiveness long to be sown. That angelic-looking demon who conquered your lips and chilled you to your core could be a doppelgänger. 

Logically, you know that isn’t the case. Mr. Hyde is still Dr. Jekyll at the end of the day. However, what does logic leave you with? The knowledge that your closest companion can and will sculpt your future if what you create isn’t to his liking? That makes the hurt worse. The agony too personal. You can only take so much. 

“I’ll… reconsider my plans,” you mumble. 

He wraps an arm around your slumped shoulders. “That’s my girl. I knew we could work this out. A little communication goes a long way.” 

There are an infinite amount of ways you could respond to that belittling statement. You could utilize your cursed technique and see how far it’d get you. You could scream, collapse, cry, beg, or condemn. This merry-go-round of options spins and spins. He can see it too. He’ll let you take the lead this once. Any path you tread, he’ll adapt to. 

The universe holds its breath, as does the world’s strongest sorcerer. 

“Does your budget allow for a trip to the dango after dinner?” You ask, wearing a smile that doesn’t feel right just yet. 

Gojo, on the other hand, has no difficulty returning it. 

“Only if I get to feed it to you.” 

A heavenly body such as his has what it takes to bring passing asteroids into orbit.

Breaking free isn't just difficult.

It's impossible.

My sister gave me an entire tin of my favourite crayon colour

This is a continuation of my last post, where anon asked about whether Kikyo and Silva would ever share a darling

Tw: kidnapping, dehumanization, pet-play ish, Kikyo is freaky, objectification, their marriage is as strange as the family they've raised, weird jealousy dynamics, weird sexual competing (?), Milluki is a creep

I think Silva and Kikyo could potentially keep a darling together, but the relationship is - odd, to say the least. Silva is significantly more emotionally attached than his wife - he's the one to even bring up the idea, actually, because his marriage to Kikyo has always been about convenience and offspring. And so, when he happens to run into you while he's out on a mission and you catch his eye for whatever reason, it's not exactly hard to bring you back to the mountain, dressing you up in pretty, expensive clothing and luxury lingerie sets underneath.

And frankly, Kikyo is not pleased - she's not exactly in love with Silva either, but she feels that her place as his wife is threatened by your presence, that her position within the Zoldyck family is hanging on by a string because Silva is obviously more charmed and affectionate with you than he is with her. At first she hates you – she’s doing everything in her power to drive you out, to make your life enough of a living hell that you’ll beg Silva to let you leave. (Or perhaps you’ll fall victim to the multitudes of ways she attempts to end your life.)

But though Silva doesn’t like upsetting Kikyo, his feelings for you – romantic, a foreign concept – are strong enough that he’s putting his foot down and stopping Kikyo from doing anything too terribly reckless. He’s always able to tell when she’s poisoned your food, or when she’s rubbed poison ivy all over your nice dresses so that you’ll become swollen and inflamed and hopefully he’ll toss you to the side because he’s disgusted by your appearance. Her attempts don’t work, and if anything it only draws your relationship with Silva closer – because suddenly he’s got you on his lap, your face pressed against his chest while you both ignore the very, very insistent bulge pressing against your crotch, his voice as soft as he can get it while he tells you that Kikyo will not hurt you, I won’t allow it.

And as time passes and he stays true to this promise, Kikyo finds herself slowly giving up. You really aren’t going, huh? He seems to really like you for some unknown reason, and so she instead turns her attention to making sure that even if her status as Silva’s wife is threatened, her status as the mother of the Zoldyck children stays in-tact.

And frankly, once she makes this shift, things change – because Silva spends a majority of his time with you, there’s no insinuations or attempts at stealing Kikyo’s motherly role. You’ve literally never even met most of the kids except for a few brief words over silent, uncomfortable family dinners, and Kikyo is smug about this. At least in this way she’s better than you – she’s a good mother, and you’re what? A good hole for her husband to settle into at night?

It makes her scoff.

Until one day, she notices that you are, begrudgingly, a bit attractive.

Not the beauty Silva seems to believe you are, but there’s something about you that she can’t deny is charming, even if she wants to. And so, as time passes, she slowly warms up to you; except, Kikyo’s version of ‘warming up’ – developing romantic feelings, yet again foreign to her – is transitioning from belittling and yelling at you out of anger to belittling and yelling at you because she wants your attention. She’s clingy, especially since Silva hogs so much of your time, and she relies on criticizing you and ‘reteaching’ you basic manners, skills, even how to dress as she sees fit. Her obsession manifests in making you unwavering obey her every command, the power making her feel giddy and oddly aroused.

And really, that’s a facet of your life as their shared darling that can’t be ignored – while some of the affection and attention you get is as innocent as it can be, given their profession and the fact that you were kidnapped, most of the touches and words and looks you get are anything but. And from both of them, too – each is equally guilty of constantly sexualizing you.

Silva is more traditional in his approach – he requests your presence most nights, staying in his own private chambers with the wooden doors locked tightly, the massive bed with its eerie blue lighting and satin sheets all bunched up and stained with his cum and your slick because he just can’t keep his hands off of you. He’s got you dressed up in nice clothing – revleaing dresses and garter belts hiding just above high slits in the fabric, the sight making him lick his lips and actually want you in a sexual manner, something he’s not used to experiencing. Every moment you spend with him involves his hand on your body somehow, whether it be steady and firm at your hip to remind you of his presence, or pressed against your stomach as he holds you in his lap, his cock stuffed as deep inside as possible while you cockwarm him, your sweet voice filling his ears as he commands you to speak to me, about whatever you like. Just don’t stop talking.

It's strange and it’ll make you think he only wants you as a glorified sex doll, but then he’ll do something small and unexpected that’s almost sweet, that almost seems like a genuine attempt to make you happy – a copy of your favorite book, or a beautiful necklace, or even an offer to spoil you with a private, intimate vacation to a destination of your choice. It’s strange, and while the lingerie sets are not ideal to wear around the mansion (particularly when Milluki is home – the staring is not subtle), Silva is tolerable. At least he normally preps you well before he fucks you.

Kikyo, on the other hand, expresses her attraction to you with much, much more humiliating methods. She’s naturally a bit sadistic, and while she isn’t actively trying to make you uncomfortable, she isn’t afraid to act on some of her more outlandish kinks. In contrast to Silva’s lingerie sets, you’ll be given pretty collars and ball gags and plugs to wear, all in varying shades of purple. (She favors purple because it’s both the family color and her favorite color, making her feel slightly better about her infatuation with you. Plus, she can’t deny how good you look in the eggplant, stain set she got you a few weeks ago, with a crotchless panty and material so thin stretched over your breasts that your nipple is fully visible.

She’ll treat you like a glorified dog at times, physically forcing your head between her legs and telling you to be good, make me feel good, or forcing you to your knees while she steps onto your thighs, a smile curling at her lips when you squirm in discomfort below her. Her overt sexual favors with you are less obvious than Silva’s, but there’s something about her’s that makes you feel weak and horrible and pathetic. And yet, similar to her husband, every once in a blue moon Kikyo is actually nice to you – after you’ve made her come a few times with your mouth, fingers and the toy she’d forced you to use (first in yourself, then in her – without washing it, a concept that’d made her blush heavily under her bandages), she’s breathlessly telling you how good you did, her nails digging into your skin a bit as she clutches onto you, her post-orgasmic high leaving her brain scrambled and praise for you slipping past her lips.

(One time she even tells you that she loves you – she hadn’t spoken to you for a few days afterwards, diligently avoiding you, though you were sure you caught her peeking into Silva’s room one of those night’s her lips parted, cheeks blushed so strongly pink that it extended down to her neck, a hand slipped up her skirt and visibly moving under the fabric. He hadn’t noticed, of course, because he was too busy bouncing you on his cock, eyes too busy staring as your ass jiggled and smacked against his navel as he fucked you in reverse cowgirl, but swear on your life that as soon as you made eye contact with Kikyo through the gap in the doorway, she made this high, whining noise and her knees buckled.

She’d come, from watching her husband fuck you.)

The situation is messy, quite honestly, but with time you’ll settle into it – you don’t have much of a choice, after all, and your presence fills a need that neither of them have been able to find in each other. And isn’t it just so nice to be loved by two people so thoroughly?

Even if you feel like a glorified pet more often than not?

protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)

halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.

a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.

Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.

You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.

You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.

That’s not important.

What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.

(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).

He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.

He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

The thirtieth of October.

You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--

“I love Halloween.”

You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.

Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.

“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”

His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.

(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”

Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.

He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).

You shrug helplessly.

“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”

His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”

You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--

You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.

How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?

He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.

He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.

“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.

“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.

“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.

It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.

You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.

You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.

The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.

You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.

“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”

You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.

Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.

There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--

You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.

(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).

The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.

“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--

He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.

“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”

Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).

This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.

“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”

You swallow.

“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”

You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.

It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--

“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”

You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”

He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.

“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”

You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.

You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.

Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.

“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.

(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)

“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.

You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?

You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.

“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”

Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.

“Don’t you trust me, angel?”

Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.

“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.

“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”

Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.

“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).

He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.

One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.

“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”

You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.

You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.

You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.

Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.

It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.

It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.

There’s a sound from outside.

You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?

Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.

A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?

Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;

“Trick or Treat!”

Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.

A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.

(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).

But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--

One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.

You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.

“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”

“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”

“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”

Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.

But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.

“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”

Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.

“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”

Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.

“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”

The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .

“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.

It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?

But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--

The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.

“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”

You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.

You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--

The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.

There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”

He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.

(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)

His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.

It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--

“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.

You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--

He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.

“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”

Liv……this senario with Levi.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTdbjkgnB/

vi i have been hanging onto this ask for SO long hoping that one day i would be strong enough to write this into a full fic but i need the world to see into your big sexy brain bc this is DELICIOUS

glass houses levi ackerman/f!reader (aot) word count: 1.2k tags: en ess eff double yew, age gap, voyeurism, stripping, mentions of masturbation

18+ MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Older neighbour!Levi who has all of his things unpacked within the first few hours of moving in, cardboard boxes broken down and tucked neatly away as quickly as they appear. You don't even really notice it happen; one day the apartment across the courtyard between your buildings was empty, and the next he's there.

So can you really be blamed for the fact that you aren't expecting a spectator when you start to peel your clothes off in front of your open window after a long, gruelling day at work? Your bones are weary, your shower is calling to you, and your neighbour is watching you undress.

The thin silky robe you pull on after you duck down out of sight feels insufficient to cover your body after you've been spotted--the humiliation leaving you feeling acutely bare as you peek your head up over the windowsill enough to see if he's still looking as raptly as he had been a moment prior.

He is.

At least he seems to have a sense of humour about it, if the wry little smile he shoots you with his hand placed over his eyes in a faux-display of coyness is anything to go by.

He doesn't have much by way of decor or furniture--a minimalist if you've ever seen one--but everything he does have that you can see from the vantage point of your own apartment is tasteful and expensive. It's one of the first things you notice when you risk another glance in the direction of his apartment the next morning, the second is a fleeting glimpse of him with a mug in his hand--and the sighting has you skittering quickly away, your heart pounding in your chest as rapidly as it had been when you weren't wearing any clothes, in spite of the fact that now you're fully dressed.

You're not sure what makes you do it again that second night. Maybe it's the cheap wine you've been drinking, maybe you're lonely, maybe you're craving that same adrenaline rush that you'd felt the night before when his eyes were the only thing on your skin.

You take your time undressing in front of your window this time, putting on a bit of a show. You know he's there even without looking. You'd caught a glimpse of him, on that same spot on his couch, with another glass of red wine in his hand--but more than that you can feel his eyes on you again.

It feels even better than it did the first time.

It becomes a routine after that. Your new neighbour settling in with his glass of wine every night to watch you painstakingly strip yourself bare for him. It feels like an eternity passes as you're slowly pulling off every article of your clothing until there's absolutely nothing left, and somehow every night that eternity seems to pass a little faster--leaving you with the feeling that you wish it had lasted just a little bit longer. That his stare had lingered on you just a little while more.

He never touches himself. No matter how tantalizingly you let your own touch linger on your body, how gently you graze the soft dips and swells of your own form. It drives you crazy, leaves you panting and moaning as you fuck your own fingers in the the privacy of your bathroom a short time later--but somewhere distantly you recognize that maybe that's the point.

The day you (inevitably, finally) meet him face to face in the little courtyard nestled between your homes you're taken aback by how handsome of a man he is up close.

He's older than you--that's certain now that you see him in all his glory--but he's aging gracefully. Time has exceedingly been kind to the angular, symmetrical lines of his face.

You don't know what to do. Or say. Part of you wants to turn heel and run for it, but instead you just laugh--breathy and light in the afternoon air.

"Hi," you say through your giggles, a hand reaching up to cover your flushing, burning cheek.

"Hello," he greets you with a polite dip of his head and a little smile of his own.

You tell him your name. Because what else are you supposed to say to the man who's been watching you get naked for the past 9 days? Who's watched you work your own nipples into sensitive little peaks just for the thrill? Who's seen you trail your fingers down down down between your legs under the guise of pulling off your panties?

"I'm Levi," he says, and hearing the way he says it nearly makes you tremble. Watching his lips form the shape of his own name makes you ache in the deepest part of your core.

"It's nice you meet you," you say softly.

Properly, that is.

He smirks slightly, then he hums.

The air between you feels too thin, too charged for a first meeting, too familiar for two strangers to be sharing between them.

"Have you lived here long?" Levi asks, and you have the fleeting thought that if he doesn't stop talking soon you're going to get to used to it, too attached to the very sound of it.

"Two years," you reply. "I moved here when I graduated college and started working."

He makes a little sound of recognition befitting of the small talk the two of you are sharing, but his gaze is piercing. He's appraising you. Sizing you up. Undressing you with his eyes in the same way he's watched you do with your own two hands.

"Well," you clear your throat, taking a step back towards your building, "I guess I should-"

His hand moves quickly, extending towards you. You pause, staring down at it, and the little card tucked between two fingers as he holds it out in your direction.

You pluck it slowly from his grasp, and turn it over in your hand.

Levi Ackerman, CEO ACKERMAN CORP.

You swallow as you read the credentials on the business card. The name, the title. The email address, office number, and fax details. Finally, the neatly scribbled series of digits on the lower righthand corner of the simple but tastefully designed card.

"My cell number." Levi anticipates the question before you can voice it, and your eyes flicker up toward him, greeted with a gaze of molten steel that threatens to drown you under it's weight. "If you ever need anything, or would like to grab a drink."

"I'm not much of a red wine fan," you say, setting out with the intention of levity but the words are too breathless to be teasing.

He smirks, clicking his tongue behind his straight white teeth. "I'll get you anything you'd like."

Your heartbeat thrums under your skin.

"Alright, Mr. Ackerman."

"Levi," he corrects you pointedly.

"Levi," you repeat, and you like the way his name tastes on your tongue. You wonder if he tastes just as sweet.

You turn towards your building, pausing once you take a single step away.

You turn back, glancing at him over your shoulder. He's already started in the direction of his own building.

"Levi?" you call towards him and he pauses, turning back to face you once more.

His brow quirks curiously.

You smile.

"Welcome to the neighbourhood."

Treasure 13 Reaction To Having A Tall Girlfriend (2/2)

I wasn’t able to post both of them because my internet is way too weak so here it is! @kim-junkyuwu

Send in requests! I do reactions, mtl and scenarios for any member!

None of the gifs belong to me, so all credit goes to their rightful owners

Jaehyuk:

Someone tell me why tf there aren’t any gifs of him

Jaehyuk and you would probably model together (idk how tall he is so I’m not sure sorry) if he’s short than it doesn’t matter cause he got the face, if he’s tall then it doesn’t matter cause he still got his face. It’s the same with you -but not with your face- with your personality, he fell for your personality, he fell for who you are, he didn’t fall because of your physical appearance. If you were tall, he would love you, if you were short, he would love you. But if Jaehyuk saw people writing mean comments about you, boy would he get worked up, he would become mad at first, thinking “these people are just jealous” and then he would become sad “why would anyone say that about anyone.” Because of these comments he would be extra careful to make sure you know you’re gorgeous cause YOU ARE GORGEOUS.

Asahi:

He looks so cute in the gif uwu

I know that Asahi is on the shorter side (idk how short sorry) Now it has been mentioned before that Asahi barely has any facial expressions, Seunghun called him a handsome wall lmao, even when the jtrainees sang happy birthday he didn’t show any reaction. But he isn’t like that when he comes to you, other than his family, you are the only one that can make him smile, like if someone mentions your name this boy will go all soft. Now if he had someone come up to him and say something like “your girlfriend is too tall it’s disgusting” no one would be that ugly to say that pls bare with me he would reply back with “isn’t it disgusting that you’re so insecure, you hate on another just to feel better?” He would say it with such a emotionless face that the person who said that would end up reevaluate what the purpose of this world is WOW HIS IMPACT. So basically he wouldn’t care, he loves you, no doubt about it.

Yedam:

Head. Over. Heels. You know his song ‘Black Swan’? Yeah he was thinking of you when he wrote that. He just loves you, anyone can tell he loves you. Now Yedam is around 5’7 so he is shorter and he is the type to get flustered if you wear heels because he never actually realises how tall you actually are, he’s always been fascinated by how amazing your personality is and how you two get along so well, he has never actually even thought about your height, it’s just never crossed his mind. Y’all would sorta be like John Legend and Chrissy Teigen, you’re his gorgeous model-like girlfriend and he’s this amazing singer-songwriter, and he writes songs about you all the time, he puts some of the songs out to the public and some of the songs are so special that it’s just for your ears only.

Doyoung:

I’m only a month older than doyoung and he’s achieved so much more than me, what am I doing with my life ok moving on! Doyoung would love how tall you are, “like zamnnnn, you see that long legged creature over there? No not the giraffe, I mean my girlfriend” idk I feel like he would try and be slick and try to compliment you but it would end up like that ^ Doyoung is shy, even if y’all have been dating for years he would still be shy. You kiss his cheek? Blushing mess. You compliment him? Blushing mess. But he definitely would be the type to show off to the world, he would constantly be taking pictures of you (with and without your knowledge) most of them are full body pictures because sis you got great proportions and he probably has a whole album dedicated to you, loves it when you take his phone and spam it with selfies. Like the others he wouldn’t care that your taller than him (he’s 5’8) and he wouldn’t care if you wore heels. He’s just uwu about you.

Haruto:

Haruto is still pretty young and I feel like he’ll grow and become as tall as 180cm or even taller maybe, I just know he has a bit of growing left. So right now he’s 5’9 not much of a difference. Just like Junkyu and his gf. You and Haruto would be THAT couple, paparazzi be taking pictures of you two left and right, you too would probably get so many modelling contracts OOF THE POWER but haruto would be the type to compete with yours and his height, “I grew a centimetre, I’m the taller one now!” And then you would be like “Nope, I grew another centimetre also” y’all would be competing about your heights wow, would be the type to challenge you to a milk drinking competition (bc apparently milk makes you taller) after that competition both of you had upset stomachs for a whole week, now the older members supervise you just in case you do it again, because you and him WOULD do it again. With Haruto you wouldn’t be insecure about your height, like Haruto doesn’t even have to say anything to make sure you know he doesn’t care about your height. It’s the little things like the milk drinking competition and the constantly measure each other’s height that makes you know he doesn’t care and the thing is, is that he doesn’t even realise it himself that he’s doing these making sure you know he doesn’t care, he’s still young so he might be a bit oblivious.

Jeongwoo:

Jeongwoo is currently 5’7 and I do believe he will grow taller, just not as much as Haruto. He would be the such a cutie about your height, like “wow, that’s my girlfriend? I got lucky” when he sees a picture that you posted on your Instagram. Or if you two are gonna go on a date he’ll be like “I must’ve saved the world in my past life” he says the comments so naturally, they just flow out of his mouth, he loves you and he wants you to know he loves you. But I feel like if he read any mean comments about your height and you did aswel, he would be the type to drag himself down aswell, “if you’re ugly than I must be shreks brother” like he says it with the intention of making you laugh but he unconsciously brings himself down too :( so whoever jeongwoos girlfriend is PLEASE LET HIM KNOW HES PERFECT. Now he is young but I feel like he would notice if you were insecure, and he would always get so upset, your what makes him happy and the thing that makes him happy isn’t happy? Anyways, he ain’t afraid to show his love for you, uwu.

Junghwan:

There’s only one gif of him wtf He’s 5’8 and he’s still really really young so he has ALOT of growing to do, he’s 13 omg. Cause he’s so young I feel like he’ll grow as tall as 180cm and probably even taller. Moving on, I think he’s still too young to even focus on things like height, you two are really young so you probably started out as friends and then became best friends and then started dating each other wow I still haven’t dated yet cause you guys are so young the members would really dote on you two a lot, constantly looking after you two and buying you guys food. He’s still a kid and I don’t think he would think you would be insecure about your height, and if you were he probably wouldn’t know how to react, so he probably would go and ask the older members for some advice.

Request: treasure13 reaction to gf having to kiss someone for a acting role. Sorry if english isn’t so good.

Hi and thank you for requesting! Your English is perfect, don’t worry.

I did this at 10pm so it’s probably not that good (I’m so sorry!!) ALSO I excluded the underage members, so the ones born from ‘01-‘05, - excluding Mashiho since his international age is 18.

I’m assuming the ones born from ‘01-‘05 would have girlfriends/boyfriends around their age so they’re minors and I just don’t write things like that. Sorry :(

Enjoy 😊

Treasure13 Reaction To Girlfriend Kissing Someone For An Acting Role

Hyunsuk

Would not be so happy about it and would be very obvious in showing his dislike towards it. His jealous side would come out, and he would be watching you very intently while you kiss the guy/girl, would be a pouty puppy afterwards. Understands that it’s part of your job so he wouldn’t ask you to turn down the role, but would avoid the topic of it. “Okay but you and I and the rest of the world knows I have better lips, I mean looooook at these.” Points to his lips and proceeds to say “I eat lip balms, he/she doesn’t, I guess I’m the real winner here”.

Jihoon

When you first told him that you had to kiss someone for a role, he was like ‘wtf’. Jihoon would be a best friend boyfriend (you get me?) so he would tease you at first but then not be so happy about it afterwards. He seems like the type to bottle things up, so he wouldn’t say anything about it but he would be a bit down for a few days, but then you’ll remind him that it was just a role and that your HIS girlfriend and then we’ll have the normal Jihoon back, and then he’ll annoy you like crazy for the next couple of days, mocking the way you did the kiss scene, would pretend he’s you and make out with whatever, a balloon, a plate, a remote, you name it.

Yoshinori

He’d get mad, at your company for giving you this role, but he would be happy that you have a role and that you’re following your dreams. But he would not be looking forward to the kiss scene at all. At. All. Expect a possessive Yoshi for a couple of days, his arm always around your waist, more affection, PDA, yeah, expect it. When asked about the scene “yeah, it was cute” but what would been going through his mind is ‘would’ve been even cuter if it was me she was kissing’

Junkyu

“Eh? Na?” Y’all remember that bit from YGTB. Yeah that’ll be Junkyu when you tell him, “Eh? Kiss scene? You? Another man/woman?” Probably would be in shock for a while, but then get super happy for you that you landed at role!!! Whenever the kiss scene comes up he’ll probably just cover his eyes and yours for the lols. Would ask if he’s a better kisser, if you say yes he’ll get cocky, if you say no he will be cut, “you’re joking right?” “Y/N?” “Oh my gawd”

Yoonbin

“Oh, okay 😗🙂” is his reaction, would nod as well. He wouldn’t complain about it at all. He’s just so laidback. But he would get jealous, lowkey though. Expect a cuddly posessice Yoonbin for the next couple of days, don’t even expect it actually, he’ll be so lowkey about it, you wouldn’t notice. Would be the type to say “okay, remember that I’m a better kisser” with a smirk on his face, just before your about to do it, via text or if he’s there watching.

Mashiho

“Kiss scene?” “Yeah I’m having a kiss scene” “okay 🤓” that’s how it will go, but expect more questions from him and he’ll do a background check on the person your kissing.

I just wanted to say that they all would be extremely supportive boyfriends!!! None of them would ask you to refuse the role or whatever, Stan talent, Stan manners, Stan respectful boys, Stan TREASURE13 ✌️

❌Gifs are not mine! Credit goes to their rightful owners!❌

hi my loves, here are some links and a masterlist of my indiscretions. All of my writing is x fem!Reader and is 18+ only. heed the tags as some are dark. note: i do not write requests or do taglists (sorry) <3

ongoing

Houndtooth | ghost x reader | 88k words Wild Cherries | cowboy price x reader | 20k words Clingfilm | ghoap x reader | 10k words Iron Tide | fisherman price x reader | 11k words

complete

Southpaw | boxer ghost x reader | 17k words

drabbles

Price is a cowboy | price x reader He's your boss | boss price x secretary reader He wins the fight | boxer soap x reader He wakes you up | soap x reader You re-enlist & You're reprimanded | CO price x sergeant reader Simon forgets how strong he is | ghost x reader

hiatus

Licking Wounds | price x reader | 114k words Trainspotting | soap x reader | 7k words

other bits

ao3: bitterfruit pinterest: sweeterpoison my art tag

<3

Actually girlhood is being obsessed with a specific historical tragedy when you were like 9