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jar-of-ectoplasm · 1 year

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sleeping w/ the mercs [NOT LIKE THAT]

sorry the formatting is shit i made this on mobile 🫤

shitty headcanons abt the mercs rooms and ur guys’ sleeping arrangements hope u enjoy like and subscribe it’s rly long so it’s under the cut

scout:

-very very messy room

-but like he knows where all his shit is so whatever works for him

-his mattress is on the floor bro 💔 just kidding but his bed frame is pretty low to the ground so it might as well be

-he’s got a smaller bed and a single blanket so you both are gonna be cuddling whether you wanted to or not

-surprisingly soft sheets, he stole some of spy’s fancy silk ones so it’s pleasant

-always has a fan/AC unit going for the noise but his blanket is pretty thin so it’s colder than you’d probably prefer

-kicks a lot in his sleep so just be prepared 🤕

-doesn’t snore very loud but does drool a lot and he usually ends up laying his face on your chest/your head so you are gonna wake up a little soggy sorry 💔💔

-usually falls asleep around 11pm or midnight but does wake up at random hours of the early morning almost nightly before passing back out

-pretty much always wakes up before you, he goes on morning jogs everyday so if you’re up for it he’ll take you with him

-does like to surprise you with “breakfast” in bed (it’s dry cereal and a tiny carton of orange juice but he tried)

soldier:

-really REALLY plain room

-it’s a little eerie, everything is very clean and the walls are bare concrete bc the rooms at RED headquarters are basically prison cells

-the only decoration in his room is an american flag, his bedside table with a lamp and alarm clock and a little bald eagle stuffed animal the guys got him for christmas one year

-sleeps stiff as a board on his back so he isn’t the greatest cuddle buddy but will do so if you ask (he prefers spooning over anything else)

-he’s got a decently sized bed cause he’s a pretty big guy, so you’ve got room to move around

-his mattress is pretty hard though so it isn’t super comfortable but it’s better than the floor or some old military cot

-goes to bed at 10pm sharp every single night and wakes up at 5am for morning training and will try to get you to get up with him regardless of when you fell asleep

-if you don’t opt to get out of bed he does wake you up again with a plate of food (courtesy of engineer, soldier’s just the delivery guy)

pyro:

-probably the weirdest room out of everybody’s

-their bed is really nice, they’ve got a pillow top mattress and fuzzy blankets so it’s very soft but it’s overcrowded with some burnt looking stuffed animals and an insane amount of throw pillows

-the other decoration is really weird though don’t pay too much attention to it, it’s kinda creepy but it’s also pyro so 🤷🏻‍♀️

-doesn’t sleep in the flame-proof suit but they do sleep in onesie-esque pajamas

-doesn’t sleep in the mask either but they do use a sleeping mask and are usually face down in the pillows

-not the biggest cuddle person either but they aren’t above putting an arm around you or something similar

-always goes to sleep after you do and wakes up before you too

-they usually already have a cereal bar or some other sweet breakfast food on the nightside for you when you do wake up though

demo:

-THE MOST WELCOMING COZIEST ROOM THE IDEAL ROOMIE

-very warm, comforting room, he’s got a fuzzy rug put down and only uses lamps because the overhead light usually hurts his eye

-very large, very soft bed with warm blankets and soft pillows

-the pillows all have a faint smell of whiskey but whatever

-very much a cuddler, sober or not. he doesn’t move around much in his sleep and is a very heavy sleeper so once he’s out he’s out and you are stuck in that bed until he wakes up

-does snore but it isn’t obnoxious

-takes the eyepatch off and wears a bonnet to bed to protect his hair (he has multiple but his favorite one has his family’s tartan as the pattern)

-a night owl, he doesn’t get to sleep until 2-3am and usually wakes up the latest out of everybody (around 9-10am) and he will get pouty if you aren’t there when he wakes up

engineer:

-his room is basically an extension of his workshop, he’s got a desk crammed full of random bullshit and blueprints he hasn’t gotten around to testing yet

-doesn’t spend much time in his actual room, so aside from extra tools, spare parts and papers there isn’t much in there

-his bed is actually pretty comfortable but he hardly ever makes it out of his workshop before passing out for the night so he wouldn’t know 😒

-when he DOES go to bed in his room, he is a HUGE cuddler, he will not let you go under any circumstances

-does snore pretty loud but if you wake him up he’ll readjust himself so he snores less

-usually sleeps on his left side so you don’t accidentally roll onto his prosthetic hand and hurt yourself

-no matter what time he fell asleep the previous night, he always gets up at 6am and makes the team breakfast. he’ll let you sleep more while he’s cooking and surprise you with breakfast in bed (even though he does it everyday so it isn’t much of a surprise)

heavy:

-HUGE ASS BED

-like california king

-he’s obviously a big guy but he does move around a lot so he needs a bigger bed so he won’t fall off every night

-very very warm bedding, he brought most of his stuff from russia so it’s built to keep you warm

-has a little teddy bear his mother handmade for him when he was first born; it’s pretty worn and tattered but he brings it with him anywhere he lives

-does have a little padded box for sasha at the foot of his bed

-isn’t the biggest sleep cuddler but he does like to hold you beforehand. he doesn’t mind when you cuddle him in your sleep, though, so by all means pass out on his chest if you feel like it

-does some reading before he goes to sleep and is usually in bed by 9 or 10pm; wakes up at 5 every morning so soldier doesn’t have to do his morning routine alone

-likes waking you up around 7am so the two of you can have some light conversation with engie during breakfast

medic:

-sleeps on the operating table

-just kidding, but he usually ends up passing out on his desk rather than his room

-his room is very sterile; it kinda feels like a doctor’s office, it smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and is a little drafty so it’s usually pretty chilly

-has birdcages hanging from the ceiling, archimedes has a fancier one compared to the rest of his doves but he swears he isn’t playing favorites

-if you do manage to get him to leave the medbay he’s usually pretty delirious. he’s very affectionate when he’s tired so he’s definitely down for cuddling

-is kinda blind without his glasses so he keeps them on until the very last minute before he falls asleep

-likes to tell you stories of when he did have his medical license and when he lived in germany

-usually falls asleep with his back to you but when he wakes up he’s holding you to his chest

-usually wakes up at 5am as well and goes straight into taking care of his birds, he likes to whistle littles tunes to them so that may end up waking you as well

-almost never eats breakfast but he will be pestering you about it because he’s a hypocrite

sniper:

-well

-it’s a camper van

-it’s very cramped but he’s used to it just being him in there so he never really realized

-his bed folds up into the wall when he isn’t using it and he keeps his bedding folded next to it

-very used to living in much hotter climates, and even though it is new mexico it gets pretty cold at night so he’s usually shivering his ass off under a thin sheet

-is surprisingly clingy for someone so introverted and quiet, he claims it’s because you keep him warm but he’s also just a mushy guy in secret

-usually falls asleep watching some shitty DVD on his little portable dvd player he keeps on a counter next to his bed

-keeps his kukri hidden next to the mattress just in case

-very light sleeper and once he’s awake, he’s awake. poor guy barely ever gets any sleep because soldier is usually screaming outside the van 3 hours after he’s gotten to bed

-doesn’t eat breakfast, but he will make you a cup of coffee in the morning

spy:

-ugh

-bought all of his bedding and the mattress purely based on looks so it’s pretty surprising that it ended up being comfortable

-will not let anybody have their shoes on in his bedroom, you have to leave them in his smoking room if you wanna come in

-kinda like medic in the fact that he goes to bed not even looking at you but wakes up all over you. he is kind of an asshole about it being like “aw babe you literally think i’m irresistible even in your sleep” when HE’S the one that cuddled up to you

-keeps his butterfly knife under his pillow and a pistol in his bedside drawer

-always falls asleep after you and is always awake and out of bed by the time you get up

-he doesn’t eat engineer’s breakfast because he claims it’s “too filling and unhealthy to be eating that much as soon as you wake up” so he always makes a little french breakfast for himself

-he pretends like he doesn’t do anything for other people but he always makes a plate for you of whatever he makes himself and leaves it on his side of the bed with a cute little note for you

-will pretend like he has no idea what you’re talking about if you bring it up though

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slushpuppi · 1 year

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HEY LOLITA HEY!

Albert shaw x reader smut

Warnings; all is consensual. nsfw themes. Praising, riding COCK. , LOL UM KIDNAPPING? It just apart of the story idc. He's caring, he is like mid 40s in this. , young is brought up but the reader is over 18 I promise.

A/n: READER IS OF AGE YALL!!!! Also grabber is not in character..

You were riding your bike down the road you lived on. A nice neighborhood, a cul-de-sac. Your heart raced, You was going so fast that Your hair was flying behind You. Suddenly, a squirrel ran across the road, and you had to swerve to avoid it. You swerved as you lost control of your bike. Before you knew what was happening you hit the concrete curb and fell off. It hurt. You couldnt muster up courage to get up sk you decided to just sit on the curb. A man was standing near his black van with some writing on it, and he began to approach you. "Are you okay?" He asks, putting on his black magicians hat. You looked down to look at your knee wasn't hurt badly, but you did have some scrapes and bruises.

"I guess. Could you help me up sir?" You blushed. He picked you up, bridal style and began to carry you to his van. "I'll drive you home. Don't worry." He said. He opened up the back doors, and before you knew it you were sprayed in the face with a mysterious substance. Before you knew what it was you were knocked out, laying silent in your kidnappers van.

You a had always been a heavy sleeper, but this was different. You had never fallen into a slumber as deep as this before. You slowly opened your eyes, trying to remember where you was and what had happened.

The first thing she noticed was the darkness. It enveloped her like a thick blanket, making it impossible to see anything around her. Lena reached out to try and feel her surroundings, but all she could touch was cold, hard concrete. She realized that she was lying on the ground, and her heart started to race as she tried to piece together what had happened.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you realized that she was in a basement. The room was small and cramped, with a low ceiling that made it feel even more claustrophobic. There were no windows, and the only source of light was a small, dim bulb flickering overhead. Within seconds, her breath started coming in shorter intervals, and you could feel your heartbeat drumming against your chest.

Panic surged inside you. You tried to remember how you got here, but everything was foggy. You quickly checked her pockets, hoping to find her phone, but it wasn't there. You tried to calm down, telling yourself you needed to be rational, but your thoughts were racing.

As you took deep breaths and tried to gather her thoughts, you noticed a small, barely visible outline of a door on the opposite wall. Your heart racing, you got up and walked towards it, her hands shaking. You tried opening the door, hoping it wasn't locked, but it wouldn't budge. It felt like it was jammed shut.

That's when she saw the small window. You peered through it, hoping to get a glimpse of who had brought you here or were there any exit paths; however, it was too dark. You couldn't see anything beyond the glass.

You didn't know how long you had been in the basement, but it felt like hours. You had no idea where you are, who had put you in this room, or even if you were safe. You knew you had to keep her wits about her and try to find a way out.

You rummaged around in the darkness, feeling along the walls. Suddenly, your fingers came across a small crack in the wall. It was almost too small to notice, but when you touched it, you felt a cold draft of air on your hand. You realized it was a vent, and perhaps your only hope for fresh air and potential exit point.

You had looked around and to your surprise you found a door. You walked over and decided to give the knob a chance. the door was unlocked. Fear gripped you as you approached the open doorway cautiously, you walked up the steps and seen the light coming from a room. You got to the top of the steps, peeked your head out and your eyes scanning the dimly lit room.

You stood out in the middle of the dining room to see a man sitting on a singular chair without his shirt on. He had on a scary mask.

She was about to run when the figure turned around, revealing the face of a older more handsome man from earlier. But instead of attacking her, the man held out his hands in surrender. "Come here. Don't be scared. I won't hurt you." You walked closer to the man.

"Please don't call the cops, i will treat you so good babygirl" he said, his voice trembling. "I didn't bring you here to hurt you. I'm just desperate and needed someone."

You hesitated, unsure of what to do. The man looked genuinely remorseful, but you didn't know if you could trust him. You walked over to him. Noticing how he patted his lap you sat down on his legs.

"Your so young. So delicate.." he whispered in your ear. You blushed. You tried to move but he wrapped his arms around you prohibiting your movements. "Call me al. If not that then dont call me anything." He said. His hips began bucking up into you. Making you whimper. "AL. Please." You let yourself go. You decided to just let him do it. "Please what? Say it. " he said gripping your thigh.

You whimpered. His grip strengthened. "Fuck me. Please. Fuck me al." You whined, feeling his hard on press against your core. He pulled his pants down to his mid thigh , exposing himself to you. You decided to do the same, pulling your pants and panties all the way down. You got

ontop of him, touching his cock. You jerked him watching how sensitive he is.

You lined his up with your cunt and sat down. He gave you no time to get used to the stretch and he began thrusting his hips up into you. "Good girl. Take it like the good girl you are." He said while his thrusts got faster. his hands were on your hips. His grip bruising, but you loved it. "I'm about to..." he groaned in your ear. You cried as you came. His cum overflowing from your abused cunt. "Fuck." AL groaned as you got up and wobbled away. "Bathrooms right there!"

#alternative #aesthetic #slashers #horror #horror headcanons #fanfiction #slashpuppi #slasher headcanons #slasher fucker #the black phone #the black phone smut #the grabber #the grabber smut #albert shaw #albert shaw smut

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guav · 1 year

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ᥫ᭡ for sanzu haruchiyo,

⠀⠀⠀⠀DISCIPLINE

what is sanzu to do when his waging rampage is met with a boot to the face? answer's simple: wag his tail.

⠀⠀⚠︎⠀⠀bordering on dark! graphic descriptions of blood, violence, suggestive themes, like one sex scene if u squint, y'know how it goes. ooc sanzu because idfk either. like 4.8k words.

“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo,” tensions rise with a simple roll of the tongue. the waters have been tested, they seem to be riddled with piranhas. “yet, i can’t say im loving this death stare of yours.”

if you’re not careful, he might just eat you alive. sanzu is not above murder, if your forerunner is anything to go by. his stare is cold, calculating, mapping out your body of weak points.

“manjiro tasked me with you, but i’m not a babysitter.” that got half his attention, the mention of mikey piquing his interest. “my job is to make sure you’re useful to him.”

like food thrown to a starving animal, his full focus now preys on you.

sanzu has beautiful eyes, you notice. they widen at your words in utter disbelief. perhaps he’s a sleeper agent, ‘sano manjiro’ being the only whisper necessary to kick him into overdrive.

sanzu is an exquisite asset, isn’t he?

ever the shrewd character, you’re quick to notice his change of nature isn’t desperate. sanzu haruchiyo is not some helpless schoolgirl chasing after manjiro. there’s layers, a bond that transcends time itself.

he is loyal, just not valuable enough; and that breeds desperation.

“useful—” sanzu clears his throat, “useful how?”

he can’t remember the next minute very well.

the first two seconds he wastes time blinking, the fourth is spent in a panic—you’re no longer within his field of vision. mark the fifteenth second, you reappear. one moment you were staring him down, sitting on piled up boxes, the next you’re beside him.

at the twentieth, his instincts go into overdrive. there’s no escaping the inevitable now.

sanzu is agile. sufficiently lithe to brace for impact before you slam him into the wall. his ears ring, and there’s warm liquid seeping out of his ear. he’s agile enough to survive a hit from you, perhaps that’s better than most.

the alleway starts to spin, and the remainder of the minute is spent trying to stay afloat. it’s useless though, soon enough his legs give out and he kisses the ground hello.

there’s a sizeable dent in the concrete where you absolutely smashed him into. it reeks of danger—thrill.

“am i gonna have to teach you manners, too?” you click your tongue. “you live up to the fame, aren’t you the cutest rabid mutt?”

sanzu feels your fingers on his chin. he can’t fight back against the grip, not when he can’t tell if there’s really two of you or if that’s the work of a concussion. “rule number one, haruchiyo. you only speak when it’s something worth wasting breath on.”

he’s going limp. “is that clear?”

in all the two minutes he’s known you for, sanzu’s learned better than to go against your word. or words, he’s starting to hear double.

“yes.”

you make a mental note of his impeccable survival instinct. “good.”

RULE NO. 2: do as you’re told.

“you’ve already ditched the mask once, i don’t know why you backtracked on it.”

sanzu remains motionless. your voice may as well have been a specter the way it goes ignored. and yet, his actions (or lack thereof) are not countered with another pummel on the drywall.

your line of work dictates a healthy dose of studying enigmas. speech, actions—none speak louder than the subconscious fidgets that compose body language. sanzu’s straightened back, clasped hands behind, and distant, firm gaze communicate enough.

he’s awaiting approval to voice his thoughts.

and that earns him another mouthful of dirt.

“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo. did i really need to repeat myself?” he looks helpless on the ground, breathing a string of curses into existence at the strain of his muscles.

his hands curl into the ground below, nearly pulling out the grass within his grip in frustration.“no, there was no need.”

sanzu does try to get up, overworking the already-sore body left from your strenuous training. (why you were expecting him in his kitchen first thing in the morning, only to drag him out to do fucking burpees, he’ll never know).

however, once again, his efforts are fruitless. muscles fail to respond, and sanzu is left to lay on the ground. pathetic. the sudden pressure on the back of his head doesn’t allow for much struggle either. it’s heavy, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s your boot on him.

“it appears you’re misunderstanding our relationship.”

there’s not much left for sanzu than to succumb to your weight. it’s not pleasant, not in the slightest. nothing about impotence is.

“i’m going to make you into the best right-hand man. you’ll follow some rules, but you’re free to act however you wish. i’m not-”

“my superior.”

that seems to please you.

sanzu breathes a sigh of relief when your footing no longer uses him as floor. he dares peek at the sky, but your figure blocks the sun from blinding his eyes. so why does he squint, still? your sole presence burns just as fiery.

“this is the second rule. if you plan to become useful,” suddenly he’s listening closely, attentive. “then you best honor commands, right now they’ll come from me, soon they’ll be your precious king’s own.”

sanzu bites back a scoff, draws blood from his cheek to cut any rash thoughts short. he could do this all by himself. obedience runs deep within his veins, preaches every demand as a devoted knight would to a throne; no different than a sunflower in pursuit of sustenance light years away.

he doesn’t need you.

“i understand.” so why does he follow you, no second questions asked?

a smile blesses him from the depths of hell, though your eyes don’t squint in the slightest. scary. you raise a finger to your cheek, tapping the skin twice.

sanzu proceeds to discard the black face mask without a single word of protest. it makes your lips stretch farther up.

the same boot crushing his head mere minutes ago nudges his body, sanzu now lies on his back. there’s no escape from your words, stare ever so omnipotent. “the difference between mucho and i is simple.”

is it? you’re both equally sliceable, nothing more than cartilage and bone. maybe next time you make an appearance he’ll cut you into pieces.

regardless, you’re slippery (maybe the polarity lies in that, sanzu muses). you stood proud one second, the next make of his abdomen a seat, cold hands cupping his face like he’s fine china and you, an avid collector.

“i love my hounds as they come,” you get closer, dangerously so. “snarly, scarred—they’re all the same to me.”

turquoise eyes are left to watch his destiny play before him. snap his neck, take a bite out his neck and tear the skin apart, anything could go with you.

“let’s change the second rule, haruchiyo.”

sanzu‘s breathing rags, your hands increase the pressure, and you might go for the alternative of crushing his head like a can. effortlessly.

“rule number two, you do as you’re told, but my word comes above everyone else's.”

your fingers travel north past his cheekbones, resting just below his eyes. he’s alert. you wonder what kind of canine would quiver the same way he does right now.

“is that understood?”

woof. “yes.”

RULE NO. 17: if you’re not useful, you’re out.

“don’t you get fuckin’ tired?” sanzu all but groans, drop of sweat joining the hundreds more pooling down his shirt. “surely sittin’ around while i do all the damn work wears you out.”

his words are poison, the katana in his hands is deadly, and yet, you giggle. “nah, keep doing your thing.”

there’s a fleeting thought to ditch this fight and have your head instead. although admittedly, he’d rather learn some spanish before fleeing to nicaragua with your body in five different plastic bags.

another nameless thug lunges, and it makes for another squirming body on the ground. “when you said we’d be taking care of business i thought you meant toman business.”

you know, mikey business?

sanzu bites his tongue after the sentence rolls out his mouth. as much as you’d grown accustomed to his character, he’d be sure to join the rest of motionless, bleeding goons if he disrespects you.

“toman’s dead, lost cause.”

that makes him stop the slashing. “fuck’s that mean?”

you’re satisfied with the fight for the evening, glock in hand shooting the last of targets. one bullet per head, not a single wasted. “we’re here on business to make sure there’s a place for you in the close future. bills are also due this week, two birds, one stone, yeah?”

“elaborate, “ sanzu actually growls.

“haruchiyo.”

the calling of his name makes sanzu’s shoulders roll back, back straightening out. it’s reflex now, really.

“tokyo manji is child’s play, you can’t possibly think i’m training you for them, right?”

“no, of course not,” what are you hiding? what do you really know?

your boot steps on too many limbs to reach his position, fresh blood joins the old on your sole. “correct! you’re so smart!”

sanzu misses his face mask. with it, you would be oblivious to his sneer when your hand comes up to ruffle his hair. it’s demeaning, probably intentional on your end. makes him seriously reconsider whether you’d look best with a sword through your chest.

“if you complete your training well-enough you could rule tokyo.” your eyes bore holes into his own. “wouldn’t you say all of kantou is more appealing?”

“sure?”

you turn away from him. sanzu can finally stop holding his breath.

“you don’t sound too convinced, haruchiyo.” only a fool would fall for your fake distress and pouty face. you’ve lost your stoic facade—deep down you’re but a childish merc with enough brute force to rival an elephant.

two fingers are raised over your shoulder, follow.

“i’m only interested in-”

“manjiro, i know.” you’d heard this story a thousand times. mikey, mikey, mikey. “and what’s gonna happen when he starts going for bigger fish? delinquency is a slippery slope into the world of crime—a rich one, too.”

sanzu can hardly picture mikey, in all his glory, waving a gun around. “you don’t know anything about him.”

you stop in your tracks.

he stops too, a good meter from you.

“this isn’t about tokyo manji, it’s about sano manjiro.”

“they’re one in the same,” sanzu bites back. you’re not his superior, he can do as he wishes.

“haruchiyo,” your gaze is cold. “sit.”

he kneels, swallows his pride for the hundredth time.

the abandoned warehouse breathes death and rot. there’s barely moonlight dropping from the ceiling to light his path of carnage. whatever job this was had nothing to do with mikey. it makes sanzu boil over with rage. you’re wasting his time.

“what good are you to toman if there’s no mikey?” you step closer, sanzu leans forward to meet your hands. they’re cold, caressing the diamonds carved by the latter. “how are you going to serve if you’re useless?”

he avoids your stare. “i am useful.”

one of your hands moves from his cheek to stroke his hair, gently freeing the locks from his ponytail. “you are, look around.”

sanzu can distinguish around four men crawling for their life, the rest a mess of broken bones and mangled slashes. “if mikey needs to take a life, you’ll be more than prepared to strike.”

he thinks back on mucho. the thrill that kill brought him made it hard to function the rest of the day. now it’s second nature; sanzu bites and rips apart with no hesitation, takes life as if it was never there to begin with.

“listen, haruchiyo,” your hands are clean from all ichor, and he hates how good they feel on his scalp. “think of it like a mechanism.”

eyelashes flutter prior to closing, isolating his sense of sight to fully indulge in the rest. the smell of blood, sound of your analogy, a gentle caress on his face making him wish he didn’t enjoy it as much. sanzu wishes you were dead.

“a machine with bolts, springs and wheels, synced together, with purpose.”

he pictures a shrine, lost in the midst of a sea of faceless pawns. fifth farthest from commander, or founder. he pictures kids playing; a toy plane; the first command he’s ever received—he knows things are meant to be.

“those who can't be a cog in our wheels are just scraps.”

as with any commandment you dictate, sanzu engraves the saying in his mind. carves each letter, memorizes every syllable, savors all implications.

“are you scrap, haruchiyo?”

“never.”

“good,” you coo, leaning down to graze his forehead with a kiss. the devil’s touch. “good.”

RULE NO. 99: know your place.

sanzu has come to the conclusion you’re a fucking parasite.

autumn witnessed development from cowering at our very presence, winter tied a ribbon to the unlikely friendship, and spring arrived with you at his doorstep every other day.

you’ve become the first thing he sees in the mornings (somehow you’re always dressed by the time his eyes flutter open, janking his blankets to drag him to train: “let’s go for a walk, haruchiyo!”)

every single evening would be devoid of any personal space. whether it’s his couch being invaded, to his kitchen becoming an absolute mess with whatever recipe you’re trying to put together. no, it’s not the thought that counts, even if the heart-shaped burnt cookies were for him anyway.

the nights were probably the worst.

sanzu had long-forgotten his closet being only halfway full, nor does he know when you had practically moved your entire wardrobe into his. there’s not enough space for the two of you, and he absolutely despises how everything smells like you now.

“haruchiyo, bathtub’s ready.”

you’ve somehow achieved the impossible by making bubble baths the worst thing he can come to think of. hates the thought of getting dragged to it, absolutely detests how he tosses and turns in bed whenever he doesn't have one with you.

there's a nice scented candle on the counter serving as the lone light source within his bathroom. an obscene amount of foam clings to your hand as you test the temperature. save for the swoosh of the water, it seems sanzu might be granted the miracle of having a relaxing moment of silence in his bubble bath.

you stand, "turn around, 'm taking these off."

never fucking mind.

begrudgingly, sanzu complies. he starts to discard of his own clothes, too. his hands barely make it to the hem of his shirt before a piece of fabric lands perfectly on his head. god, you're gonna make him pop a vein.

"i'd love for you to not throw your underwear at me," sanzu has half the mind not to throw them back at you, opting for hooking a finger in the undergarment and throwing it as far away as possible.

"my bad," you're not in the least sorry. the water is too perfect to dwell on past mistakes. "c'mon, chop chop."

soon his body enters the water too, bubbles parting way as his skin kisses the still water. sanzu leans back on your body, not minding in the slightest the feel of your naked skin against his own; your body warmth rivaling the water's own.

(okay, maybe he minds a little)

"isn't this nice?"

"no," sanzu doesn't miss a beat. "have i ever told you how much i hate you?"

a good amount of shampoo is combed through his scalp by your fingers, gently massaging the area. "a couple times, yes."

let's make it thrice then: "well, i really fuckin' hate you."

what's most thrilling about sanzu haruchiyo is the double-edged blade his persona holds. failure comes with crystal clear dangers of getting diced alive, success offers a never ending supply of amusement.

you push his head further into the water to rinse the shampoo off. there's no struggle from sanzu, you could very well drown him right now and there'd probably be no fight coming from him.

"you're seriously useless, i don't need you tellin' me what to do to appease mikey."

"close your eyes for me."

he follows your demand without missing a beat, basking in the water you pour on his face to rid the last bits of foam. "i want you dead."

early are the mornings your movement would be restricted by a pair of arms, late are the nights you'd walk home from a hit only to see his room's lights go off as soon as you enter the building.

"you gonna leave me to shrivel like i’m raisins? get on with it."

you reach for the soap, "aren't you needy, haruchiyo?"

sanzu groans, this would seem like the perfect moment for a meteor to strike his building. rather than feeding into your delusion he keeps quiet. it’s better than talking to the wall you are. teasing, threading the rope that is his patience for you.

hands travel across his skin, tending to it with soap that’s gonna leave sanzu reeking of your strawberry soap. “you’re funny, haruchiyo.”

it’s a shame there’s no sharp objects within his reach. “can’t wait for the day you slip and die.”

his half-empty threat procures a giggle from you. “see!”

“or the long fuckin’ awaited night you get stabbed and dumped in an alleyway.”

your laughter reverberates and bounces off the walls, and yet sanzu can’t tell if it’s sincere or genuine.

banter ends at that, and soon he is clean. though there’s no change in position to allow for sanzu to even attempt to wash you, too. strange as it is, the peace and quiet are both rare enough, perhaps the universe has been kind enough to grant him this one moment of silence.

“but really, you are funny — i get the impression you’re all bite no bark,” enough instances of carnage and gargling on metal could easily refute this observation. you don’t care. “you whine, cry, complain, and yet you never ask for anything.”

just this morning he asked you to do the dishes (which you never did: “can’t make me”). perhaps dementia was knocking on your door a good thirty years too early. however, it’s implied you're not referring to such superficial instances.

“haruchiyo,” your body draws him impossibly closer, “what is it you wish most for?”

he tilts his head back, leaning on your shoulder. the new position allows for a better view of your face. momentarily, perchance a slip of character, his eyes wander. glance at your lips, the bubbles hugging your body from his view, squint to see what the water hides. “hell if i know.”

a hum is enough reassurance that you won’t contest his blatant lie. “okay.”

a splish, splash, and overflowing water hitting the tile, sanzu is now the one kneading at your hair, soap lathering and cleaning. intimacy at its finest. delectable sweetness as you lean back, and take a nibble of his jugular. it earns you a pinch on your hip.

“say, you in the mood for a new addition to the rulebook?”

“not in the slightest.”

his honesty is met with a splash of water to his face, “too bad, take note.”

sanzu rolls his eyes, cost of opportunity heavy with regret since, of course, he forgot to carry a toaster into the bathroom to finally take you out.

“know your part wherever you are—learn when to be the hanged, and when to be executioner.”

it’s random. it’s ironic. “if we’re playin’ like that, then your authority’s worth jack shit to me.”

“is that so?”

once again, the question is left unanswered. hung and forgotten.

“i think your act and place should always be by my side” you muse. it’s custom you add a rule to the list and immediately reform it.

a phantom feeling tugs at his throat, like a collar being yanked. hands that operate under your every order move to rest on your thighs. underwater, there’s no hierarchy; nudity knows no ruler from subject. “and if i say no?”

“you won’t.”

a horrifying realization dawns on sanzu haruchiyo that night. as his fingers inch dangerously higher, and higher, as the water turns cold, carelessly splashing outside the bathtub. as his teeth sink everywhere and two become one, sanzu haruchiyo comes to a gut wrenching conclusion.

‘you won’t.’

it’s true. maybe words can’t ever describe what he wishes for, but it’s easy to cross out what he doesn’t want.

sanzu knows he doesn’t want to stop. doesn’t wish for your hand to ever release his bicep from that deathly grip, or for you to stop making those noises, nor does he want anything but your warmth once it’s all said and done.

sanzu knows he doesn’t wish for you to ever leave, and maybe that’s enough.

RULE NO. 275: forget everything i've taught you.

"..what?" sanzu is beyond confused.

"yeah, you're good to go, no need to follow anything i've said anymore."

the room was empty. manjiro had long since left, the eldest haitani had grown bored of your mongrel staring him down with every flirt he shot your way, and the rest of kantou manji had simply shown themselves out for their own various reasons that no one truly cares for.

the gears are still turning on his head, cerebrum working overtime to decipher the new mandate, or lack thereof? schrodinger's rulebook, perhaps?

“you look good in white, you know.” as if you hadn’t just nuked everything he’s ever known, you lean forward to adjust his collar. your favorite pretty boy, dearest psychopath. “let me tie your hair for you.”

“what the fuck do you mean?”

he hates the feigned confusion you present him with. hates the tilt of your head so much he actually unsheathes his katana, blade steady and barely a few inches from your neck. it further irritates him your obvious lack of response, not even a flinch.

any other day you’d play the clueless game, but there’s really no one paying you the hour anymore. “it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

“why are you acting like you’re,” sanzu bares his teeth, disgusted at just the thought of the word, “like you’re ditching?”

interesting phrasing. not ‘leaving,’ that would imply abandonment, a cry of weakness. ‘ditching’ pins blame from the moment it is vocalized, like whatever you’re doing, actions sanzu is still trying to decode, is irrevocably your fault.

steel kisses your neck, close enough to feel the cold, and the lack of wavering. you’re proud of haruchiyo, really. “gonna miss me?”

“you don’t leave a gang.” there’s the helpless child in disguise.

“manjiro took you in as vice,” you don’t bother with swatting the katana away, instead moving close enough to feel his hitched breath on your lips. arms thrown over his shoulders, fingers combing and threading to jail his locks into a ponytail. “i’d say my work is done.”

triads of protest die in his throat. shackles finally dissipate into thin air, long were the solstices he prayed for this day to come. yet sanzu feels himself floating away at the lack of grounding. he’s gonna be sick.

for once the silence is suffocating. overwhelming. unwelcome. the katana slowly scurries back into hiding, desperately like an animal rolling over to flaunt it’s belly; a last ditch effort of submission.

“aren’t you excited?”

he can finally kill you. he can finally roll over in bed and not find you there. he can finally return to being alone, and the strongest, and-

sanzu doesn’t do as he’s told.

“you finally have what you want.”

sanzu isn’t useful.

“you’ve been acknowledged.”

sanzu doesn’t know his place.

“you’re finally free.”

sanzu shoves you with enough force to stumble back onto the wide table in the meeting room, it’s surprising how it doesn’t shatter. there’s not enough time in a second to allow a reaction, not when he overpowers you for the second time, back slamming against the wood, sanzu’s body nestling between your legs. you can let him have this.

sanzu is stiff. he’s not used to being the one to leap first when it comes down to your dynamics. it feels unnatural to cage you like this, for your legs to wrap and pull him closer, like you’re mocking him. “you’re not my superior.”

one of your hands trail up his arm. “that’s correct.”

“then you’re my enemy.”

you tug him down, lips finding themselves naturally drawn right under his jaw. there’s no verbal answer to his introspection.

“then i’ve beat you — i’m stronger than you.”

sanzu most certainly did not miss the floating sensation your attacks give him. by all means, physically, he should be stronger. so, physically too, it’s odd when your hand pushes his weight effortlessly, and your leg locks on to successfully beat his ass and pin him down. it sucks feeling a concussion in the brewing.

he’s always looked prettier under you. “now that you’re on your own, haruchiyo, prepare to make mistakes.” his hands instinctively fly to your waist, “learn from them.”

sanzu groans, he himself doesn’t know if it’s the pain speaking or the built up frustration, “‘s that a new rule?”

the juxtaposition of slamming sanzu on the table and the gentle hands that come to tilt his head is a little funny. his skin smells of strawberries as you ghost your lips across it. “they’re parting words.”

it’s by no means a new position he’s found himself in. and yet he feels stumped. helplessly watching as the fire crackles its last sparks, as the last train starts to close its doors. even your body starts to feel like a distant whisper.

"haruchiyo, i want you to remember me." you're positive even the idea is far-fetched. the way his muscles tense and eyes narrow at your every call is automatic now. "memorize how my fingers feel on your jaw."

sanzu nearly purrs at the contact, and it's pathetic. he could never forget the grip, your hand looks best when it's on his face.

"memorize my voice, you must."

it goes without saying he already has. plenty were the nights he woke up in cold sweat, hallucinating you in every shadow and crevice; many more he’s coped by turning in bed and found the warmest embrace in your arms.

he can't live without you.

"haruchiyo, what else can i do for you to remember me, forever and always?"

'what is it you wish most for?'

he remembers the seventeenth rule, remembers the day you promised him a reward far beyond being an asset to mikey. sanzu had reflected on it far too long. what could he possibly ask from you?

power is all he ever wants. being of importance, too. both are things he could never have from you.

you have it all. you best him in every way possible.

maybe, in just one thing, he can overthrow you. "a kiss."

sanzu has come to the conclusion there's no healthy middle when it comes to you. his mind splits between wanting your head on a stick and fighting urges to leap and bite at your lip until blood is drawn.

perhaps an impulse to prove himself useful so you stay. a test of courage, his mouth wherever you need it most, whatever it is that will make you forever forget the thought of leaving him to fend for himself like a mutt.

"a kiss?" you've never looked more inviting than now, leaning back to stare him down, slowly blinking, a stray lock of hair falling out of place.

you’re making him feel real stupid. a small fraction cringing at his request, as if he had been reading the mood wrong and just completely ruined the moment (as if you straddling and leaving a mark or two on his neck could mean anything else).

eyes never once stray from his stare. sanzu really is funny.

you lean back down, unamused with the shit-eating grin that’s stretching across his face. first comes the corner of his lips, a fleeting brush of your lips, a ghost to acknowledge his diamonds. sanzu’s fingers dig onto your hips as, painfully slowly, you align with his lips.

sanzu haruchiyo, akaashi haruchiyo, your pride and joy. only way to commemorate would be by taking a bite out of him, how could you not?

your teeth sink mercilessly on his bottom lip. sanzu fights a choked cry, it hurts, and you don’t pull away until he’s left bleeding, panting, and so very dissatisfied. unfulfilled. bested again.

“find me again,” as a treat, you kiss the half of his lips, stealing the red drops for yourself.

“money,” you kiss his cheek. “power,” he seeks your lips again, struggling for his wish. “influence,” you pull back.

sanzu grumbles a protest or two, flailing in a last ditch effort to claim what was his. your hand on his neck kills any hope of that.

a finger swipes his bottom lip, teasing the lack of prize right in his face. “become someone with all three under his sleeve and you’ll find me again.”

the frustration is building back up. murderous desires. the need to fight you for control.

“is that understood?”

nevertheless, you’ve disciplined him well. “yes.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀navi.⠀＆⠀m.list.⠀＆⠀send me an ask!

⠀⠀also hbd to my least favorite person @k9wa

#take a shot every time i compare sanzu to a dog #kiiisss meee u aaanimaaal #sanzu x reader #sanzu haruchiyo x reader #haruchiyo x reader #tr x reader #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #sanzu #sanzu haruchiyo #ROGUEL1KE

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brighterdaysarebeforeus · 11 months

Text

Annnnnnnnnd…

They meet!! (^.^) (finally)

@hobiesgender @royallydivinelesbian

Masterlist

Hobie slipped off the roof into the second floor of the building, nearly stepping on Ham and Peni curled up together on the floor but missing them at the last second.

He laughed quietly, stepping around them as quietly as he could with his boots still on to make sure they stayed asleep; was a little past 7-ish, probably, and there hadn’t been any guard sightings before he’d come back through the building, which meant they were fine to sleep in. Most likely they needed to, because running around town all the time wasn’t exactly the easiest gig, and on top of that, they were usually fairly light sleepers: the fact that Hobie had gotten all the way to the door, boots and all, and they hadn’t even so much as stirred —

Yeah, Hobie wasn’t gonna be the one to wake them up.

He slid down the rails of the stairs to the ground floor just cause he could, making Gwen roll her eyes at him from where she was standing in the center of the room. He stuck his tongue out at her as he jumped off the rail, landing loudly by the staircase.

He could already tell from the lack of noise that it didn’t even make Peni or Ham stir. Those little brats were out.

“I’m gonna be heading out,” he told Gwen, who nodded and bent over to stretch out. He added part of his own weight onto her back as he passed her, pushing her down further, making her yelp and almost lose balance, and he cackled when she took a swing at him for it in retaliation; he twisted just slightly and she missed, making her scowl at him. “Meet ya at May’s then?”

“Yeah, yeah, just go.” Gwen resumed her stretching when Hobie was far away enough, calling out as he opened the door, “I’ll get everyone else there when they’re up!”

“Hey, I’m up!” Margo called from her corner. She was still curled into it, though, and her head dropped back onto the jacket she had been using as a pillow. Her eyes were already drifting shut again, and Hobie snickered at the exasperated look Gwen gave her.

“You’re a gem!” Hobie called back to Gwen, closing the door and stepping out into the sun. The air was cool and brisk, and he took a deep breath before turning to the left and taking several steps.

Whatever Hobie had been expecting for that morning (and he’d been expecting a good one, it was starting out so promising), it was absolutely not running into a scrawny-looking boy huddled into the wall by the building they’d been using for the night’s home base. He was pressed into the wall, head against the concrete building and eyes drifting shut slowly before blinking rapidly. He looked just about ready to pass out, and while Hobie knew he’d never seen this boy before in his life, he couldn’t help but think the kid was beautiful as he tried so hard to stay awake. Hobie wondered, briefly, if he’d come in with one of the visiting royals; they’d been parading in and out of town square, those royalist fuckers, though nobody seemed to be able to guess just why they were suddenly here.

“‘Ey.” He said, crouching down in front of him, and the boy startled bad as he did so. He stared up at him with wide eyes, ones that cleared up the longer he looked at Hobie, and slowly got this odd look in them. He tilted his head to the side, watching the boy copy his movement unconsciously. “You good, mate?”

“Yes.” He said, almost automatically, and Hobie lifted an eyebrow at the clear lie. Kid didn’t even have the wherewithal to try to cover his tracks, just licked his lips and stared at Hobie back. Hobie messed with the inside of his lip piercing, deciding to try a different approach.

“What’s your name, kid?” He asked.

“Miiii…” he trailed off, looking embarrassed, and finished with an uncertain sounding “…chael?” It was also so clearly untrue, but Hobie found that he couldn’t blame the kid for that; they still weren’t entirely sure what Ham’s real name was, and the other girls gave what he was entirely sure were variations of their names but nothing else, and if Hobie was right, then he’d need to keep a low profile until all those rich assholes cleared out. He rubbed at his face, nodding to himself, and then slapped his legs as he stood up. The kid jumped, staring up at him with wide eyes, sleep apparently forgotten for the moment.

“A’ight, ‘Michael’,” he said, stressing the name, and Michael scrambled to his feet as well, “I’m Hobie.” Michael repeated that to himself, mouthing the name over and over as if trying not to forget it, “and here’s the deal. I’ll let you hang with us today, ‘least for a couple-a hours before seeing where we can put you. Sound good?”

“Uh…yes?” Michael said, and Hobie grinned at him brightly.

“Fantastic.” He turned, gesturing with his head to follow, and heard Michael step beside him. “First stop is the food bank, help organize and hand stuff out. I was heading over early, so I’ll introduce you to the gang when they show up a bit later.”

“Okay, sure.” Michael said easily, rubbing at his eyes. Hobie snorted, kid was obviously exhausted, and made a mental note to stop and get coffee from somewhere. May’s generally had some, good coffee too, especially in the mornings for breakfast, but Hobie was partially sure he’d be able to find some on the way if he looked. “What’s a food bank?” Michael asked, after they’d walked in silence for a few moments, and Hobie nearly stopped walking to stare at him.

“What, you don’t got any food banks where you come from?” Hobie asked incredulously. There were always rumors, of course there were, the grass-is-greener type rumors, rumors of better living in other kingdoms, but he never actually believed that things were so much better off in other kingdoms that they didn’t even have something as simple as a food kitchen. Michael seemed to realize he’d messed up the tiniest bit, because his eyes widened dramatically.

“N-No, no, we do!” Michael spluttered out defensively. Hobie snorted, watching as Michael hunched over a bit in embarrassment, muttering something to himself under his breath. He glanced up at Hobie after a moment, putting on a shy smile as he did so. “Remind me what that is, though?”

“Little shite.” Hobie snorted, grinning at the kid so he didn’t take it too personally, and nudged the top of Michael’s head, shoving it just slightly and pointing him forward. “I’ll show you, c’mon.”

#punkflower #miles morales #hobie brown #gwen stacy #a whole new world au #part 7

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pertinax--loculos · 4 months

Text

A lil' excerpt, cuz why not?

This is the first scene from one of our main character's POVs, essentially the start of the story. At least, at the moment I'm thinking it will be the start of the story. With this WIP anything is kinda subject to change. 😅

Approximately 500 words. Enjoy! ^_^

It's cold, the kind of miserable cold you can only get in the city, and the drizzling rain looks like ash in my torchlight.

There’s not much ambient light around here. I know the area, at least vaguely, but the ballast slips beneath my boots and I’m hyperaware of the risk of turning an ankle. The last thing I need is an injury.

The weight of the pack on my shoulders doesn’t help. I direct the torch further down, stepping over the rusted rail and onto one of the sleepers, hoping for surer footing.

It’s a mistake; the wood is more even, but it’s slippery as ice, and I curse as my leg goes out from under me. I end up sprawled awkwardly on all fours, rocks hard beneath my hands.

I take a breath and force myself to slow down. As much as I want to get this over with, rushing isn’t going to help.

By the time I get to my destination the drizzling rain has started to soak into my hoodie. So much for the waterproof claim. By the time I get back I’m going to be soaked.

It’s fine. Not the end of the world. I spotlight my steps as I make my way over a few more rails, to the edge of the corridor and the concrete wall that borders it.

To the right a mess of tags. A couple jump out at me; WORLD, WRL, SLINK. Familiar, but not what I’m looking for. Not like the tag dominating the bottom of the wall in front of me, bold and possessive, a statement as much as a signature.

MEZH

Above his tag is a mural. It’s hard to see in the darkness, difficult to grasp the entirety of the piece, but I’ve seen it in daylight. I know the green-grey arch, the brownish streak beside it, the orange and yellows and reds that make up the majority of the building.

It’s a picture of the outside of Flechers Street Station. A stylised representation of the artist’s home base.

Of the Artists’ home base.

I shrug the pack off my shoulders and redirect my torchlight. Paw through the cans inside, red, yellow, blue, searching for a colour with more contrast.

In the end I pull out the black can. A little basic, maybe, but it’ll suit my purposes.

I pop off the lid and give the can a shake. Then I stop, torch in one hand, spraycan in the other, looking up at Mezh’s mural.

This is it. The last chance to back out. The moment on the precipice before I step out into nothingness and take my chances with the freefall.

I close my eyes for a moment and picture the signature I’ve been working on. The lines of each letter, the slant of them, the fancy twist at the end that binds them all together. I remind myself that the letters are me now. That this is who I’m going to become.

Kat, Kat, Kat.

I step up to the mural, and begin my work.

#pockets muses IWL #vibes WIP #excerpt #original writing #im still having fun with this #the other POV might be harder to share snippets of because the way i want to work it will require a bit of 'second draft' level stuff #but i also might just go 'fuck it' and tweak some of it to post #or maybe ill do some editing as i go?#who the hell knows!#with this WIP its gonna be whatever takes my fancy at any given moment #so there :D

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el-michoacano · 10 months

Text

only the dead know

Did you know that my first fic in this fandom is still my most popular? I'm gonna share it for any followers who aren't familiar with it! 🖤

Nacho-- Or this thing that looked like Nacho-- was riddled with bullet holes. Moonlight filtered through them, dappling Lalo's chest and the concrete walls of the sewer in silvery light. Lalo had been seeing it for quite some time, but getting used to such a thing didn't seem possible. It was small, only as tall as Nacho had been, and it was shrinking all the time, ashen skin drawing tight around its bones as it rotted. Some of those bones were exposed, bleached white from the desert sun. The radius and ulna were visible in its right forearm, and though Lalo couldn't see it from this angle, three vertebrae were exposed at the back of its neck, where a coyote had gotten it. Its left eye was missing, and much of the eye socket was visible, too. It was grisly, and Lalo looked away.

It was late, but he hadn't been sleeping. He had never been much of a sleeper, and here lately, the insomnia had gotten even worse. He had loved it once, had found it useful, even, but it was getting old.

Not that sleep was a refuge. The thing that looked like Nacho was in his dreams, too.

CONTINUE READING ON AO3

There's also a longer fic by the name of oh, most holy death that expands on this idea! 🖤

#lacho #nacho varga #lalo salamanca #lalo x nacho #better call saul #bcs #my bcs

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kylo-wrecked · 4 months

Note

the Bens's sleep styles 💅 - e.

the Senator's Son

Three things, very simple:

Blanket thief.

Use you as body pillow unless you get him body pillow. (You may want to invest in one, depending on your size).

Facedown smush on any soft surface. Goodbye, oxygen. Only sleep now.

the Hot Mess Frontman

Turn him over. Turn him over now! Don't let him fall asleep on his back or sitting up with his skull and neck in retrograde unless you want to be the one who calls the bus in the AM. You don't even have to touch him, you can use a broom handle. Once turned, you can simply leave him there.

He can and will fall asleep anywhere. In a small tour bus bumping along a steep cliffside roadway from Bursa to Istanbul, where everyone is vomiting in bags? He's sleeping. Hair and makeup chair? He's sleeping. On a slab of artful concrete in a city park somewhere, during a photoshoot? He's not posing, he's asleep. Basically, if he stops for 'one second,' he will fall asleep.

Cars are among one of his most favorite places to sleep. Backseat sleeper.

He’s also an active sleeper. He doesn't toss and turn; he's not a somnambulist, but his eyes always seem to be half-open, and if you infiltrate his field of vision, he might say, "Hey!" in a horrifyingly friendly way. Like a parrot. Only, he's actually asleep.

(That's how my brother sleeps lmao^. Ever since we were kids. Bro your eyes are dry cos you sleep with them OPEN. I love him but he’s a pod person.)

the Ex-Con

Probably don't touch him, if you know he doesn't trust you (you'll know), and if you can help it. He's a light sleeper, ready to throw hands at a moment's notice. He sleeps in a variety of defensive postures—stomach sleeping mostly, to protect his front ribs, stomach, chest, lungs, and throat, and so on. Due to prior…incidents.

Corrections officers ‘jokingly’ called him “Chief Faces Walls,” as he would often, and often still will, press his entire front body into a wall (with arms braced to his chest) if his bedding is close enough.

He can’t sleep with the lights on after ten years of merciless fluorescents; whether he was in the hole or under a stairwell due to overcrowding, it was lights on 24/7 at Dontamo.

If he doesn't use thick, blackout curtains, he'll bolt in shutters. (Shutters are a generous term. They’re not decorative. They’re for “if the house looks condemned they’ll go away.” )

the Dice Killer

Don't fall asleep first. He’ll want to examine your eyes.

#mobile #modern!verse headcanons #music!verse headcanons #excon headcanons #dice killer headcanons

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nightmaretist · 6 months

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TIMING: Recent PARTIES: Wyatt @loftylockjaw and Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: A park in a dream SUMMARY: Wyatt dreams of birds. Inge has a nice meal. CONTENT WARNINGS: None, but does include descriptions of weird teeth imagery.

She was indiscriminate in choosing her sleepers. Inge found challenge in people in all kinds of walks of life, and here in Wicked’s Rest her pickings always proved to be interesting. Fear was an easy to access resource here too, which made it so that she had creative liberty with her nightmares. (Besides, it was hardly like she was just scaring to feed these days — it was a way of life. The one thing she controlled, it sometimes seemed.)

Tonight was a first. The astral had provided some insight into the construction the man lived in, a tasteful cabin in the middle of nowhere. A nightmare location on its own, if used right. The various animals housed there posed little trouble, as they were stuck behind their tank and terrarium walls. Coast clear. As Inge materialized in the man’s room, he was asleep – soundly and softly. Sometimes, she envied the sleepers. It had been decades since she had slept, and even before that her sleep had not been peaceful. She could not fathom this sensation — no, her mind and body were always on. No temporary off-button.

Crouching near the bed, she extended two fingers and placed them against the sleeper’s exposed wrist, not only keeping him asleep but ensuring a connection that would allow her to tumble into the darkness that was his sleep. Dreamless, for now.

But with her powers, Inge opened the scene. Calm, bright grass. She let the other’s subconscious fill the gaps — maybe this was like a scene from a past holiday, a playground, an idyllic place he’d like to visit. For now, this was a kind dream. Inge was well-fed, after all, and liked lulling her sleepers into a sense of safety. On a perch, a singular bird landed. It cawed and for now, that was all.

—

Colors danced before his eyes, a large swathe of green below and blue above. The man blinked, watching as the scene came into focus. Concrete paths wound their way through the grass, trees materialized and cast soothing shadows over the green, and a large fountain sprang to life not that far from him. Shadow figures became more distinct as they walked closer, some sticking to the paths while others roamed through the grass. A dog barked, a child squealed, and some adults laughed. The air was warm but not hot, and Wyatt looked down to realize he was sitting on a blanket in the park—the Commons. He’d spent lots of time in this public space in Boston, and felt a sense of calm come over him at the familiar scene. The splash of water met his ears as the younger crowd stomped around in the fountain while their parents watched on from the nearby benches. There was the faint smell of pretzels and hot dogs in the air, floating over from the food carts that were stationed around the edges of the park.

Wyatt leaned back onto his hands, glancing up when he heard a crow caw. It sat in the tree just overhead, head tilting this way and that as it looked down at him. “Hey, bud,” he said to the bird, looking away again to scan his eyes over the scene that had fully come into focus now, smiling. A half-read book sat tented over his thigh, but he didn’t pick it back up just yet, instead just enjoying the feel of the cool breeze and the backdrop murmur of dozens of nearby conversations.

—

It was so quaint and peaceful, as if the sleeper’s subconscious wanted to offer him escape or a blanket of safety. Inge didn’t remember her good dreams — she only remembered her nightmares, branded in her memory forever through Sanne’s brilliant expertise. They had brought her something, hadn’t they? The dreams that had killed her in the end. They had offered inspiration and perhaps more importantly, this glorious existence.

And so she felt no qualms about any of this. That had ceased a long time ago, the moral deliberations of a mortal. She watched her sleeper, greeting the bird as if it was a friend. Inge sat down on the grass, some twenty feet behind him, wearing a hat to shield the sun (and perhaps whatever monstrous features would appear on her face later). Leaning back on her hands, she let more birds appear, all similarly looking to the one that had arrived before. Their quawks were innocuous enough, like a babbling, bird-like brook.

One of the crows hopped around, opening its beak to caw and show a row of humanesque teeth. Grinning at the dreamer, it hopped closer and closer until it dug its human teeth in the book. A muffled squawk passed through the clenched pages as it tugged.

—

He sat forward again when one of the crows decided to land in the grass with him and venture closer, but what he saw next was… unsettling, to say the least. He flinched away from the unnatural bird as it grinned, making a quiet sound of disgust. “What the hell—” It hopped forward and snatched his book up in its toothy beak, and the lamia recoiled more fiercely this time, kicking a foot out at it as it waved his book through the air.

He glanced up now, noticing that more and more of the things were showing up, though he couldn’t tell from here if the ones in the trees had teeth as well. Feeling uncomfortable but not necessarily afraid, Wyatt let his gaze jump back to the bird on the ground, squinting his eyes at it to try and get a better look. Had he been seeing things? Was there just something else in its mouth before it took the book? That had to be it… birds didn’t have fucking teeth. And for good reason, because that optical illusion had been gross.

—

The dream wasn’t nutritious yet, but that was okay. To build up to the moment of terror was better than to spook a sleeper from the get-go, Inge had found. There was a craft to it, after all. Adding detail after detail to paint a picture of unease until pulling the rug from under them. And then coming back, and knowing what connections were already laid in the subconscious of the dreamers.

A number of birds descended, flocking to the one who’d gotten the book as if it was a tasty treat. Like seagulls fighting over a half-dead crab, they grew competitive, snapping human jaws and yellowing teeth at each other, slapping their wings angrily. There were the sounds of pages being torn, the caws from their throat loud but nothing out of the ordinary. Inge’s own appearance remained seated with her sunhat, enjoying the absence of the sun as one, then two, then three of the birds turned their heads towards her sleeper. Teeth bared, looking for another snack.

—

Okay… okay. Birds had teeth. These birds had teeth. Being that this was a dream, Wyatt’s subconscious tried to rationalize it, telling him that he was misremembering; that birds had always had teeth. It didn’t do much to put him at ease, though, especially not as a few of them turned on him, hopping closer. He jumped to his feet, stepping back and away from the animals. “Huh uh, go steal someone else’s book,” he said to them, deciding that it would be better to just leave them to their devices. He turned and saw the woman sitting behind him, giving her a curious look before shaking his head and moving on, headed for the footpath that ran through the park.

He hadn’t noticed it, but everyone else in the park had mysteriously vanished, leaving only him and the birds, and that woman. The birds, of course, pursued him. He kept glancing over his shoulder only to see them still flapping his way, increasing his pace a couple times as fear slowly crept up his spine.

—

And there it was, the slow spread of fear. Inge felt it satiating her, the sweetness of it all hers as the birds kept coming after the man. The sound of their flapping wings echoed loudly and without mercy, but they never reached him. Never did they snap their teeth around his body, never did their claws move to scratch at his arms, legs or eyes — such things could wait for another night, perhaps. For now, the birds just flapped and cawed and Inge sat there, watching.

“Don’t look,” it echoed, her disembodied voice coming from every corner and none at all. In a dream, these kinds of physics made perfect sense. “Don’t look at them. Whatever you do, don’t ever look at them for too long.” Inge was getting up, her sunhat still wide-brimmed enough to hide her features and started walking away in an opposite direction — over a hill or into an assortment of trees, whichever the other’s subconscious decided to offer her to disappear into. For now, this might be a good start. A planted seed. “Don’t look back.”

—

Don’t look. Wyatt obeyed without thinking, snapping his head forward to keep his gaze firmly in front of him. The voice was right. He felt like he could remember knowing this. Knowing it was dangerous to look at the birds with teeth for too long. That’s why they were chasing him, wasn’t it? God, he’d been staring, and he’d angered them. Their wingbeats filled his ears at an oppressive volume, but he could still hear the clicking of their nails on pavement, the gnashing of their teeth, the rapid pace of his own pulse.

He broke into a full sprint, hauling ass out of the park and down a city street. The Bostonians had become nothing more than dense shadows, nudging him this way and that as he tried to barrel through them, panic flooding his senses. “Get out of the way!” he bellowed, wondering why they weren’t all running as well, but not getting hung up on it. It didn’t matter, he just had to get away from them before they caught up—

—

He was running, his heart was beating faster and Inge felt herself grow satiated with it. She let him run for a while, her own appearance no longer an important player in the game but her birds continuing to follow the sleeper. With every beat of his feet on the ground she felt herself grow more satisfied but eventually she cut it off. Eventually the birds were just about to reach him, claws breezing over the collar of his shirt, ready to grab him, “Don’t look.”

Before they could take proper hold, the dream was done. Inge snapped out of it, let the darkness of dreamless sleep take over and returned to the earthly plane. Her red eyes danced over the restless sleeper, took note of his mustache. She liked his mustache. She took stock of him for one more moment and then returned to her beloved plane, ready to return home for the night to kick back her feet and pull out her sketchbook. All done in a hard night’s work.

—

It wasn’t until the mare was safely out of his room that Wyatt woke in a panic, sitting bolt upright in bed, the sheets kicked away from him in a flurry of movement and chest heaving as he gasped for air. He stared at the opposite wall for a few seconds before realizing it had just been a dream, at which point he started to calm. After another few beats, the lamia actually laughed at himself, finding it silly that he was so afraid of something that had clearly been a nightmare, as if he should have known it in the moment.

Still, a rustling outside his cabin set him right back on edge and he listened carefully.

A crow cawed, and the lamia felt his blood run cold. Stupid. It’s just a stupid bird, he reminded himself, but the unease remained as he climbed out of bed to go get some water. The urge to go look for it and make sure it didn’t have teeth was quite strong, but logic overrode that particularly idiotic idea and eventually saw the man back to bed, where he failed to get any meaningful sleep the rest of the night.

#threads.#wyatt.#don't look at them.

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