oh em GEEEE IMAGINE GAMER BF SUKUNA WANTING TO PLAY MINECRAFT W YOU BUT HES STUBBORN SO HE DOESNT ADMIT IT BUT YOU CATCH HIM PLAYING BY HIMSELF ON HIS OWN PC AND YOU TEASE HIM SAYING HE COULDVE JUST ASKED πππππ
gamer!bf sukuna fluffβsfw !! cw: language. smau + blurb
with a quick kiss on your forehead, sukuna informs you heβs running competitive games on COD for a cash prize and emphasizes that he needs you to leave him alone so he can focus. god, he can be such a diva.
youβve been curled up on the couch for an hour or so, aimlessly scrolling through your phone. sukuna is holed up in the office, most likely talking shit and being a menace online.
a brief yell echoes through your apartment, followed by a quick slam of his fists against his desk.
βim done with this shit,β he exclaims, most likely quitting the game he was in. it seems he didnβt win his competition.
you giggle to yourself, shaking your head. you find it amusing how angry he gets during his games. but, you do feel a bit bad that he lost, so you decide to invite him to a voice call on discord.
as you navigate to your private chat with him, you watch as his status changes from βplaying CODβ toβ¦wait. that canβt be rightβ¦minecraft? no way. thatβs impossible.
you give it 30 minutes to see if it was just an accidental click. when you check back, his status remains the same.
you smirk as you open up your messages, eager to see if heβll confess.
you giggle to yourself as you stand from the couch, taking quick steps down the hall.
as you push open the office door, a cheeky grin canβt help but pull at your cheeks as you approach him.
you join him at the desk, taking a seat in front of your monitor. βyouβre so stubborn, ya know that?β
βi told you not to speak of this ever again,β he muttered, aimlessly walking around minecraft as he waits for your computer to boot up.
βlemme just hear you say it,β you tease.
βsay what?β he asks, turning to face you, a look of annoyance on his face at your adamance to continue this conversation.
βyou like minecraft,β you replied simply, raising your eyebrows. βjust admit it and iβll never say another word.β
he stared at your for a minute, his jaw clenching and unclenching. with a heavy sigh, he turns back to his monitor, grumbling an almost inaudible, βi like minecraft,β with a roll of his eyes.
but itβs a lie. a dirty little secret. he doesnβt just like it, he loves it. he especially loves how happy you get when the two of you play together, as much as he tries to deny it.
the two of you spend the next three hours running around minecraft. sukuna is clearly enjoying himself, though you can tell heβs attempting to hide it with an abrupt clear of his throat or a quick cough to cover up his laughter.
a warm feeling spins around your stomach, giggling as you watch him fight back a persistent smile the entire time.
an: thank you for your request my sweet anon. this was adorable.
i really want to start doing smauβs ugh theyβre just so cute and fun to make. i have a full-length fic coming up that incorporates them into the story!! this is my way of experimenting w that formatβ¦please let me know what you think! in a way, i feel like it makes the story more real.
thank you for all your support π₯Ίπ«ΆπΌ i wanna give every single one of yall a big ole smooch on the forehead
my asks are always open. donβt be shy, drop a suggestion, send feedback, leave a request, or just come say hello! i love talking to yall π
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated !!
bratbby333 on tumblr. all rights reserved. please do not distribute. 2024.
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yknow what.
Human Abilities AU where people's abilities are just... their own person. similar to a modern au but the abilities are also there but as actual people ^^
starting with sskk and skk! (am i making it into yin-yang w|w and double black m|m? maybe. i dont know myself. i think.)
byakko would be the strict but motherly protective tiger that i headcanon her to be. very protective of atsushi since he still goes through hell in an orphanage, and really, she has no filter but is nice enough to place one on for... five minutes. voice claim... ethereal but monotone. my girl's blunt. ex: tigress from kung fu panda
rashomon would likely act similar to aku in a sense, but... more teasing. she likes to rile byakko up, but those happen on, like, a good day. which is one out of... two-three weeks. but similar to byakko, she's protective of the siblings very much, and can and will spoil those two with sweets since the whole slums situation. now her voice claim would likely have an elegant voice compared to byakko, yet both have the same bite. ex: yae miko from genshin impact but toned down.
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how these two interact... hm. probably how atsushi and aku were from day one in canon, they hated each other. but it could go two ways: where they catch fists or egged on by rashomon's teasing... "or is she threatening?" <- byakko. but after some time, from hating each others guts when on site and also not, it more or less evolves to them... liking each other's company. byakko helps rashomon regarding seeing things in other perspectives, however blunt they are. and rashomon helps byakko with the social cues. neither of them are the talkers, but when its just them two, no words would be spoken and yet they just understand what they need.
now for no longer human, whom i shall call "null". null is... silent. the silent eerie character that rarely talks but is just... there. not much cues in his blank and expressionless face, and his posture is solemn and tight. he acts much similar to 15!dazai but more melancholic. he took the brunt of whatever happened in his and dazai's childhood, he's a lot more mature than that. his voice claim would be a deep voice, could be heard as monotone or angry to strangers, but with those who's familiar with him, it's just... calming. ex: the horse from the boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse.
for the tainted sorrow, or more or less arahabaki... he's basically a chuuya but more destructive, and he doesn't want to slow down. but when it comes to null, its either that he has to be in pace with the other or he can and will drag them. they don't care. but of course, others wonder why he cares so much for null if its said that he doesnt care at all. now some might say that no one could manage to understand him, others would say that he might speak riddles. a sort of ethereal tone, and it's oddly pitched. possible ex: sphinx from dragons dogma 2.
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this one's different, how they interact. basically: arahabaki would try and egg null on, get them riled up, but for the sake of proving the man wrong in his own point. it's unfortunately that both null and dazai have that sense of not being human. and while chuuya has his own way in showing dazai he has a life worth living, arahabaki's situation is a more difficult one. because null's more observant and quiet, the man likely has several scenarios going through his head on what's to happen, and has definitely figured out what arahabaki's planning on doing and avoided it with some certain word of phrase. so, arahabaki turns those words against null. two can play that game. but while arahabaki helps null with that, null helps with arahabaki's destructive and explosive tendencies, managing to defuse a situation in mere seconds and get them out of trouble. they're looking out for each other, and they have their backs.
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Ghost is a walking dichotomy, Soap has discovered. He's watched him strip the layers of a man's skin away to get information from him, seen him snap someone's neck in as little time as it takes to take a breath. But he's also so capable of heartbreaking kindness. His genuine concern for the fish, the way he saves the best part of his plate for Soap; offering it to him with reverence. The way he's cleaning Johnny's wound so tenderly. It's in these moments of gentleness where Johnny almost forgets what they do, what they've seen, who they are.
So when Ghost's voice snaps into that serious tone it's almost like a slap in his dizzy, goofily smiling, face.
"Wha?"
"Where is it? I'll get rid of it for you." Under the sharp tone is still that lethal gentleness, and even under that is a shaking fear.
"Oh, oh Ghost." He shifts, uncomfortable in his skin and wanting to be anywhere but here. "Ye... Ye cannae get rid of it."
His Lieutenant draws back a little, a mix of apprehension and offense in his eyes.
"It hurt you, nothing else matters."
Soap can feel his heart splitting as his throat starts to burn. Ghost stares up at him with fiery eyes, hands still holding his wrist so so softly.
"Where is the snake Soap? I promise you it'll never hurt you again. Whoever brought it in is going to have hell to pay too." He earnestly promises and Soap feels a single hot tear slip out of his eye.
"Ghost..." He chokes out. "Simon... It's mine."
The small room goes silent. Nothing even dares to move but for the violent flinch the sentence rips out of Ghost.
He doesn't dare say anything, doesn't dare to move or even breathe. He looks down at Ghost and Ghost meets his stare with turmoil roiling in his gaze.
Soap doesn't know what he expected, screaming or sobbing or angry silence but the frantic confusion he can see in the other man is as far as can be from what he'd thought he'd get.
They sit there like that for a few long moments, each absorbed in his own thoughts, before Ghost slowly rises from his kneel. If Johnny were in better spirits he would tease him for the quiet cracks his knees make. And with that violent tenderness he slowly curls an arm around Johnny and leans him down into the bed, pressing behind him and holding him close just like they'd done on any number of frigid nights out in the blind. And they just sit there holding each other in silence as they slowly drift into a dreamless sleep.
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βΆ π»πππ’πβπ πππππ ππ ππππππππ.
βΆ ππππππππππ’, ππππ π ππ ππππππππ ππ πππππ ππππ ππ ππ ππππππ πππ ππ’ ππππππππ? πππ ππππ ππ. ππ πππππ ππ π·πΆπΆπΆ π ππππ ππππππ ππππ π πππ π πππππππ ππ π ππ πππππ ππ ππ. ππ. π’ππ. ππππ
βΆ ππ : ππππππππ ππ πππππ, πππππ, ππππ-ππππ, ππππ-ππππππ.
Lloydβs anger is volatile
He wants to kick and bite and scream and rip open wide the corpse of someoneβs who pissed him off. He thinks he could get somethingβanythingβa bat, a chair, a book or even his own two fucking fists and he could hit someone in the head, knocking them over, blood flowing so freely and wantonly from the cracked skull. They fall, and without a moment to react, Lloyd is on them, fingers slipping through blood and pus and he grabs them by the hair, roots ripping from scalp and scalp ripping from skull and he hits them. He hits them once, twice, thrice, again and again and again and again and again till he canβt make out nose from mouth from eye. He wants to see their forehead scraped and bruised; he wants to see their nose bleeding so profusely and quickly, that it can fill a whole room with nothing but sticky red sanguine, and itβll stain him and itβll stain that motherfucker and itβll stain his friends and everyone he loves and everyone he hates and everyone he knows and everyone he doesnβt know and all the strangers in the world who look up to him and all those friends who hate his guts. Lloyd wants to put his hands in the fuckerβs mouth, ripping open wide their jaw, unhinging it and letting it fall freely, teeth spilling from gums and falling on the floor. He wants to collect those teeth and crush them into dust, mix it with the blood, and he wants to watch the motherfucker eat their own pestilence and plague. He wants them to see what evil, what pure unbridled hatred tastes like. He wants soβsoβsoβsoβ badly to get this motherfucker and claw at them, rip their eyes out, dig holes into their cheeks and rip through muscle and fat and tissue till he gets to rotting molars covered in cavities, and he wants to scrape at those cavities till blood is pouring from where rot once lived. And Lloyd just wants so badly, so fucking badly, to see someone bleed. Not die. No. He wants blood.
Lloyd wants blood. So much fucking blood. On the walls, on the floor, the windows and the ceiling and the door and in the closet, covering the skeletons like a crudely done paint job. He wants blood on his hands, under his fingernails, dripping from his wrist, dried on his arms and his chest, shrouding his shoulders like a cape and he wants it in his hair and on his face and in his mouth and every little bit of skin visible to the naked eye. He wants to see someoneβs skin turn so paleβcloudy, cold, burning to the touch and glazed over, like looking into the eyes of the Reaperβand he wants to watch veins so blue drain. Drain like a faucet. A faucet to wash, to clean, to drink from. Lloyd wants blood so fucking badly, it makes his head hurt and his heart churn and his stomach turn.
Lloydβs anger is very, very volatile.
Sometimes he thinks itβs the only piece of himself which he can really call his.
No one expects it of him. Heβs the good green ninja; heβs the savior of the people; the light of continent; the one whom they all look up to.
Who knew he was no better than those who he scorned and fought?
He knew.
He always knew. But no one ever took the fucking time to look aside from his stupid fucking persona and see there was a person under the gi; there was a personality to the prophecy.
The prophecy never stated he had to be a good person. Only the savior. A good person can be a savior, but a savior does not need to be a good person.
Better to be feared than loved, right? Maybe then heβll be heard. Maybe then heβll be seen. Maybe then heβll finally be taken fucking seriously.
Maybe someone would finally notice him as Lloyd and not just as the Green Ninja
Theyβll see him as Lloyd, the fuck up. Lloyd, the abandoned. Lloyd Garmadon, patron saint of all those misrepresented and mistreated, of all the children who cannot find a place because there wasnβt one made for them and so instead, they carved it out themselves; made it of blood and sweat and shivs born of calluses and tears.
Lloydβs anger is volatile. Lloydβs anger is an expression of the love he cannot give himself. Lloydβs anger can only be directed at himself and himself alone, because there is no one more of a bad person than himself. Because Lloyd is not a good person. He is a savior. And he didnβt even ask to be either.
Lloyd is not an angry person. He is hurt. He is tired. He is scared. Fear has buried itself so deep into his heart and made a home there; burrowed itself into the farthest crevices of his body and rooted itself down. It leeches off of his blood like a plant does to water, and he can feel the roots grow throughout his body. They course through him, taking hold of veins and arteries and strangling and killing them before taking their places. These roots bloom into fear, panic, and anxiety, all of which house and hold him hostage, and he canβt do anything but allow them to control his actions and his whims. Better to be seen as evil than a coward.
Lloyd is a little boy trapped in a manβs body, fighting a war heβs not even sure he believes in. Heβs not even sure what he believes in. He canβt even figure out who he is because there was no time to craft a person outside of what others needed him to be. He is a photocopy of those around him, picking and choosing what parts of their personality might best suit him in any situation, and Lloyd wants to just curl up and die. Lloyd just wants his father. He wants his mother. He wants a family and he wants safety and he wants to be lovedβbut he cannot have any of those things because he is the savior and saviors donβt get a choice. Β Neither what they say or do is their own because destiny has predetermined who and what they will be, and destiny is not a kind mistress, or even a pretty one, and is instead an abusive lover, who has caught Lloyd in a chokehold and is watching him slowly suffocate under the weight of clasped hands.
Lloydβs anger is volatile.
Lloyd wishes he could rip his own eyes out. Β Take a hammer to his head and crack his skull wide open and let his brain pour out, grey matter splattering onto the ground so the rest of the world can step on it. He wishes he could break his jaw and let his teeth rot out of his gums. He wants blood to run from every cut and scrape, and he wants to feel his face surrender under the hot pressure of swelling and bruising, and he can only dream of someone breaking his nose so sweetly, so imperfectly, that it is ripped off entirely, and he begins to choke on his own blood. He wants someone to hit him. Again, and again and again and again and again till he canβt breathe without the sting of a fist in his face. Till he canβt live without the threat of death hanging over him. Till he canβt stand without knowing everyone can see him for what he really is: a bloody, broken mess of a child, who cannot even defend himself but is still expected to defend the everyone else first.
But what about him?
Lloyd doesnβt want to die. He just wants to bleed. A sacrifice. An oath. A promise. To do better, be better, be anything other than himself. Something like a good person. Something people could look up too. Something others might be proud of. Something others might want to associate with. Something which he wouldnβt be ashamed of.
When Lloyd looks at his knuckles and sees broken bones and healing bruises, he wishes it were his face. A reflection of his heart. His emotions on display.
Lloydβs anger is volatile. And it is draining. He is not sure if he can even lift his arms halfway up to cover his face in shame. His legs are lead, prickling and burning, and he can only drag himself into bed and sleep away the draining volatility.
Tomorrow, Lloyd will be twice as angry. He will be volatile. He will bleed. He will be a good person.
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