Neogogori - Anael (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

I just think they’re

✨neat✨

She's gonna figure out this whole Zaun thing. For her.

i love one piece so much

law birthday doodle

beneath the skin | sylus

— summary: “who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “talk to me,” he coaxes after you hesitate, gently pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “a ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper, as if admitting it aloud is taboo, like you’ll accidentally conjure him back into existence. — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, jealousy, stream of consciousness, rekindled feelings, self-indulgent af, not proofread, i’m delusional and wanted to write something about someone trying to steal you away from sylus — wc: ~3k — now playing: bad dream - lexie liu

You’re used to the attention; it’s your job to garner it. So, the occasional stare doesn’t perturb you much. Usually. 

But this one—it feels different. Like the uncomfortable pressure of a needle painstakingly driven beneath your nail, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

You try to dance it off. Swivel your hips, smile pretty, a bewitching laugh in your throat as you gyrate atop the bar counter at Lux. But even as you turn to face the crowd gathered at your feet, their hands tossed skyward, bodies sweaty beneath the red sweep of lights and heavy mist, it lingers. Strips you down to bone, leaving you raw and exposed. Vulnerable. Confused. 

You pivot to address your admirer. To get a good look at who or what makes your skin crawl. But what greets you robs the air from your lungs, and you err in your steps, nearly stumbling off the counter if not for the dancer beside you, steadying you with her fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You feel like you’ve seen a ghost. An echo from a past you worked your damndest to suppress. The warmth and color drain from your face. You’re ramrod stiff, mouth spilling open, eyes blooming wide. Your heart careens against your ribcage, seemingly stopping before restarting to thrum double time. 

He reminds you of a forest, eyes the color of wood watching you with unwavering intensity, undisturbed by the bodies swaying and brushing up against him. A sturdy oakwood tree untouched by deforestation and time. It’s perverse in a way, how he studies you, how his gaze softens the slightest bit. How he knows you even with the stretch of years keeping you apart like he’s peeling back the layers of your facade like an onion. 

His hair is feathery. Dark like coffee beans, brushing over sloped shoulders. It’s longer than you remember. Longer than the last time you’d seen him before he died. 

Dead. He’s dead. Been dead for years. 

But as if to drive your delusions home, that telltale beauty mark catches in the strobing light, perched atop full, red lips stretched taut—lips you still remember the texture of, the way they moved against yours, pouring unbidden feelings into the chasm of your chest. 

You forget what it means to breathe. Forget how to exist, the cacophony of the nightclub fading into obscurity around you. Muddled, and you’re stock-still, stricken by something untraceable. Grief? Fear? Rage? Maybe a combination. Whatever the feeling, it causes a prickling sensation to fill your head, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“—alright?”

It’s a faint call. A disordered sound, like your ears are trying to readjust after resurfacing from a pool. It breaks you from the spell he cast over you, alongside the firm press of fingers into your wrist, the tug, and you swivel your head to take in the wary look of your co-worker. 

“H-Huh?” you say when your voice returns. Swallow past the barbs in your throat, lick your lips. Blink rapidly, disoriented, as if snatched from a trance.

“I asked if you were alright?” 

Your lips crook with a shadow of a smile. You pat her hand on your wrist, tamping down the anxiety that swells like a tumultuous wave in your chest. 

“Fine,” you murmur to assuage her worries. She doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t press, letting you go after ensuring you won’t fall. 

You look back, expecting to see those eyes drilling into your soul. Expecting that heavy feeling in your stomach, expecting your breath to abandon you once more and the world to spin beneath your feet. But you’re remiss to see he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd as if he was never there in the first place. 

With all the stress looming over your shoulders —the missions, the changes to your dynamic with your boss, the newest addition to your family—you’re sure you’re imagining things. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, trying to cope with the weight of your job. With the repressed trauma. The unreturned feelings. Seeking an out. A little reprieve. 

How the hell could a dead man come back to life? And why would he be here, of all places, haunting you like a specter with unresolved business? 

You really should stop drinking before you perform. 

—

It’s a typical Saturday night at Lux. 

Nothing seems amiss; no fights to break up, no opposition to snuff out. 

Sylus is safely tucked in his second-floor office, watching bodies sway behind the one-way, ceiling-to-floor window. 

It’s soundless inside—soundproof walls—save for his steady breathing and the typically erratic thud of his heartbeat. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he stands in a casual slouch, gaze uninterested. He almost wishes something would pop off. A breakup in the monotony, a reason to get his hands dirty. An excuse to flex his fingers, to ruffle the expensive pleat of his shirt. 

He catches sight of you in his periphery. The knock of your hips, how you drag your hands down the devastating curvature of your body. A smirk pulls at his lips. If nothing else, he can count on you to keep him entertained. His gorgeous distraction. His glittering, murderous doll poised to strike at the snap of his fingers.

He leans closer to the crisp glass, static prickling his face, and he’s entranced by that sultry smile. How you shine like a constellation, brighter than Lux’s other dancers, capturing the intrigue and envy of all those subjected to your performance. He falls prey to it, too. Then again, he’s always been a victim. Always been under your spell, even without the influence of your Evol. 

He doesn’t know when it started. The steady creep of feelings, the burning need to protect you. But it’s there, a pleasant, heavy pressure in his chest. A feeling he thought himself long dead to. 

He’s about to leave his office to draw you down from the counter, but—

His amusement peters when you turn and stiffen. When your hands fall listlessly at your sides, and even from this vantage point, he makes out your mouth falling open. He’s closer now, his nose nearly pressing into the glass. He squints, trying to glean what’s caught your attention. The muscles in his jaw flex and strain when he catches sight of a figure clad in white adjacent to you, stiff as stone.

Alarm bells sound in his head. He doesn’t like the way this man watches you. How his gaze lingers too long, and he can feel the tense set of your shoulders as if he’s filling your skin. Irritation thins his lips. He conquers the space between the window and the office’s door in three brisk strides, the swell of music from downstairs flooding inside.

He takes the staircase leading to the first floor two-by-two, urgency powering him forward. But by the time he reaches the floor—by the time he wends through the crowd, pushing towards you, searching above the bodies pressing against him for that haunting streak of white—the figure is gone. Vanished like a breath out as if he’d never been there. 

Sylus’ gaze snaps to you. He’s still a ways off; you hadn’t noticed him. He watches the dancer beside you try to calm you down. Watches as you anxiously sweep an errant lock of hair behind your ear—as you peer over your shoulder in search of something. How your expression dampens when you find nothing, and your shoulders slump.

Something’s got you spooked. 

Sylus stands in the midst of the dance floor for a bit longer, studying you as if you’ll disappear, too, if he looks away for too long. 

He doesn’t like this feeling—this unease curdling in his gut. 

Who and what was that? And why does he feel like it’s not the last of it?

—

It was supposed to be a typical exchange—a simple negotiation for a plot of land on the outskirts of the city. 

You weren’t entirely sure what Sylus intended to do with it, but you usually kept your questions to yourself. He’d fill you in on the intricacies of his plan as he saw fit. 

For now, you stand in good form behind him, hands clasped together in front of you. His secret weapon in case things get dicey. His right hand in case you’re needed.  

He sits in a red leather, pin-cushioned armchair, languidly sipping on his bourbon, his hair standing out beneath the lazy drag of the low light. You’d normally admire him from your vantage point—the line of his shoulders, that wispy sweep of hair, the virility he exudes without trying. But tonight, you’re tight-lipped and contemplative. Straight-backed as you wait for his guests, mind slinking back into the happenings of three nights ago.

You finally began to settle. Excused the specter you saw as a trick of the light, as a product of exhaustion and shitty eating. There was no way he could still be alive—the shadow from your past. And even if he were, he wouldn’t have waited so long to resurface. 

Would he?

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, sweetie,” drawls Sylus above the languid croon of the music inhabiting the office. 

He breaks through the noise of your mind, and you blink as if being drawn from a daze.

There’s a teasing fringe to his voice. You don’t have to fully see him to know he’s smirking, that devastating, charming pull to his lips. He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, peering at you. “What’s on your mind?”

You clear your throat, shifting your weight between your feet. He’s caught you drifting off again. He’s good at that, reading your silence, feeling the tension stretching between your shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?” he says after some time in deliberating silence. 

You know he means to press. He wants to, but he doesn’t—a part of him you admire. He never pushes you past what you’re willing to give. Never pries into your past, never drills into your skull, trying to discern what makes you tick. He very well could, the power of his right eye glowing a sinister shade of red when he cracks into the minds of his enemies. But he’s never used his power on you, at least from what you’ve gleaned, and you respect him even more for being ever patient with you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth. Lips quirk, though the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

His mouth hovers around words as if he means to protest. He knows you better than you think. But he doesn’t get the chance to pry when the door to his office swings open, drawing your shared attention to it. 

You watch as a stout man strides in behind Kieran, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks unassuming. You roll your shoulders back, the tension once coiled in your limbs slowly unfurling. You don’t know what you were expecting. What you were hoping for, and you’re about to relax before another figure strolls in behind the gentleman. Unmistakable, tall, shouldered. 

Your breath catches.

The man’s eyes flick to you, briefly drinking you in. You don’t miss the glimmer of softness, the belying of emotions behind a rigid exterior. You watch him sit in the armchair adjacent to Sylus beside the older gent with glasses, and you can’t fucking breathe.

Yunho. 

His name echoes like an old hymnal—a forgotten praise—in your mind. Something tucked away in the furthest hulls of your subconscious, dredging up memories you’d long since compartmentalized.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve fainted. Instead, you tamp down the swell of fear in your chest. The lump of emotion blocking your throat. The heaviness of your tongue. He’s here—he’s real. He’s not dead, presented as flesh and bone before your very eyes, and you weren’t losing your shit that night at Lux when you saw him.

Your body hums with pressure, with static. You feel dizzy as if your legs could give way at any moment. You feel sick. Yet you maintain your poise, your decorum. You avert your eyes to the floor when Yunho’s gaze flits to you every so often as if he’s trying to convey something. Trying to make up for years of leaving you in the dark, for leaving you to fend for yourself, to pick up the jagged shards of your heart alone when you thought he was mere bone and dirt.

The meeting drags on with an unbearable tenseness. You feel like you’re out of your body throughout. You don’t follow what all three men are on about, too busy battling the static brewing between your eyes and your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of Yunho’s gaze when he thinks no one’s the wiser.

—

He’s grateful when the negotiations conclude, Sylus is. He hates these things—the pleasantries that go into them, the small talk before he can take what he needs.

He shakes the stout man’s hand with a rehearsed pull to his lips, sealing the deal. The land will be signed over to him without incident. Good. He’s been itching to open a new club just for you. Knows you’ve been dying to have something of your own, a place with your name in scrolling Marquee outside.

He reaches over the glass-top coffee table to shake the hand of the younger man who had accompanied the landowner, and it’s like he’s been electrified when their palms meet. It’s a familiar, uncomfortable surge of static pushing up his arm, curling in his chest. 

Sylus stiffens, eyes shooting up. He locks on to irises that remind him of blackened tar pits. Soulless. Yet behind the aloofness lies a heated intensity that would burn through flesh if Sylus were anyone but himself. He’s thrown back to the memory of three nights ago at Lux when he’d caught the same feeling after chasing away whatever spooked you.

Sylus squeezes his hand a little more firmly than necessary, a slight divot forming between his brows. The gentleman’s stare is equally unrelenting, and it’s like he knows something. He doesn’t miss how his gaze flicks over Sylus’ shoulder to briefly take you in before he releases his hand, and both men depart, leaving you and Sylus buried in heavy stillness. 

He’d been doing that quite a bit, that man. Sneaking little glances at you, sometimes lingering while Sylus was deep in conversation. He didn’t like it one bit, the way his gaze felt like it was stripping through your clothes. But he said nothing—you were a far cry from unsightly. It was only natural that other men couldn’t keep their eyes off you, couldn’t contain their intrigue. But this felt…different. 

He rolls the stiffness from his jaw as he stands up straight, hands stuffed in his pockets, still staring at the afterimage of his two guests long after they departed.

The strain in your body was palpable, too. He felt it rolling off you in waves, crashing into his back. Didn’t miss how you shifted your weight between your feet, the rustle of fabric behind him, an occasional tight breath slipping through your lips as unease fell onto your person. 

It’s unlike you to be so out of sorts. So on edge. So he breaks the quiet lull between you by clearing his throat and swiftly turning to face you, a question perched on his tongue. He nears you with measured strides. Paces towards you almost like a predator cornering prey, and the way you glance down to avoid the smolder of his gaze makes something pull in his chest.

“Who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. His expression slackens when you look away, your jaw moving, and you’re squeezing your fingers at your back, so much the tips turn white.

You push out a weighted sigh, your voice shaky and sticky, as if you might cry. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but you fall silent, unease etching into your features.

He’s close now. So close, your perfume curls around him, the welcomed heat from your smaller frame permeating his skin. He wars with himself for a moment. Turns over his subsequent actions in his mind like an old vinyl before softly pinching your chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts your head back until you’re forced to look at him from beneath those ruinous lashes, and the wet gleam of your eyes is enough to make his stomach flip. Make the tendons in his neck pull.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes. Gentle like he’s persuading a lover to reveal the inner mechanisms of their mind to him. He knows you’re not okay. Wants to get to the bottom of your flightiness. Wants to help in any way he can. He’s not used to seeing you so stone-faced and avoidant. 

You relinquish a breath, lips quivering. You search his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to draw you into the circle of his arms. To cover you like a blanket on a winter's day, to absorb you. 

“A ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper. As if saying it is taboo, like it’ll conjure him back into existence. 

Sylus’ brows furrow. He prides himself on not delving into your past life. But, dammit it all, he’s never burned to know about what molded you into the person you are today more.

His gaze falls to your lips as they wobble. He wants to kiss them. Wants to take whatever anguish plagues you into his own body. Wants to kiss away whatever worries you have into oblivion. But he’s not sure how you would feel about that. If you’d push him away and completely shut him off from your heart. He’s made his intentions clear, his feelings for you—at least, he thinks he has. He’s been patient, waiting for you to come around. Waiting for you to want him as much as he yearns for you.

You draw him from the slurry of his thoughts when your fingers suddenly curve around his wrist. Soft, cautious, scorching through layers of flesh. A tired smile rounds your lips. You pull his hand away from your face, glancing down.

“I’m alright. It’s nothing to worry about. I—just need to get a little rest. Clear my head. Don’t worry about me.”

You brush past him without another word, and his fingers are poised at your back when you leave as if to stop you. When the door clicks shut with your departure, his fingers curl inward towards his palm into a loose fist before falling listlessly at his side. 

“A ghost, huh?” he murmurs to no one in particular, the words heavy and acrid on his tongue. He doesn’t notice the smoky threads of his Evol leaking off him, spurred by the ire slowly building in his chest.

highscool sweethearts

…Do You Want Some Toast?

Fluff

Kento Nanami x gn!reader

When Nanami wakes up and doesn’t feel you by his side, he’s determined to figure out what happened to you.

Warnings: unsettling imagery (blood mention)

Kento Nanami is a peaceful man.

He doesn’t like to fight, he’s never quick to anger. He gets frustrated that his sighs of resignation and irritation often fall on deaf ears, though he’s never all that worked up about anything anyway. He’s a rational thinker and never gets too lost in his imagination before figuring out an answer to a problem.

Usually, that is.

He turned over in bed, in that state between asleep and awake where nothing matters except cuddling with the one you love and falling back into restfulness. That was exactly his plan, his arm reaching over to the spot where you lay faithfully each night, eager to cozy up into your blonde boyfriend’s gentle grasp.

The bed was cold…

Why was the bed cold?

Nanami opened his eyes, his vision adjusting to the dark that encompassed him. He tentatively patted next to him, double checking that you really weren’t there and that he hadn’t just missed your sleeping form in his tiredness. He lied stiffly for a few minutes, listening for sounds of you finally walking back to bed but they never came. His mouth was turned into a frown as he looked at his bedside clock: 3:32 AM. This behavior wasn’t like you. If you had gotten up for a bathroom break or glass of water, you would’ve been back by now. Did you fall? Were you hurt?

As Nanami peeled back the covers, ready to begin searching your shared residence to find you, he stopped abruptly. He heard a loud slam from a room toward the front of the apartment.

Had a burglar, or worse, a curse found its way inside?

Kento wasted no time getting out of bed, opening his wooden nightstand drawer as quietly as possible, grabbing his trademark knife and glasses. As he creeped down the hallway, his mind wouldn’t stop wandering, picturing various grisly situations you might’ve been in like you were in some sort of messed up horror movie. At times, your guys’ lives were like a horror movie, battling terrifying incarnations of cursed energy. Nanami knew it would be easy enough to take down any sorcerer if they weren’t expecting an attack in the middle of the night in their home.

Well, maybe not Gojo, but Nanami really didn’t want to think about that man so early in the morning, if ever.

Nanami took a deep breath and took in his surroundings. He listened for your cries, smelled the air for blood, willed his eyes to scan for shadowy movements.

There was nothing.

And then there was something.

His ears perked up at a strange noise coming from the kitchen. He registered some sort of rhythmic scratching, though he couldn’t fathom what it could possibly be. A curse trying to get in the window? A curse that had already killed you and was now using your fingernails and blood to paint a picture?

There was only one way to find out.

Nanami’s knuckles were ghostly white as he gripped his weapon and walked slowly with one hand trailing the wall next to him, praying his glasses would shield his eyes from the light that was about to flood the kitchen.

“Don’t move!” he yelled out, finding the light switch easily and turning it on to stun his opponent. Thankfully his glasses did help, allowing him to see what type of intruder he was dealing with.

Actually, he didn’t need the light at all—your scream of “Stop right there!” was answer enough.

“Y/n? Are you alright?” he asked earnestly, abandoning his glasses and knife on the countertop when he saw you weren’t dead, barely moving in a pool of your own blood, or whatever other terrible scenario he had thought happened.

Though you hadn’t answered him, Nanami spied you putting down your own knife, apparently ready to strike at whoever was sneaking up on you in the dark. He looked around the kitchen and saw various items sprawled about: butter, a plate, a loaf of bread, and a toaster.

Kento Nanami had never felt dumber.

“…Do you want some toast?” you gestured, offering him a sheepish smile, your cheeks filled with the toast you had just taken a huge bite of. Nanami sighed, running an exasperated hand through his hair.

“You were in here making a snack this entire time? I thought you… I thought someone had come in, or a curse. If you had gotten hurt, I don’t know what I…”

Nanami was a loss for words, visibly in distress, and you felt awful.

“Oh Kento,” you said, rushing over to give him a hug, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out so bad. I was trying to be quiet so I didn’t wake you up but I accidentally dropped the toaster and then I made the toast too crispy so then buttering it was really loud and then-”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut you off, his brown eyes finding comfort in your own, “I should’ve checked to see if it was you first. My imagination got the best of me tonight and for that, I apologize to you.”

“You have no reason to be sorry either,” you told him, smoothing your hands over his pajama top, “I’m lucky to have such a caring, fearless boyfriend like you. You were more than ready to take down whoever was in here.” You let out a small laugh as your palms rested on his broad chest. “Even though I was about to be on the chopping block, I thought you looked really hot in your attack mode.”

Nanami felt his cheeks warm as a blush made itself evident. He cleared his throat, your flirting flustering him and his sleepy, muddled brain.

“Finish your toast, darling, then come back to bed, okay?”

You stifled a chuckle with another bite of your mid-night meal, giving him the thumbs up.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said, kissing some crumbs off the corner of your mouth before scooping up his belongings and heading back into the bedroom, ready to cuddle up with the love of his life and put his overactive thoughts to rest.

That night, as he held you close, Nanami dreamt of taking you to the finest bakeries around the world.

woaw…. can you believe it . gay pirate halloween 🎃

where is this love? I can’t see it, I can’t touch it. I can’t feel it. I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can’t do anything with your easy words.