ASL Cowboy AU

i didnt steal it !

യ YOU PRETEND YOU DONT WANT TO SLEEP NEXT TO THEM, SFW ﾉ FLUFF

gn reader x sunday, dr ratio, moze, blade + jing yuan ( seperate ) ; fluff ﾉ sfw scenarios. petnames used ; my dear, my angel. it is all lighthearted and a prank. these are quite silly but i enjoyed writing them!

word count. 900 to 1.4k max. ₊ 𓂃 return to masterlist.

౿ SUNDAY

There’s quite a gentle, relaxing atmosphere in the quarters that you reside in now — tucked beneath the expensive, silk sheets as you rest on your side. And were you not feeling particularly menacing, you think you’d be able to knock out fairly quickly given how comfortable you are, though unfortunately for the man to your side, you’re feeling like teasing him.

You make it fairly obvious that you’re uncomfortable at first, though in your own mind it’s in a playful sort of way, you can feel the way Sunday’s giving you a curious sort of look from where he rests in his own space. He’s flicking through the pages of his notebook quietly, though hardly paying attention as he focuses on your figure instead.

“Is the bed not to your liking?” His words hum and they urge you to stop from where you’re now turning away from him, thankfully so as you find yourself smiling— almost grinning. Before you successfully settle it down enough to give him a neutral look over your shoulder.

“No, it’s not that. I just can’t sleep.” Your tone carries as an almost disinterested sort of drawl and you watch the way that alone makes Sunday’s wings stiffen.

“Ah, I see.” He closes his book before he turns around to give you a gentler, affectionate look. “Is there something troubling you then?” And you feel his fingers reach to rest upon your shoulder as he gives you a soothing sort of squeeze.

You have to resist the urge to curl your way against his chest, shuddering beneath the warmth of his palm. So you just shrug instead, shaking your head.

Your lack of response makes Sunday hum— he picks up on the tense feeling in your body despite your words, but he opts not to press out of fear of making you feel worse. So he continues instead, “Nevertheless, if you are having trouble sleeping, would you like me to read something for you?”

You meet your eyes with his question and you feel that familiar pull towards him again. Maybe it’s the tender tone in which he speaks to you, but it takes everything in your body not to really roll into him this time. You can’t believe you’ve wound up cursing yourself for such a playful prank.

Sunday goes on when you don’t answer him, in that same affectionately gentle drawl. “At one point I too found myself in the same predicament. So if I can be of any assistance to you, we could even go for a stroll if you so please.” His words make you swallow loudly, almost guiltily, and you have to break the way his gaze holds yours before you reply.

“No, I just don’t think I want to sleep next to you.” You respond quickly, an almost jumble of words that you had to press out before you backed out.

Though it makes something in your chest hurt when you see the way they change Sunday’s expression anyway. He chuckles, though not as humorous as it normally is — sounding a little more awkward than anything. “Ah, well. If you’d much prefer — I can sleep elsewhere. There is no absence of spare rooms here if you would like to make yourself more comfortable.” He says quite flatly though you can tell he seems a little hurt when you watch the feathers in his wings wilt.

But even despite all of that— his hand doesn’t leave you as it still rests on your shoulder. Instead, you feel him offer you another affectionate, warm squeeze before he’s turning to look away from you, and part of you wants to reach out to pull him back as he pushes himself to the edge of the bed.

Your body feels suddenly cold when his touch finally leaves you.

“Though, I apologise if I have upset you in any way. Should you not desire to be around me anymore, I can see to it that my schedule keeps me preoccupied until you feel better.” Sunday doesn’t look at you when he lets his legs rest over the edge of the bed, he keeps himself turned away. Yet, you can still hear how quiet his voice sounds as you push yourself up on your forearm. You’re watching him as he rests on the mattress, “If you prefer, we can discuss it more after a good night of rest.”

Then he does look at you, only for a glance, but he still has that soft look on his features despite the way you’re kicking him out your shared bedroom. “Though I doubt I will sleep much without you by my side, heh.” And despite the way his words are a low mumble, you realise that you don’t really sleep well without him either.

So you only last as long as the time it takes Sunday to rest his hands on either side of himself to push himself off the mattress before you’re reaching out to stop him. Almost pulling him back down with how quickly you grab onto his wrist. And you’re wearing a pleading look when he turns to ask what’s wrong.

“I was just kidding.. I was joking.” You say quietly, like you’re ashamed of your words — it was only a harmless prank, yet you’re left grabbing onto your lovers sleeve in the hopes he won’t leave you.

You had never expected it to back fire quite like this, but there’s a warm sort of relief that washes over when the next expression Sunday sends you is adorable. He smiles despite how upset he seemed a moment ago, and seeing that in itself makes you slump back down into your pillows as you send him a pout. Like this wasn’t all your own doing.

He sits himself back down on the bed, and this time you do roll yourself a little closer like you’ve been wanting to— until you feel his palm rest back against your shoulder again and he still squeezes. His wings return to their usual relaxed flutter as he offers you a chuckle, and you’re glad he’s atleast being a good sport about it as he taps his fingers on your skin.

“Hm, then might I assume you wouldn’t mind me coming a little closer afterall, my angel?”

౿ DR RATIO

You’re finishing your nightly routine as you reside in the bathroom, though were you to look to your right you’d be able to see where Ratio is waiting for you in bed already. He seems to be quite comfortable, his chiselled physique shirtless and tempting — which in a way makes you want to rush yourself back to him but… there’s a teasing part of you that wants to try out something before you do.

It’s more of a curious affinity than anything else. Though you can only hope it doesn’t backfire, the genius in your bed right now wasn’t particularly one for pranks. So you can only hope that he lets you sleep in bed again with him afterwards,

You try not to think about it too much, trying not to lose your already dwindling courage. But you have to settle your nerves with a swallow as you take your first step into the bedroom, and almost immediately Ratio puts down the book he was reading to give you his full attention.

Except instead of climbing into your side of the bed and up against his chest like he expects, you rest at the bottom of it as you give him a carefully neutral blink.

“I think I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight.” You say suddenly, and you half expect Ratio to laugh at you, maybe snort and call you an idiot for even suggesting as much. But instead — he offers you a gentle response, in a tone that makes it seem like he’s being careful as he watches you.

“Oh? Something troubling you?” His words ask quietly, there’s no hint of annoyance or impatience in his tone, but you hear the way the sheets rustle as he pushes himself to sit up a little straighter.

“No, nothing.” You have to answer quickly before you lose your courage again. It’s hard enough to keep eye contact when Ratio’s before you in this half-nude state, so you end up turning to gaze at something unknown in the corner of the room instead. He mirrors that look as he tries to figure out what’s going on, but when he finds nothing of interest in that direction— he turns his attention back to you.

“Then what ever is the matter?” He asks again, another low question and you have to swallow to respond to this one.

“I don’t want to sleep there tonight. I’ll sleep somewhere else.” You shrug, feigning disinterest but it’s almost immediately that it earns you a sigh. The sheets rustle again as Ratio reaches up a hand to itch at his brow, and it almost appears like he’s trying to smooth out the frown on his features before he looks at you again.

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Come here, won’t you? I’ve made your pillow as you like it.” His hand urges your attention to the pillow on your side and you take note of the way he must’ve fluffed it up. It makes it look particularly comfortable by his side, so you have to tear your gaze away with a tilt of your again before your self control snaps like a flimsy string.

You just opt to shrug instead, and that’s when Ratio really seems to be at his wits end as you watch him pull back the comforter over him from your peripheral vision. It doesn’t take him long to push himself to full height before he’s approaching you, and despite the way you know it’s a bit late for games — he doesn’t raise his voice or yell as he comes to rest opposite you.

Instead, he reaches up to guide your attention back to him, tilting your head forward with one finger and forcing your eyes to meet his as he gives you a neutral, curious look. It’s like he’s trying to examine you hard enough to peek into your mind, though only for a moment before he ultimately gives up and decides to question you instead.

Though Ratio finds himself signing again before he speaks, there’s no hint of irritation to it as he watches your face. “No matter the hour, if something is troubling you — I would much rather we discuss it sooner rather than later, so we may come to a resolution together. Would you not agree that is the most rational course?” He punctuates his sentence with a soft graze of his finger across your cheek before it rests back by his side.

And you decide to hold his gaze this time when you answer, “Nothings wrong, I just don’t want to sleep there.”

“Very well then.” Ratio mutters to you before he turns to make his way back to the bed, and part of you wilts a little at the idea of him giving up so easily, accepting that he’ll be sleeping alone tonight instead of by your side like he normally is.

But before you can find yourself feeling sorry for yourself (which would be a product of your own doing), you watch as the genius instead begins to gather up his belongings. He takes your pillow, a blanket and then his book from the bedside table, and by your next blink — he’s making his way over to you again to give you another hard to read look.

Ratio sighs when you don’t say anything, you only rest infront of him to gape— mouth opening and closing as you try to ask what he’s doing, unable to find your words suddenly. So he speaks instead, “Go on, feel free to show me the way. I do hope to actually get some rest tonight, so if you would be so kind.” And he notions towards the door with his hand as he holds your things, urging you to take a step you never even planned to take in the first place.

“W-what? What’re you doing?” You finally manage, yet it’s far too late for you to back out now. You’re already walking out of the room as he follows behind you.

Ratio scoffs, “What does it look like I’m doing? You didn’t think I was going to actually let you sleep alone, did you?” And then he offers you another sigh when his words are met with silence, as if he’s offended you would even believe he’d ever let you do as such. “How ridiculous. If you wish not to sleep in the bed, then we can sleep elsewhere. Your decision.”

It only takes a few steps before you come to rest in the doorway to the living room, the only place you could think of now that your prank has gotten a little out of hand. But you can’t handle the embarrassment of taking it back now, especially not when your lover is walking over to the couch to begin setting it up.

Ratio fluffs your pillow again before resting it down, followed by his book on the coffee table and then the comforter as he positions it comfortably on top of the cushions. And then he looks at you, beckoning you over with a mere blink before he’s guiding you in first — then following you underneath as you get comfortable. “Well, we’re here now. So I hope you don’t mind a little company.”

It’s quite silly the way it’s played out you think, but you can’t help but still find yourself comfortable as Ratio presses himself up into your side. He even makes sure to rest his arm over the back of the couch behind you, should you opt to snuggle yourself into his side — and it’s an invitation you accept quite eagerly.

He seems quite pleased with that when you press yourself up against his chest, and he lets his lips rest against the top of your head as he murmurs. “Just do tell me next time should you wish to move before I get myself comfortable. Though, I must admit — it has become increasingly more difficult to do so in your absence.” Then he lets his arm fall to rest flat against your back next as he smoothes it across your spine soothingly, like a wordless lullaby as he traces his fingertips against your skin.

“Anyway, do try to get some rest. This was your location of choice afterall, was it not?” You can feel your eyes closing at the movement of Ratio’s hand, so you can only nod at his question before thinking about how you’ll probably keep this little prank to yourself for the rest of your life.

But then he takes another careful breath before he offers you a soft kiss against your head, “I do hope you will rest better for it”

౿ MOZE

You don’t know what urges you to prank Moze like this, maybe it’s knowing his good nature or imagining the adorable, oblivious reaction he would have to your request. But you decide to do it anyway as you rest in your bedroom now — nuzzling yourself deep into the comfortable hug of your comforter as your lover readies himself to get in beside you.

His steps are silent as he approaches the bed, followed by the tilt of the mattress as he pulls back the comforter to slide in beside you. It’s an almost fluid movement, and he offers you a gentle sort of look from where you’re nuzzled into the pillows before he rests on his own.

“You look quite comfortable.” Moze mumbles beneath his breath as he reaches out to cup your cheeks, trailing his thumb along the skin there before you’re leaning into the touch. Sure you’re going to prank him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this little moment for a bit longer before you do.

Your next blink is slower than the last and he takes another breath before he speaks again, “Are you falling asleep?” Asking softly as he inches himself a little closer, and it’s almost immediately that you feel his body heat begin to consume you.

It takes everything in your body to mutter out your words before you end up slinking into a very comfortable deep sleep. “No, I don’t think I want to sleep here.” You lie, almost terribly so but Moze doesn’t seem to question it anyway as he offers you a curious look.

“You’re not comfortable?” He doesn’t mean to frown, but he’s looking at you so intently it just seems to naturally rest on his handsome features. Part of you wants to kiss out the crease in his brow but you opt not to, choosing to turn away instead so you can keep some semblance of control on your will power.

His hand retreats from your features as you do, and you press yourself up against your pillow as if to make up for the loss. Though it’s not quite as warm, “No, not really! I just don’t want to sleep next to you.” Your words muffle slightly as you speak and Moze meets them with silence for a moment before you feel him shift again.

“I see..” It’s a quiet sort of response, one that makes you consider turning back round to face him. But then the weight of the mattress leaves again as he mutters out a “That’s fine.” and you turn to check over your shoulder to see him retreating from beneath the comforter again. You can’t even deny the way it makes something in your heart sink, to the point where you almost reach out for him.

But then Moze seems to just perch himself on the edge of the bed instead, and he doesn’t say much else except an accepting. “I’ll just sleep here then.”

That’s what really urges you to turn back around to face him again, more curiously than anything and he’s already watching you when you do. “Hm? Why there?” You ask, resting your hands beneath your head on your pillow as you watch him sit upright with his feet on the floor.

But Moze’s expressions remains neutral, not even a hint of annoyance at his predicament now. Like you haven’t just kicked him out of bed. “So I can keep watch. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you.” Even his words remain comforting and reassuring.

In a way that makes your brows furrow as you pout. “But that won’t be comfortable.”

“As a Shadow Guard I’ve dealt with far worse than this.” His response is quick, and though it was unlikely given who Moze was — part of you hoped he would beg to sleep next to you. So now you’re just left pouting up at him in the hopes he’ll come back.

You sigh, and you feel his hand reach out to smooth along your cheek again “Now sleep.” he pinches at your chin, and the warmth of his touch makes your lashes flutter. “Aren’t you comfortable now?”

“Not really.” You never knew it was possible to regret a prank as much as you do now. But part of you gets your hopes up when Moze leans over you a bit with your response, though he doesn’t climb back underneath the covers unfortunately. Instead, he makes a show of tucking them into your sides, trapping the warmth in as his fingers linger on your silhouette for a moment longer.

You already miss him when pulls away again, “How about now?” He asks again, and it’s so adorable that it almost makes you jump out of bed and on top of him. The expression he’s wearing is enough to have you throwing your self control to the wind with your next breath.

“I changed my mind, can you sleep with me?” You speak softly, like you’re trying to convince him but Moze only looks at you.

“I thought you weren’t comfortable.” He states quite fairly given what you said only a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t seem to argue much when you shrug and mumble out your next response.

“I was when you were here.” That’s when he gets moving, and it’s quite quickly that you find yourself surrounded by Moze’s warmth once more as he pushes himself back beneath the comforter. And this time, you don’t hesitate to press yourself up against his chest — a movement that he welcomes almost instantly as he wraps his arms around you to hug you close.

“It’s easier to keep you safe from up close.” You feel his lips press against your temple as he gives you a gentle kiss, and his hands smooth against your skin as he exhales against you after. You can almost feel the way he relaxes with how closely he holds you, he seems to be quite comfortable himself. “So you can sleep now that I’ve got you.”

౿ BLADE

Blade wasn’t much of a sleeper, he normally teetered on the edge of being asleep and awake, but he still liked the act of resting in bed next to you. Even just your presence alone served as a form of relaxant and having you as close as you are now — makes him actually feel somewhat comfortable as you rest with your cheek against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close.

But maybe that’s what makes you feel bad about the sort of prank you’re about to pull. It’s not meant to be bad spirited — but you’re just curious to how he would react were you to say you didn’t want to sleep by his side tonight.

You find even the idea of Blade’s reaction to be quite hard to imagine as you rest facing up at him now, your finger is twirling around a piece of his longer hair and he’s looking down to watch you quite intently as you lose yourself in thought. He can tell you’re considering something — it’s obvious as he reaches his hand up to cover your own.

And he gives it a squeeze as a wordless call for your attention before he’s resting them both on his chest, “Something the matter?” He asks earnestly— in that same ragged, low tone of voice that he always used and you don’t think you’ll ever tire of the sound.

But when Blade is met with silence for the first few moments, he continues. “You’re tense.”

The opportunity for your prank to commence has been presented infront of you, but when you feel a long stroke of his hand along the length of your arm— it makes you shudder. Your self control almost fumbles for a moment before you quickly respond, almost struggling to lift your gaze up to meet his.

“I don’t want to sleep here.” With you— is what you mean to say, it’s the whole point of the prank but there’s something about the tender tone of Blade’s voice that makes your sentence waver at the last second.

Especially when it’s purring along your hairline a moment later as he opts to pull you a little closer, curling his arm around you until you’re almost pulled into the crook of his neck. “And why is that?”

Another low drawl makes you shudder, eyes fluttering as Blade presses you up against him and even despite your response, it’s quite obvious that you’re lying with how relaxed your voice sounds. “I’m just not very comfortable.”

But still he hums like he’s acknowledging you anyway, and he leaves you in your comfortable position for a few moments longer before he’s groaning out a stiff, “I see.” And with his next breath, he’s moving you almost too easily— pushing you up onto his chest with only the strength of the arm that wraps around you.

And as much as the sudden movement makes you shriek as you try to balance yourself on top of Blade’s body, he doesn’t seem too bothered at all when he reaches out to steady you himself.

“Then is this better?” He asks casually as you rest on top of him now, though you’re still there gaping like a fish with how quickly he’s just moved you — it’s like your brain is still trying to catch up to your new found position. But he doesn’t look phased by it at all… clearly unaware about how easily he seems to have foiled your sorry excuse of a prank.

Part of you had already forgotten about it, “Maybe a little bit.” You opt to shrug, a little defeated. But you still rest your chin down on his chest to give him a look that seems like exactly the opposite when you snuggle into him again. You almost relax enough to fall asleep actually, until Blade decides to ultimately respond after a few moments of silence.

“Well then, would you prefer if I leave afterall?” His question makes you splutter,

“I didn’t ask you to leave.” You only thought about it actually— but only as a prank, though you admit that your reaction to him bringing it up makes you look as guilty as ever. Part of you almost considers the idea that maybe Blade could read minds, but before you can fall down that rabbit hole he speaks again.

“Is that so? I must’ve misunderstood then.” His drawl sounds again and by his next breath, both of his hands are on your hips, smoothing beneath the fabric of your t shirt before they’re reaching up to trace the length of your spine. Even if he’d found you out, you can barely find the energy to argue your innocence with how suddenly sleepy you feel now.

You’re really doing nothing to fight your case when you can barely fight sleep.

Though Blade would argue that you do seem more than comfortable now as he watches your eyes flutter and close with every stroke of his fingertips. Until he feels your breathing slow from where your chest is pressed against his and he sighs,

“Then I’ll stay with you afterall.”

౿ JING YUAN

Part of you doesn’t want to prank Jing Yuan, mostly for your own sake — the man had a peculiar way of turning everything back on you and somehow making you feel like you were the one being pranked everytime you tried. But you’re not going to let that stop you from trying anyway, even if only for a slight opportunity at getting back at him.

Afterall, he teases you so much already… it’s only fair that you retaliate.

So you bide your time and you wait, until you watch Jing Yuan groan as he drops down onto the mattress by your side and it’s almost immediately that he presses himself up against you— until you’re chest to chest. He always slept much like this, with you right up against him and as much as your body finds it hard to not just melt into him and relax — you try to keep yourself tense and awake.

So you press both of your hands up against his chest and you push until you’re far away enough to look up at him. But he’s still holding you tight despite that.

“I’m gonna sleep somewhere else tonight, I think.” You watch Jing Yuan’s expression as you tell him but there’s no frown on his features, no look of confusion or curiosity. Instead, he just tilts his head down at you and appears just as handsomely lax as always when he speaks.

“Oh? Is that right, my dear?” His tone is honey-like and you hate the way it makes your fingers almost twitch where they rest against his chest — almost sinking into the plush muscle. He holds your gaze there, “Something troubling you?”

And you have to reply quickly, before your self control wavers— so you try to turn your head away from him to ensure he doesn’t make sure of that. “No, I just don’t feel like sleeping here with you anymore.”

Your lips pout as you sound out your words, and you do your best to put some space between you and the General in bed as you do — but he seems to have no trouble wrapping his arms around you to pull you right back. It’s almost too easy as he deliberately tilts his head down to meet your line of sight, humming like he’s considering your words— you know he’s not.

But then you feel Jing Yuan’s hands rest over your hips, smoothing along the surface and you feel your body almost curl into him as he works at you. It’s like he’s smoothing any discomfort right out of you as he sends you a lazy smile.

“Well, I can’t be expected to sleep without you by my side now, can I?” It’s a teasing purr of his voice and he deliberately closes the space you’d made between you both as he pulls you back in. Until you’re close enough now that you can hear every syllable almost vibrate through your skin. “What a cruel fate that would be.”

The strength that you were using to push him back previously seems to falter, and you hate the way you can hear Jing Yuan chuckle at that. The smooth sound almost motivates you to kick him right off of the bed, if you had the strength to you actually might.

But instead you just give him a particularly cross look, and opt to continue with what you believe seems like a losing battle already.

“You heard me.” You mutter beneath your breath, just as Jing Yuan smears a little kiss along your cheek and you grumble to yourself as you try to push him away again. Except he doesn’t budge this time as his hand smooths up to hold your waist next, and he pushes himself up to lean over you a bit.

His new position urges you to roll over onto your back and you’re aware at how disadvantageous this position is for you. Especially when you’ve got him looking down at you like you’re his dinner. But his grip on your waist is quite tight that you don’t think you’d be able to break away if you even tried, which leaves you completely at Jing Yuan’s mercy when he leans down to pepper you in kisses.

“Would you like me to do something to make you more comfortable, my dear?” He asks slowly, dragging out every letter between long presses of his lips— from your cheeks to your temple, to your chin. And as much as you hate the way your prank has turned out, you can’t say you don’t love it either.

The General seems to pick up on that too when his fingertips tease beneath your shirt to squeeze at your bare skin, “No ask is ever too great when it is for you.” And the touch alongside Jing Yuan’s low tone makes you shudder.

“You are insufferable, do you know that?” You huff, because he truly was — part of you wants to ask if he knew it was a prank and was playing with you all this time. But the other part doesn’t want to accept the possibility that maybe you just bend to his will this easily, so you just allow yourself to be bathed in his kisses and the pets of his palm.

A truly unspeakable punishment.

But you hear Jing Yuan really laugh at your little outburst, in that cruelly-smooth type tone before he’s giving you a quick kiss against your lips next. “And your pranks are far too obvious, my dear.” Before he hugs you close this time and you just let yourself melt into his chest, albeit offering him a stubborn little huff knowing you’ve been found out.

Again.

Though he must admit, he finds your acts of defiance to be quite amusing. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that next time, you know I rest much more soundly having you beside me. It’s not a luxury I would give up so easily.”

star divider by @saradika-graphics

AM I NO GOOD?

── ♡ MR CRAWLING

from the abyss of your mind, he crawls in. your last remnants of humanity. cw: familial death, suicide idolisation

Your ceiling fan has a creek in it. It groans melancholy as it slowly spins, barely giving enough breeze in your poorly ventilated, dingy apartment. Despite how the sound tempts you to rip your ears off, it still stays on as you lay in bed, vacantly staring at the ceiling as it rotates until you can’t bear hearing it anymore.

Your room is dimly lit, curtains drawn and your lightbulb a mess of shards that you haphazardly brushed aside. You haven’t had the energy to buy a replacement bulb, fix it, and carefully throw away the remains of your old one. The process felt long and arduous, like most things these days. It was taking you a Herculean amount of strength to get up for work, but it’s not what your co-workers or managers see when they cast judging glances at your sunken eyes and unstyled hair. Perhaps, if you had always been this sloppy, their stares wouldn’t have burned holes into you as much. There was a time when you had cared for yourself, your work clothes iron-pressed, hair carefully decorated, and skin glowing. Now, it felt like a distant memory concealed by thick fog in the crevices of your mind.

People were hardly the same after burying their mother.

There is shuffling underneath your bed. Once, the sound had scared you. Now, it’s welcomed. It gives you a faint flutter in your stomach when you see a grey-tinted hand, marred in grime, reach outwards. Reach for you. You lift yourself into a sitting position, and a genuine smile graces your lips when you see him crawl from the space. Appropriately, you named him Mr Crawling. A man with long, dark tresses that fall over his shoulders, concealing his face like a curtain. From the bridge of the nose, in replacement of his eyes, is a wide red slash caked with what you assume is dried blood. His unnerving, foreboding appearance should predictably scare you. Yet, it doesn’t. He is born from the rubble of your mind, how can you hate the only friend you have left?

You have severely outgrown the age of having an imaginary companion, and yet he is an anchor, even if communication is hard and there isn’t much for you both to speak on. You weren’t aching for conversation anymore, anyway.

“Hi Mr Crawling,” You greet him, almost affectionately, and while you know he doesn’t understand your tongue, he seems to have grown used to the syllables that leave your lips and the tone of your voice, a toothless grin stretches across his face as a result. You flop from the bed to the floor, sitting beside him as he perks up straighter, supporting the weight of his body with his arms. He lets you lean into his side, strands of hair tickling your cheek. The gown draped over his body is raggedy, stained and tattered, and yet he seemed the most put-together inside the mess of your home. If you had the energy, you would have laughed.

Your fingers graze his skin and he is ice-cold, like the dead. Yet beside him was the warmest you have been in a long while and you savour it. It’s the closest you have got to another person’s loving touch.

“Work was tough today,” You mumble under your breath, and he stiffens when you speak in his vernacular, or whatever you managed to pick up over the months. “It’s difficult.”

He garbles something close to “Leave” and a breathy, humourless laugh leaves you, hoarse against your dry throat.

“I can’t. I’ll die without money,” Your fingers twirl the end of his hair and he takes it as an invite to drop his head on top of yours, becoming bolder at your contact. “Maybe it won’t be the worst thing in the world.”

He doesn’t reply, and you aren’t sure if it’s because he didn’t understand or if he’s displeased by what you said, seeing as his grin has left and been replaced with the neutral press of his chapped lips. You felt a kick at his reaction, disgusting but innate, pleased that someone cared enough if you died, and guilty that you wanted to put him through the same cycle of grief.

Mr Crawling was kinder than most people you have met, and somehow you felt that even a being curated from your imagination deserved better than you.

You blearily sit up, hit with a sudden wave of nausea and inertion that makes your head spin. However, you attempt to fix yourself upright quickly, even when Mr Crawling asks if you are sick, reaching with a single hand at a poor attempt at breaking any sudden fall. You weakly smile at him as reassurance. You crouch over to the TV positioned at the end of your room. It was incredibly old, evident by the boxed screen and antennas sitting on top of the plastic frame. However, it was your mother’s, recalling nights when she would lay in her bed watching the jittering coloured shows as you blundered through making yourself dinner. You had rolled it into your room shortly after your impromptu burial of her. Your clothes had still been stained with dirt, a shovel tossed to the ground as you clumsily attempted to fix the device. When you laid in bed that night and flipped through channels much like she once did, you didn’t understand the appeal.

However, Mr Crawling was utterly fascinated by the moving pictures on the screen, so for him, you turned the old thing on. When it flickered to life, his grin returned, much to your relief. You took your place next to him again, pressing your knees to your chest as a soap drama whose title you were unfamiliar with played. Honestly, you couldn’t have cared less. Mindless entertainment lost its appeal around two months ago, with you spending your time after work lying motionlessly in bed or sitting around with your new companion. You had already tuned out the show, blankly staring at the eye-straining colours with disinterest, your mind already wandering. The floor beneath you, the chipped walls, and even Mr Crawling beside you felt as if they were worlds away. The soil from the plot of land next door, visible from your bedroom window, curls within itself. It shakes. She is desperately clawing away and reaching out when you—

He makes a confused sound next to you, and you snap your head away to meet the tilt of his head. Once again, he’s not smiling and your heart seizes. You begin to stammer out an excuse when he points at the screen and you follow his finger to the television screen. There is a bright wedding scene playing, two characters standing at the alter as they exchange vows, the male actor’s hand encased around his pretend bride’s as he beams at her. Carefully scripted lines, perfectly painted masks and flawless costumes. You could almost admire the craft.

However, Mr. Crawling isn’t of the same opinion as you, unable to understand what was happening outside of the funny laugh tracks and comical acting. His confusion is almost cute, though you don’t voice this out loud.

“That’s a wedding,” You say and when his expression doesn’t change, you switch to your shoddy understanding of his language. “It’s a party. For love. Love between two people.”

He sits up a bit straighter and you assume he’s starting to comprehend what’s happening and he fixes his gaze back to the screen where the scene has now moved onto what seems to be the after-party. He seems pleased that the show has gotten back to the humour and repetitive laugh tracks he likes as opposed to the more emotionally heavy wedding he is unfamiliar with. However, not long after he momentarily turns his attention back to you.

“Me,” He points to himself. “You,” He points to you. “Love,” and finally he points to the screen. “Party.”

This stupifies you into silence, your eyes widening as you digest the confession. You are sure the meaning of love varies for him, just like it does for people here. He doesn’t understand the type of love that is involved in marriage, perhaps him meaning something akin to the care between two friends.

“One day,” You reply flippantly, but you lean into his shoulder anyway, letting his long tresses conceal your line of vision as if it were a curtain between you and the damn window. “If only you were real, Mr. Crawling.”

Unable to see from where you have hidden yourself at his side, his smile drops into something more contemplative. How odd humans are. They could be holding someone in their arms, and still not believe they exist.

🐟 Kiana Kaslana Tuna Doodles 🐟

just thinking about argenti who has so much love to give to the whole universe, who is on a neverending journey of spreading the beauty across the cosmos faithfully, unwaveringly; argenti, who is never capable of receiving that kind of love back. because he cannot stop. because he cannot stray from the path of the aeon that hasn't answered to his prayers even once in his lifetime. because if he dares devote himself to anyone other than idrila, that person is going to have to wait for him all alone, thousands of light years away. lol

warnings for dark themes, angst, argenti backstory references so he’s insane and weird, and argenti literally murdering you, i guess.

i have this in my inbox as well. i liked the link, so now you WILL hear my thoughts.

i had so many thoughts for this prompt initially, but i just couldn’t string it into anything that was actually coherent.

somebody actually came into my inbox and said the interpretation of argenti’s story is wrong and i’m wrong and he didn’t actually kill his friends and SHUT UP i do what i want, and it’s just that: an interpretation. i like putting tragedy into my characters. it’s like adding salt to a bland meal.

anyway.

the worst part about this prompt, and yours, is in his inability to stop his pursuit of finding idrila, he meets you, and he does fall in love despite his promise to venture the stars alone on his journey.

argenti finds falling in love is beautiful at first. you’re supportive, even if he leaves you for extended voyages. he always brings back trinkets, gifts, leaves you one thousand messages a day that read more like love letters than normal texts, and the love he showers you in is endless.

you don’t doubt him for a second.

and then, things change. you tell him it’s difficult to love a person that’s gone for so long.

argenti does truly feel sorry, and he pities you, but this is who he is.

and you’re hurt. his devotion to idrila aside, you tell him that he’s crossed galaxies to find an aeon that does not care for him, nor the other fellow knights of beauty. they are not emanators bestowed with idrila’s power, nor has idrila been sighted by anyone for eons.

to you, it feels like he’s pining for someone else. you are in love with his undying loyalty, and his unshakeable faith. but, it hurts to be away from him for so long while he chases after a being well above you.

argenti cannot stray from the path he wanders. he insists he will do better, but when you thank him, and apologise because you feel selfish, he can’t help but notice your nails have grown to the size of curled claws.

the relationship grows worse from there. he slowly sees less of you, and more of something else. an otherworldly creature that morphs to the shape of you to keep him trapped here and away from his endeavours.

he finds himself growing to learn that the person, you, whom he’s loved with all his heart, was never a person, but a monster wearing your skin.

you break the relationship off some time later.

he finds himself relieved. not because you’re leaving—his heart shatters, actually—but because he knows, somewhere deep down in his stomach, if you stay any longer, he’ll hurt you.

argenti apologises, but you find he cannot look you in the eyes. so, you part ways. maybe you go back home, maybe you set up somewhere else by yourself. it hurts because you felt he was everything you’d ever wanted, and he was, but you know it’s better this way.

in the ideas i was writing for this prompt, i imagined you set up in belobog and work in that floral shop—i cannot remember if it has a name.

it’s been months, and you grow okay with yourself again, and everything is fine. you make bouquets, trim the stems of flowers as will, tend to the pots outside the shop, and all is well.

maybe argenti comes to the shop. he doesn’t know you work here, and he’s only come in because he’s stopped on belobog for his ship needs a repair and the red roses growing outside the window catch his eye. they’re just barely blooming, and spring looms just around the corner.

he doesn’t even realise the shop is open because it looks dark through the glass.

curiously, he opens the door to the shop, and the bell above the door tolls. a cute little shop, and bright colours encircle the walls. daisies, frangipanis, dahlias, petunias, he knows them all from your incessant ramblings when you would walk through gardens together, and he would hold onto every word.

you bound from the back room after hearing the bell, and you both just freeze up. you’re in shock he’s here—but why wouldn’t he be here? he travels planet to planet in search of his aeon—and he only sees something grotesque, and ugly, and a mockery of you. this isn’t you. it’s a mimicry. blasphemy of righteousness, of pure beauty, of one of idrila’s very creations they pulled from their gentle heart and offered to him so graciously.

he knows deep down he’s wrong. he knows, he knows, he trusts himself he knows, but he can’t win over his twitching fingers.

you greet him softly, gently pushing the work in progress bouquet and the garden pliers to the side of the front desk. there’s a multitude of thorns on the bench, and the roses in the bouquet, not yet bloomed, are picked free of their thorns.

there’s only one in the bouquet, one red shimmering rose, that has fully opened its petals.

“haven’t seen you in a while,” you say to him. there’s a hint of that customer service-y tone; because he’s not your lover anymore. “how are you?”

argenti swallows. “just the same.” he turns to the flowers on the wall. “you have a beautiful shop.”

“thanks.” you glance down at the bouquet on the bench. “did the roses outside catch your eye?”

you hear him laugh merrily. “you know me too well.” his fingers graze along the petals of a large assortment of pink amaryllis hanging over a plantar pot. he cannot look at you. he cannot, he cannot, he cannot–

“hey.”

and there’s that tone that twists his stomach. he wants to look, he wants to see you, you, and not that hideous beast that resides beneath your skin.

he feels you stop just beside him. he dares to glance.

amidst your claws and the veiny lines of your once soft and delicate hands that he always would press his lips to the back of, was a single red rose that you twirled between your fingers.

you hand it to him gently. “this one’s special.” when argenti did not move to take it, you tuck it securely behind his ear, indulging in how soft his hair was along your skin. “it’s stayed alive for a lot longer than i thought. it’s been around for about two years now, give or take.” you step back. “it reminded of you.”

and it did. undying strength, and despite all odds of belobog’s weather being unfit for roses, as all of the others had wilted over time, this particular one had stayed.

“i know things didnt end well, but…” you glance out the window. “but, you’re always welcome back here.” and, you still love him. you omit that part. “i’m sorry for whatever happened, or if i wasn’t good enough, or if there was somebody else–”

even now, he laughs. it’s weak. “there was nobody else.”

you nod once. “well. still. i’m sorry.”

argenti knew it had been all his fault, but you, ever gracious and kind as you were, felt burden on your shoulders.

his hand draws back from the amaryllis to graze over the rose behind his ear. the petals were fresh, a light smell of dewdrops in the morning on this cold planet.

he wishes now, he never turned to look at you. he wished he had just spun on his heel and left the shop, and never returned to you. you didn’t deserve this; you had always been so kind, so careful, so gentle with him.

but he did turn, because he had fooled himself into thinking it was truly you standing there, and not some masked fool, or a hideous shapeshifter that was showing its true colours. he sees those claws again, and pulled aged skin that reminds him of trees as old as time, horrible teeth, twisted limbs that crack and bend—

to make matters worse, you notice his distress, and as you always did when you were together, you pull him gently towards you and wrap your arms around him.

argenti, mistakenly, returns the warm embrace, and unbeknownst to you, one of his hands brushes against the garden shears you’d left on the desk next to the bouquet.

he thinks against it for a moment when he hears you apologise for what he had done wrong, and bury your face in the plated shoulder of his silver armour.

despite how he holds the writhing creature in his arms, he knows it’s you. and it is you, but he doesn’t see you, nor does he see any semblance of you left when he turns his head to stare out of the window. he catches a reflection of the creature twitching.

he murmurs an apology as well.

and then, he drives the shears into a particular spot in your spine. you gasp, and you become dead weight in his arms as the feeling of your legs fall away.

cold snaps up your chest and you cry out in pain. it’s just pain, and pain, and pain as hot blood dribbles from your neck.

and then there’s nothing. there’s no feeling. you can’t even breathe. your arms and legs feel as though they’ve just disappeared, and just as he hoped, you don’t feel his spear drive directly through your chest.

he kills you then, as quickly as he can, because as the monster cries and screams, he still knows it’s you in his arms, and he wouldn’t live with himself if you suffered in your final moments.

he sees you, finally, when he lays you down gently on the floor. he tries his best to clean you of the tear stains, and the blood smears that had crept around the front of your neck. you’re still beautiful, even in death, but he finds it impossible to leave the rose you’d gifted him.

so, he takes it—and that rose probably becomes the rose he carries in all his little animations in game. he traverses with guilt, and it’s probably a little wink nudge nudge to you when he says he owes his next battle to ‘a solitary rose.’

— 「 BODYGUARD 」

lighter lorenz x reader — 2.2k summary: you're not his responsibility (not yet), but the guilt will eat him alive if he doesn't get your drunk ass home safely. content: lighter's pov, vomit, alcohol use, sappy lighter, jealous lighter beyonce's bodyguard is so him to me i can't do this anymore fellas

You call; he answers.

Some things in life are just that simple. Lighter tries to keep it that way for you.

You don’t normally call in the middle of the night, though. Lighter doesn’t mind – honest, he doesn’t. He had been tossing and turning since he laid down, passing the time by picking open old wounds, letting the regret sting the raw edges. It takes time to realize that the ringing isn’t in his ears, that he’s flat on his back in bed, not in the ring. He almost ignores the call, but when he rolls over and sees your name flickering back at him, he dives to pick up before the last ring.

You're silent on the other line, nothing but muffled talking and rustling against the microphone. All sorts of scenarios race through his head. You're stuck somewhere - trapped in a hollow, or cornered by a rival gang. His past has caught up to him, mired you in all this ick. His stomach turns.

Adrenaline works way better than caffeine and he’s known that for a while, but he wishes he wasn’t so familiar with the helplessness that grips him. Lighter sits up, swings his legs over the side of his bed, poised to run to you.

It’s nothing so serious. When you finally get your phone up to your face and greet him with a (too loud, too sloppy) ‘hey!’ it becomes painfully obvious. You're drunk. That's what all of this is about.

Lighter needles the details out of you bit by bit, trying to glean information from your ramblings. Stranded out in Badger Springs. You met some guy out there for a date, he went to the bathroom and didn’t come back. You don’t laugh when he offers to deck the guy, and he can’t tell if you’re really torn up about this or if you just didn’t hear him.

Lighter pinches the bridge of his nose. He exhales long and low, away from the mic. He shouldn't encourage this. Can't keep bailing you out every time you get yourself in a sticky situation. But the thought of you drunkenly stumbling around the Outer Ring, bumbling your way into real trouble, has him fumbling to get his arms through his jacket.

“Stay put. I’ll be right there.”

Badger Springs. Seriously? Why’d you have to go so far out? What was so wrong with getting a drink in Blazewood?

Irritation pricks at him, has his hands feeling staticky even when he grips the handlebars of his bike. You probably went out there so no one would interrupt your date. What, were you trying to hide it? Did the girls know about this? No. No way. You would have called one of them to pick you up if that were the case. Right? You weren’t trying to hide it from him, not specifically.

He has a long ride ahead to stew about it, to knot the meaning of your actions into ugly shapes and then smooth them out, only to twist it all up again another mile down the road. This wouldn’t have happened - he kicks the stand down on his bike - if he’d manned up, if he’d asked you to watch the movie he’d rented. (New release, independently produced, apparently based off some old civilization tapes that had only been spoken about in a scant few records - some horror flick called Seen that you had been raving about. Not his thing, but your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He figured he could just watch you during the bloody parts.)

But he didn’t ask, and now he’s here, freezing his ass off in the middle of the night, parked outside this shithole bar, two towns over. The bar is a dump. Looks like your date couldn’t even take you anywhere nice. You’re off by yourself at the end of the bar, shoulders drawn in close, crowding over your drink. At least the regulars are leaving you alone. A quick look around tells him that there’s too many people in this place for it to be a quick fight, if it came down to that.

He strolls past tables and booths, lets his hand fall heavy on your shoulder. You jump, turning sluggishly to look up at him - eyes wide and red. C’mon - don’t tell him you’ve been crying over this prick. Your expression smooths the moment that you recognize him. 

“Lighter!” Your arms fling around his middle, squeeze him tightly.

The tide of adrenaline that he washed in on pulls back, drags his relief away. Anger shores up, quick and sudden. It soothes in another pulse of his heart; understanding. It's kind of flattering if he doesn't think about it too hard. You trusted him enough to come pick you up. Probably couldn't even think clearly - just knew you wanted to go home. Knew he would get you there, safe and sound. Not a bad prize for driving all the way out here; he tries to enshrine this moment in his memory. Later, trying to fall asleep in his room, he’ll feel like a sleaze for delighting in being your hero like this.

He pats the top of your head, takes advantage of the distraction to wave the bartender over, check if you’ve still got an open tab. He slips him a couple extra denny for the trouble, keeps you distracted and talking with carefully placed ‘oh, really?’s and ‘mhm’s.

"You're wasted, huh?"

“Not that bad.”

You sound confident. He steps back, lets you hop off the bar stool on your own. Lighter hooks a thumb in his pocket. He drums his fingers against his thighs, watching you sway back and forth in front of him. Your eyes are hazy and unfocused, looking in his general direction with a dopey grin on your face.

Pride feels better than anger. He latches onto that. You make it so easy to feel when you cling onto his arm, lean into him. He keeps you close, ignores the whispers he overhears about the Red Scarf. His step quickens. He’s not getting into any trouble, not when he’s here for you.

You struggle to keep up, all uncoordinated limbs, your head probably spinning. He helps you onto the back of his bike and passes you a helmet. He’d grabbed it on his way out - figured if you were as trashed as you sounded on the phone then it was better safe than sorry. He’s glad he did.

Somewhere along the ride home, you stopped babbling. He had felt your words pressed against his back more than he had heard them. He stops just before home to check on you. Can’t have you falling asleep. He doesn’t want to hear it about riding in with you all banged up on the back - he’d never let it down. He’d never let himself live it down, more accurately, but his bike starts back up before you hear that part.

Honestly, he’s almost positive you won’t remember much past when you first called him. That doesn’t stop him from treating you gently. He helps you off his bike, keeps your hand in his to guide you around stray milk crates and cacti that just seemed to leap into your path.

It’s just a little further. He’s almost got you back to your place when he hears it. That ominous groan. Your face pallid, cold sweat breaking out against your forehead.

“Gonna throw up?” He asks, big hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

You shake your head, the force of it knocking you off balance. You would have stumbled right into a cactus if he hadn’t hauled you into his side by the back of your shirt. (Like scruffing a kitten, he catches himself thinking. Cute.)

He tries to guide you to the closest trash can, but you can’t quite make it. Your legs are quaking, all the strength sapped from you while you expel that contents of your stomach into one of Old Demir’s flower pots. He gathers your hair back from your face gently, caging it all in one hand to rub your back with the other. Somewhere between gentle coos of ‘there you go’ and ‘let it all out’, he manages to make out your garbled apology. You thread it between heaves, between sobs, but he catches it all the same and shushes you for it.

“All better?” He asks when the dry heaving has stopped. You nod slowly. The tiniest whimper he’s ever heard drifts from your lips. He knows from experience that much more movement than that will hurt.

Lighter sighs. The scent of your perfume curdles with the stench of vomit. He arranges your hair back as best he can, trying to replicate the way you had done yourself up - all pretty for another man, he remembers. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and he pulls the end of his scarf free.

“No, Lighter–”

Your hands are clumsy. He dodges your attempts to stop him easily. He clicks his tongue and swipes the vomit from your chin. “Don’t worry about it. This scarf has seen worse.”

It’s about time to get it cleaned, anyway. Add that to his growing list of chores.

You’re moving slower than before. He tucks you into his side to give you some more stability. When you pause at the steps to your place, he sweeps an arm under your knees, cradles you close to him. He had expected a protest, or an apology - something in line with the rest of your behavior this evening, but you curl closer to him. 

It’s a fumble to find your keys - shifting your weight from one arm to the other until he finally finds them in your back pocket. He knows your place well enough to dodge the shoes left in the entrance way, to step around the box that sticks out into the hallway from your bedroom. He settles you into your bed, rolls you onto your side - just to be safe.

Lighter keeps watch for a few moments, making sure you’re not going to roll onto your back, pressing the back of his hand against your sweat-chilled forehead. Once he’s certain the worst has passed, he leaves to fill a glass of water for you. Your eyes are half-open when he gets back. He draws up a chair, tries to figure out how to ask if you want his help changing into something more comfortable without sounding like a creep.

You rip that idea from his head when you blindside him with a question.

“D’you think it’s my fault?”

“Course not,” Lighter answers before he can even put together what you’re asking. “Everyone has too much fun sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not even gonna remember this.”

“No, I mean…” You curl tightly around your pillow. He could have sworn he heard a hitch in your voice. His heart lurches. Christ, you can’t start crying now. He can’t take it. “Why would he just leave?”

Lighter has to remind himself not to pull a face. Not what you need right now. He’s already said too much. He’s just going to wind up upsetting you more. He wants to tell you that guy is a douchebag, that none of it had been your fault. The guy just wasn’t man enough to be upfront. That was all.

“I just don’t think I’m meant for this,” you whisper. His train of thought crashes abruptly. "Like– love, and stuff.”

“You’re so much fun to be in love with,” Lighter says, and if you were sober you would clock him for just how quickly he did so, “and someday, someone’s gonna see that.”

“How do you know?”

Because my heart feels like it’s buckled into a roller coaster and I can’t figure out if I’m having fun or if I’m scared shitless. Because I’ve got eyes. Because it’s you.

He can’t say any of that. Not now, while you’re shivering and small, a little bundle of raw nerves that he rescued from some dump. Christ, you really are a kitten right now. He chucks your chin with a knuckle, his smile twisting to something bittersweet.

“C’mon. You should know not to bet against me by now.”

For the first time since he got you through the door, you smile. Barely there and flimsy, but you’re only just clinging to consciousness. Your cheek presses back against your pillow, eyes slipping shut.

“Thanks, Lighter,” you murmur.

You’re out cold within the next minute.

Lighter lingers overlong. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be in your room while you’re passed out like this, but he can’t bring himself to rise. His shoulders hunch, expression dropping, stomach churning. Through your window, dawn is just beginning to break. The Outer Ring is bathed in a cool blue light, the horizon tinging purple at the edges.

You have a hell of a morning ahead of you. He runs a hand down his face and forces himself to stand, to get his day started properly. Another sleepless night. Maybe the next time he finds himself awake, staring at the ceiling and tormenting himself, he’ll call you first. Maybe he’ll do it before anyone else has a chance to.

Lighter locks your door on his way out and tucks the key under your mat. He should act. He should tell you.

He walks back to his place in silence, resisting the urge to grab his phone, to text you and say let me know if you need anything.

Maybe one day.

asl bros doodles sketches and scribbles from the past few days. for the soul

Heartslabyul chiikawa series!!! Might do other dorms too ‼‼

Itoshi Brothers 🫶

who was gonna tell me the straw hat badges were a limited time thing 😔