Scripting for 1 ½ routes are completely finished. Now coding is what I’m dreading. However, Night 3 is coming to a close, which means the update is nearly done. Just need to brush up the dream sequences’s.
Cg’s are nearly all completed save for a select few, and new backgrounds + items have been added.
I will post final release dates for the full game soon.
only just started this anime and I need this two to use me.
and the anime is so fresh that there’s no x reader’s besides the one about the minor like UGH.
i guess I’ll be having to create my own content soon 🤤🤤🤤
10 years ago, Mila’s fashion was tied to performance. She wore brighter colors, chunky accessories with oversized/layered clothing, and platform boots that had either buckles or straps. But, as time went on, her clothing style became “cleaner” or mature in nature.
Not boring. Not stripped of her Capitano-coded personality or anything…just “refined.” More or less. She still keeps some of the same elements for her clothing style, but it has definitely changed over time.
A younger Mila dresses to look more larger and intimidating. An older Mila no longer needs to artificially enlarge herself to feel powerful, but still has that dramatic flair. That spark to her.
Because she never fully abandons that louder side of herself. Instead, she learns how to control and use it for her’s, and the circus’, benefit.
And while her husband, Ticket Taker, wouldn’t try out his darling’s clothing style for himself, he appreciates it for a lot of different reasons.
Because while he isn’t the type of guy who’s easily impressed by expensive brands or flashy trends, and probably finds excessive displays to be a little exhausting anyways, he appreciates how her style has intention behind it. How everything has a purpose.
The colors coordinate. The jewelry ratio is appropriate. The headscarf goes well with the sun hat. The material of her clothing is good in quality and is comfortable to wear.
Nothing is random or sloppy here.
Everything is about creating an image.
An image that’s confident, grounded, and secure. An image that reflects discipline.
And to him, that’s attractive!
The funny part though?
He secretly keeps a soft spot for the outfits his wife used to wear from back then.
Even if Mila grew as a person - even if Ticket Taker still admires the woman she became - he still remembers the stubborn and overdressed undercover cop she once was. And, for someone as sentimental as Ticket Taker (possibly), that version of Mila holds a place in his memory.
And he absolutely looks back at any old photographs/pictures she has in her phone gallery, thinking, “how absurd…”
…But he keeps those photographs/doesn’t delete the pictures anyway!
The name I chose, for the romantic relationship (that may or may not happen), between my sona, Mila, and the character, Ticket Taker, is otherwise known as “Punchline.”
But why did I chose that ship name? Are there any specific meanings behind it?
Originally, this is how I answered that question over on my Instagram:
And this still holds true even from back when I first wrote my yumeship lore…
But not completely.
This is because the word, "punchline," started off as a simple play on words between Mila and Ticket Taker...
However, the more I wrote for Punchline, the more I realized that there was way more than just a simple “double” meaning. The meaning changed to a third - and then it changed into a fourth - just recently.
The first meaning is the obvious one. Ticket Taker's main job, or role, is to "punch" your ticket, marking someone's entry into the circus. And, in Mila's case, he's also one of the characters who can unknowingly mark the beginning of a path that can either embrace, change, or allow her to fully destroy herself depending on the route.
The second meaning ties back to an inspiration for Mila's character. For Mila, she's heavily inspired by Capitano - or at least somewhat inspired by him - from the Commedia dell'arte. More specifically, she holds the idea of someone who hides her real self behind confidence, performance, and exaggerated bravery. But this doesn't mean that Mila is Capitano himself. She's her own person with her own history, flaws, and motivations. The "mask" she wears didn't appear overnight, after all. So, in certain bad endings, the "punchline" becomes the moment where that facade finally cracks.
But honestly? If you described how these two can potentially end up in a romantic relationship together?
That would lead into the third meaning behind their ship name. It would sound like a bad “joke” one might tell at the bar.
"What do you get when you put an undercover human cop trying to look into the disappearances of the missing people and a sophisticated man-eating monster who’s responsible for most of those disappearances together?"
Sounds insane, doesn't it? Like where exactly is the punchline behind this?
…
Is there even a punchline to begin with?
Because, from the outside, they should not work at all. After all, it seems like Mila is just stubborn, morally messy, and is constantly trying to hold onto herself, while Ticket Taker, as we know his character so far, is basically the "opposite" and is far older than her both mentally and emotionally. Over the years, he has seen years, decades, potentially centuries, worth of ugliness in humanity and understands people in ways Mila still struggles to grasp. Even the way he can "love" might feel unsetting to some, since he has his own ways to express it that are much different from the average person, to put it lightly. (Keyword is lightly. I’m exaggerating/being a little sarcastic here since he is a yandere after all. No yandere that exists in any form of media has a 100% “healthy” way of loving. It’s only worth noting that he’s a Kurodere second).
And yet, despite all of that, there's still a strange understanding between them that slowly forms over time. Not because Mila exists to "fix" him to become a complete morally good guy or anything like that...
But because the two of them recognize something painfully familiar in each other. Maybe they share some common ground.
Who knows for sure if you’re only looking at it from the outside…?
And so, from an outsider's perspective, they sound completely ridiculous - but to them, their relationship is a lot more complicated than that.
As for the last meaning, you may ask?
The fourth meaning is a bit of a spoiler!
This is all you’re getting for now:
The fourth meaning, using the "line" bit from the word "punchline," references Mila's fate. Depending on her choices, she can either stay or fall out of line.
And that's it! That's why my yumeship is known as "Punchline" :D
Do you guys like the meanings behind my yumeship name??
Yes!!
No!!
Voting ended onMay 28
(I won’t get offended if you answer honestly haha. Liking why a specific ship name is used between two or multiple characters can vary from person to person ^^)
Hello everyoneeee Julian here!
I have big plans for the future of You Make This House a Home, including an official soundtrack, and voice acting for the full game. However, I don't have the means to afford it just yet so up goes my Ko-Fi page.
All proceeds from my Patreon and Ko-Fi will go straight to the development of You Make This House a Home.
If you like my work, and have the means to support me, anything is appreciated.
Are there any fem Naoya x readers? GN or fem reader, really. The female version of Naoya is so hot but the original is so chopped in looks and personality to me that’s it’s unreal 😭😭💔💔
I like interacting with the fandom but nobody seems like they wanna interact lol or maybe it’s the fact that people don’t comment like they used to on tumblr? But I didn’t have this problem with the Invincible fandom, so idk
i was listening to porter robinson's shelter to make me emotional just so this could effectively be emotional
warnings: not proofread but other than that none, similar fic and human Khol scenarios
word count: 1.7k
The popcorn ceiling and stale air have become a customary view by now; your version of a break from this unnerving home life. The thousands of dots are traced by your lying figure, draped in the darkness of the bedroom, as your thoughts become dormant—nothing else you can have swirling in your mind because, in a situation like this, one noticeable detail leads to every noticeable detail.
The disconcertion begins with being awoken by eyes that swallow you whole—so stark and unforgiving with their silent yearn.
This person, whose sweet demeanor is a contrast to their hair-raising appearance, is the first encounter; next, it's the panic of not remembering the eyes that stare at you in the mirror, not recognizing the terror-stricken face at all, whose eyes blink when yours do.
Then the questions, all faced with vagueness or rejection, and lastly this—accepting and attempting to ignore the wrongness of familiarity in your chest.
So staring at the mundane, the thousands of little dots scrambled just as your mind, calms you into this supposedly normal routine.
But the back of your mind recalls what your normal days used to look like—staring at cars passing by, birds hobbling along the telephone wires, the noise of barking outside as the sun smiles at the waking world. Everything normalcy paved its way in.
Yet all you have are obscured memories of people and a past you can't recall: this tall being beside you and yourself.
This is your partner—your boyfriend, to correctly state.
The tall being respectfully sits on his knees beside the bed as you lie on your back. The room's only source of lonely light, the lamp, paints the side of his face—his body outlined as his hands are folded on his lap. The long-haired entity reverently peers down at you, unnatural smile still plastered on his face as he admires your distracted expression.
“…Khol?”
Immediately upon answering your call, the dark-eyed being leans closer to you as you turn to lie on your side, cheek propped on your hand as the sheets rustle in the quiet room.
By his mention, you would’ve been asleep at this time, but you’re unusually awake, too restless to succumb to the routine you two share—his words. Honestly, you can’t even recall yesterday’s events, so you only have his words to believe that your cycle is truly routinely or not.
He shuffles closer to the bed, baggy eyes brightening as free tresses spill themselves onto the sheets—beginning to taint the bed with his insistent reticence. “Yes, honey?”
You close your eyes, pausing in thought, then sigh. “Why are you… still in the room?”
You slowly open your eyes to look at him, greeted by a smiling pale face with obsession decorating his depths. This being's insistence on staying by your side makes you ponder the reason for his loyalty. You're his partner? Yes, that reason makes sense, but you aren't entirely helpless—amnesia or not, you're not consistently in distress.
So, your thoughts proceed to another reason for this man's clinginess.
“Do we…" You avert your gaze to the sheets soaking the lamp's light, "Do we normally sleep together in this bed?”
Khol tilts his head silently, and in the silent darkness of this room, his moving silhouette looks eerie. Wordless with the action, and a dark mass that's only tolerable, not as scary, from the light painting his still figure. The being's dark strands spill more onto the bed, and you almost believe it bleeds towards you—gradually wriggling towards your quizzical form.
Reticence broken, the person's characteristic wide grin softens into a delicate smile—this expression you typically see when he's melancholic.
“No. I typically leave you alone." His folded hands anxiously rub against one another, twitching from the upcoming events soon to happen, "I'm usually waking you up for breakfast or dinner.” Words casually said, making you almost believe this routine with him is true.
Maybe you should blend in with this routine, this normalcy, for once.
You reach out a hand suddenly, and Khol's eyes watch curiously. His chest then unfurls, blossoming in a way only you can bring into fruition, as his dark eyes widen: your hand gently cups his cheek.
And, unknown to you, a couple of his inky strands curl from the sweet, unexpected touch as your fingers gently trace his cold skin. Your warmth bleeds into his pallid skin, blooming that intoxicating sensation he hounds after to life—the love drunkness he subdues himself to.
Khol immediately tilts his head into your palm, lips quivering into an adoring smile, as his cheeks start to flush, so bright and resounding on his deathly complexion—hearts nearly in his eyes.
“I can’t sleep,” you trace your thumb along his cheek, “so could you join me?”
…
A dingy, borrowed CD player, that most certainly wasn’t Khol’s, played in the background in a blend of his music and yours—the gifted mixtape, made with love and the mischief of breaking into his best friend's house. It's amicably mixed into the homely atmosphere, so easygoing and relaxing as the afternoon sun bleeds its colors through the curtains.
The orange bleeds onto his moving hands as he presses the rewind button on a specific song, reminiscent of your relationship—it's his favorite.
Khol relaxes himself on the chair and spreads his legs, posture going slack as he closes his eyes, sighing out a relaxed weight.
The music silently playing, the sunset peeking through the curtains, the scent of you all over the room. It's all so nice and comforting.
He cracks open an eye.
But it'd be even greater if he could be with your napping form. Drowning in your scent, nose pressed into your shoulder—the kind of cuddling a boyfriend deserves, really.
He, so tall that he’d take up too much of your bed, and would possibly break it with the combined weight, is sitting down at the desk while watching you instead of cuddling with you.
It’s supposed to be a regular hangout between lovers, but this still counts as one regardless, right? Comfortable in each other's presence to the point where words don't always need to be exchanged or just sound asleep. A great representation of the relationship.
The dark-haired man sits up as he stares at you. Your cheek presses against the pillow as drool runs down the side of your mouth, snores light and airy, but still discernible. Dressed in his hoodie too? He grins to himself, he could just squeeze you—cute and adorable in every way, he loves it.
But, he leans forward while placing his arms on his knees, he doesn’t want to do that; he doesn’t to abruptly awaken you. This quiet moment of tracing your features is enough—for now, at least.
His painted fingers curl a silky lock around his finger as he gazes at you in thought. To think you're so comfortable around him, to have everything flow as if he were exactly like you, a human—that’s the greatest feeling above all.
When you sniffle in your sleep, his smile widens more.
Everything about you is so adorable, so beautiful, so human.
And he’s merely content with just staring at you.
He watches as you scrunch your face and curl more into the sheets, just like a cat curling in its sleep.
Actually, no, he’s not. He pouts, cheeks puffing for a moment.
If your bed wasn’t so small… if he weren’t so big, then he’d be able to be beside you. An obstacle this small and insignificant by nature keeps him at a small distance between you two—and part of him ignores how this distance is similar to how he's not close as he wants to be. This face, this body.
It's so similar, yet so different.
You’re right there, but you feel so far away.
The long-haired man brings the chair closer to your bed, lightly scraping it against the floorboards. Khol leans down to your peaceful face, mapping everything into his mind soundlessly, pupils dilating. He then reaches out a hand and traces your cheek with his fingers gently, appreciating your warmth and softness.
You’re always warm and so soft, he looks to the bed, but he can’t be near you in the way he wants to. In both mind and body.
But he wants to be.
He wants to hold you close, keep you where no one else can see you, preserve every moment and smile—he doesn’t want this feeling, these human emotions, to end. This understanding of not knowing where he starts and where you end. A cliche term he's so fond of because he feels closer to being a human when he understands it through you.
His fingers gradually travel down to your neck and cup the side of it, thumb on your pulse—pumping, thriving, warm.
Your warmth is so welcoming and unconditional. He wants to bask in it until it becomes a heat that drowns him inside out. To where he wakes up knowing the warmth beside him won’t fade—that you won’t relent to time, arbitrary love, or him not being what you thought he’d to be.
He just desperately wants you and your warmth to stay.
Khol’s face lowers to yours, and his eyes absorb every detail. Your fluttering lashes, your parted lips, your twitching brows, your nose—he notes everything.
His nose then affectionately kisses yours, and his forehead gently presses against yours. Khol breathes out a soft sigh.
So even if he’s not wholly what you fell in love with, just like how he remembers each fiery ember of your warmth, please remember he will always be the person you love—different face, different body, regardless.
…
Groggily, you're roused awake by the odor of something unfamiliar and a light bleeding from the shielded windows. It washes on your face as you click your tongue, perturbed by the taste lingering in your mouth and the smell of the alien surroundings.
There's chirping outside.
It's clearly morning.
Your head pounds as you peel open your eyes, sealed tightly from sleep and exhaustion, as you disregard the smells troubling your awakening form. A brief, split second of a face so very close to yours flashes under your blinking eyes, but the splotches of color, face distorted yet so familiar, disappear as fast as they came.
What did you dream about?
You pause.
No, that’s the last of your concerns.
You look up, alarmed, ready to throw off the covers and dash out of the foreign yet so familiar room.
For anybody not caught up: Tennessee just passed a new map that pretty much makes it so black neighborhoods have no power in local votes. Two things about this. While protestors were chanting "No Jim Crow", white Tennessee lawmakers were caught laughing on video. On top of this, Representative Justin Pearson and his brother KeShaun Pearson were arrested for trying to give their takes on the matter (which is not only their legal right but literally his job). If you give a shit about black people, help fight this. We can't allow a return to Jim Crow.
[ "The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained."
Or
A fanmade Dead Leaves oneshot where Harlequin seems to have some difficulty trying to sleep. This AU does not belong to me, but to @destinysquared. Please make sure to check out and support Destiny's original story linked here! No beta reader we die like the man aka the circus' ringmaster . I am not dissing my hg Columbina here ] .
2K+ words.
࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.
It was another one of those nights again.
Gripping the pillow in his sleep, Harlequin buried his face deeper into it. His body shifted, twisted and turned underneath the soft blankets of his bed. Claws twitching every so often, they almost seemed to try to reach for something that was no longer there. One arm remained wrapped tightly around the pillow while the other curled beneath it, holding it close against his chest in a desperate sort of way.
As if it could stop something from leaving him again.
The sleeping chambers of his tent were dark save for the faintest sliver of moonlight peeking through a small tear in the ceiling. It cast pale lines across his form, illuminating parts of him before shallowing them whole again. His hat had long since been discarded somewhere nearby, leaving his curved horns exposed among curls of black hair. Even in sleep, tension sat heavy upon his face. His brows furrowed. His lips stuck in a frozen frown. Occasionally, a strained breath escaped him.
Almost like he was fighting something unseen.
Or perhaps remembering it.
Two rings glistened somewhere on his bedside table.
Carefully placed upon a folded handkerchief, the gold bands rested side by side under the dim light, with one being slightly larger than the other. Time had not dulled them despite the years that had passed. Harlequin made certain of that. He polished them often, more out of habit than necessity now, rubbing away fingerprints and dust with almost obsessive care until the metal gleamed like it was brand new.
Monsters did not wed.
Not truly at least.
There were no ceremonies among his kind. No vows exchanged between two people alike. No blessings or papers that bonded one to another. Creatures like Harlequin were not built for permanence. They wandered. They bit and bited. They tore into open wounds and flesh.
They consumed. They hungered.
They survived.
And yet you still confidently slipped one ring on anyway while he held the other.
He remembered the way you laughed breathlessly afterward.
Harlequin teased you for it at first. Of course he did. He teased everything that frightened him.
Yet later that same day, he couldn’t stop staring at the gold around your finger.
Or the matching one resting upon his own.
You were the first human to look at him and not immediately see the act.
Not the grin.
Not the sharp teeth.
Not the monster beneath his costume.
Just him.
Harlequin himself.
Ironically enough, you didn’t get along with him very well during your first meeting.
At the time, Harlequin still dressed himself in the venomous green and yellow, stitched through his costume as though to represent his poison laced into silk. And even the markings upon his mask seemed sharper back then.
It was fitting for him.
Passing out the circus’ flyers throughout the day, he twirled the papers between his claws while the disinterested humans of the town hurried past him without sparing a single glance. Most avoided eye contact entirely. Others looked at him with fear and disgust in their eyes.
Harlequin found all of their reactions boring and displeasing.
Then he saw you.
You stared.
Not with horror or awe, but with curiosity.
The green clown remembered slowing to a stop in front of you, grin stretched like a Cheshire Cat as he offered a flyer with dramatic flair.
“Care to visit the circus?” He had asked you. “But you know…Stare for too long and I might charge for admission.”
Instead of becoming embarrassed like how most people would, you glanced between him and the flyer before raising an eyebrow.
You had said something completely unexpected.
And that caught him a little off guard.
He was fascinated almost instantly.
Most humans either feared him or adored the performance.
You did neither.
You looked and spoke to him as though he were simply another person speaking to you. Strange.
Real.
And somewhere along the line, Harlequin found himself lingering around you longer than intended after your small talk continued and handing out his green ticket much later.
Then longer still.
He remembered wandering past the crowded grounds at the circus beside you late into the night using some shortcuts, though somehow the noise always seemed so distant whenever you spoke. The lights shined overhead while the roars of applause, the screams, or laughter spilled out from the nearby tents. No matter what though, his attention remained entirely upon you during those sacred moments when his performance was over for the night. After all, the sound of your voice, the casual brush of your shoulder against his cape, and the way you looked whenever he said something particularly stupid or pervy was everything to him.
He remembered walking you home beneath skies of orange and bleeding red.
He remembered sneaking away from the circus after it closed solely to hold you for another hour before dawn stole him away again.
He remembered pressing kisses against every single inch of you simply because he could.
Your knuckles.
Your forehead.
The corners of your mouth.
The inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered.
Everywhere.
Harlequin always pretended affection came naturally to him, like how his seduction was merely another trick hidden under his sleeves.
But you knew better.
You saw every pause hidden behind his grin.
Every hesitation.
Every fragile thing he buried with a wicked and unbothered demeanor.
And somehow, despite it all, you stayed.
His claws started to twitch again, starting to tear into the fabric of his pillow.
The dream shifted.
Just like it always did.
This was because time was cruel and unforgiving.
Your face that once carried the softness of spring slowly began to shift. Not all at once. Never all at once. Time was more careful than that. It worked slowly, deliberately, like a painter determined to finish what they had started with a new project.
Your eyes tired first.
Then the smile lines settled deeper beside your mouth.
Your skin changed into something thinner, gentler, with your veins becoming more visible too. Your hands changed. The same hands that once tugged him without hesitation trembled ever so slightly whenever they held his own.
Harlequin noticed everything.
Every wrinkle.
Every ache.
Every deep and drained breath you tried hiding from him.
To watch you age was to watch a masterpiece being finished, one stroke of the clock at a time.
Humanity called that beautiful.
Poets and scholars alike spoke of time as the ultimate virtue, or a gift bestowed upon the living to be savored and honored. It was the currency of the soul, a precious, finite resource that gave meaning to every “hello” and weight to every “goodbye.” Humanity held time up as a blessing, a golden thread that wove experience into wisdom. And even some of monsterkind agreed with them.
How absurd of a concept that was.
Time wasn’t a virtue. It was a burden.
And that burden would weigh itself on his shoulders like an unmovable force of nature.
And Harlequin hated it.
He hated the way your body slowly betrayed you. Hated the medicinations lining your bedside. Hated the fatigue you felt when you still perked up near the end and when you still tried comforting him through your own pain.
Most of all, he hated himself for being unable to stop it.
Because his kind was “meant” to survive, and yours, unfortunately, didn’t last for so long.
Yet there he stood, like a helpless little thing, while something as simple as time took you away from him piece by piece.
He would never be able to meet your eyes again.
Or intertwine your fingers.
Or feel your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his claws scratched patterns across your skin.
Or feel your legs tangled with his beneath the sheets.
Or press your body against him while he could hear the steady beat of your heart.
Or even have his lips press against your own, capturing your taste with his poison to create something that was once so beautiful.
But as cruel as time was, that itself faded away too.
The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained.
And just as his claws just barely touched your shoulders, it all went away too soon for his liking.
You faded.
Not suddenly, but just slowly enough just to hurt.
Like standing among the dead autumn leaves while the final colors of spring disappeared.
Like watching smoke unravel into thin air.
Like trying to hold onto a reflection in old glass while cracks slowly split through it until nothing recognizable remained.
Your smile blurred first.
Then your voice.
Then your eyes.
The very culmination of your being faded away until there was nothing left for him to reach.
His eyes finally opened.
For one horrible second, the dream still clung to him.
He could still smell you.
Sweet. Earthy. Familiar.
Then the cold morning air ruined it.
A ray of sunshine slipped through the opening of his tent, stretching across his bed like mockery. Morning was supposed to feel hopeful, wasn’t it? It was supposed to bring the promise of a new day. A fresh start.
Instead, it only showed the dampness that stained his face.
The pillow he had been holding onto throughout the night remained trapped between his claws. Tear stains darkened the fabric where he held it against himself all night long, but most of it had already dried up by now.
Blinking groggily, Harlequin stared at the ceiling of his tent. He felt less like himself and more like the empty room.
His breathing felt uneven.
Heavy.
Like something sat on top of him refusing to let him move.
The dull ache behind his eyes remained unbearable. Sleep still tugged at him, trying to lure him back towards the promises of a fantasy he both craved and despised.
Sometimes he woke up screaming.
Those nights were worse.
Pierrot once nearly tore through the tent walls trying to reach him after hearing the noise. Other times, Ticket Taker or Jester rushed inside only to find Harlequin gasping violently among tangled sheets and pillows, clutching his chest with a single hand as though his own heart attempted to escape him. Doctor usually had to get involved when this happened too, as he knew exactly what to do in order to make him calm down.
Those nights usually ended with shaking claws, sweat-soaked skin, or something far worse.
This morning, however, was quieter.
…
Slowly, Harlequin rolled onto his back before lifting a palm toward his face, dragging it down from the start of his hairline to the bottom of his chin. His throat tightened.
Even after two hundred years, grief still found new ways to hollow him out.
Eventually, begrudgingly, the scaled monster forced himself upright.
The room swayed as the pure and utter exhaustion settled into his bones. His gaze drifted toward the bedside table almost immediately. Toward the two rings resting carefully on top of the folded cloth.
Waiting for him.
Always waiting.
After all, there were more pressing matters to take care of. Ticket Taker and Jester were already up for the day, with the Doctor more than likely helping them out to gather supplies and do other preparations. Only a month remained before the fae trials began, and Pierrot would be the first to face them.
He had to play his role too.
Because he was the Harlequin.
And the Harlequin was meant to laugh in the face of misfortune. To dance alongside the suffering until tragedy itself became an entertainment. To remain high in spirits even if life itself left him feeling unsatisfied.
That was the role he was meant to perform best. The clown all dressed up while his inner turmoil quietly rotted away.
A performer until the very end.
Harlequin slipped the rings back onto his fingers.
Gold caught onto the light for only a moment.
Until that too would start to fade away.
First time posting fanfiction to this site kinda nervous. I have many mixed feelings about this since it's been YEARS since I was a fanfic writer.
That is because, once upon a time, I was in fact a fanfic writer. A popular one in fact, but on a different platform and under a different user. One work I was well known for had over 100K views and that's still crazy to me even to this day. For reasons I won't name here, I lost the spark to write fanfic. Let's just say it was related to the popularity and with that...I genuinely couldn't find myself to write anything for any fandom again. I archived everything - including that one popular work - and left said platform.
That was, until, I joined the fandom for The Freak Circus and read Destiny's "Dead Leaves." Then, because I really enjoyed her story, I checked out some of her other works. Her stuff lit my spark again, so now I present this oneshot to everyone here.
I'm a little rusty I know. With time and patience, I'll improve maybe. I have lots of writing tips in my saves already haha.
With that being said...
Should I become a writer again??
HELL YEAHHHHH 🔥🔥🔥
HELL NAHHHH ❌❌❌
Voting ended onMay 21
^ This poll will be very helpful to me if you decide to vote on it. I find polls to be very informative already for my Insta stories, so why not do it here too?
And a quick thank you to the mutuals/oomfs I DMed since I told them that I would be writing again just for TFC. They were all very supportive when I told them the news, and, when I showed them a little WIP of this oneshot...they all got very excited to my surprise. (I have mixed feelings about my writing style tbh :'D I tend to be poetic and all of that when writing).
Thank you to those who read this all the way through!! Have a silly meme I made:
I'll be posting a speedpaint of that banner I made later on ^^
Warnings: none. Maybe Spencer’s being its own warning lol. Can you tell I love skin care in my fics I just love how sweet and intimate it can be. i was gonna write the siren au instead of this but it was gonna be the reader on a cruise rather than being a sailor cuz idk jack about boats LMFAO
comments r appreciated ^^!
“Hey, babe, I got a joke for you.”
You’re busy sifting through thrifted clothing, border-lining tunnel vision, while your boyfriend is trying out a new comedic routine. God, you can't find anything so far—it’s always some influencer buying the best clothes while you’re scrounging the usual, uninteresting clothes. Maybe you’ll score a good pair of pants for once, relevant to the style you’re trying out.
Still distracted, you only manage to hum out a noise as a confirmation for him to continue. Just barely discernible over the metal clinking of clothes hangers being pushed and the cheap store music.
“What did the,” Khol stops to hold back a laugh, biting his lip, “What did the creaky door say to the guest?”
You hum again and pull out something that catches your eyes, “Dunno. What’d it say?”
A loud fart noise follows.
Did he just—there’s no way.
Immediately, you whip your head to see your boyfriend with a hand under his shirt, boldly making an armpit fart with it.
“There is no fucking way you just did that.”
He immediately bursts out laughing as he takes his hand out from his shirt, “Wait, wait—I can do a louder one!”
You almost threaten to hit him with a hanger. “Do not. Bad enough you touched your pit.”
He stares at you dead in the eye as he slowly places his hand back under his shirt, biting his lip to stifle any laughter threatening to slip.
Then heads are turned when a louder noise of flatulence is emitted from his armpit.
You quickly raise the hanger to whack him, and he laughs louder, hugging you before any damage can befall him.
“How was that one, huh?” The goofball asks, thick arms wrapped around your waist.
You toss the hanger back onto the clothing rack, rolling your eyes with a smile. “You really wanted attention that badly, didn’t you?”
He grins and nods.
…
“I’m not one who normally does this stuff.”
Khol’s tresses are pulled back by a fluffy headband to prevent them from touching his face. The dark strands touch his shoulders rather than his face as he smiles, feeling your fingers deftly rub the cleanser into his skin.
“The step-by-step process,” you tilt your head, “or washing your face in general?” You tease, slowly smiling.
He instantly pouts, yet it only briefly appears, replaced by a laugh. “The steps! I wash my face. I’m not dirty or anything.” He declares, defending himself.
“Or anything,” you mock, as the suds begin to cake his face in white, foamy streaks beginning to bubble. He closes his eyes and leans more into your moving fingers, the cleanser being rubbed feeling more like a sweet massage rather than a cleaning.
You pull your hands back, “Okay. Wash it out now.”
He opens his eyes with a hopeful, cheesy smile. “Wash it out for me?”
You don’t even bother entertaining him. “Now, how would I even do that. Are you aware you’re tall as shit, and I’d be drenching your shirt in the process?”
He watches your hands flick on the faucet then back as he leans on the sink, arms pressed on the marble and tight shirt stretching taut around his shoulders. When he leans over it, a couple of strands displace and flow over his shoulders; they get in the way and almost touch his soapy face.
You step behind him as he cups his hands under the water, “Hold on.”
He stops, peeking at you.
Then he smiles at feeling your fingers gather around his hair, effectively pulling back his long hair into a low ponytail, keeping it out of reach from getting damp. He loves it; you’ve always been so doting and considerate of him, and he’s rarely used to this kind of attention—flowing so easily and always putting him first.
It’s hard to not smile when he’s always near you.
His eyes crinkle when he lowers his face to his cupped, water-filled palms as the tap runs. “Thank you, honey.”
You pat his back lightly in response when you take your hands from his hair, running your fingers and letting the tresses slither into the gaps.
“Nothing to thank me for.”
You stand beside him, wagging your finger in a gesture to him and the drizzling faucet. “Now get on. Wash it out.”
He laughs and quickly obeys.
The taller male splashes his face once, then twice. Finally, he lightly washes the cleanser from his skin, repeating the simple little motions you did on his face to thoroughly wash away the soap.
The dark-haired man gives one more splash to his face before standing up, face dripping and glistening. The droplets darken on his worn-out band shirt, and you immediately reach over to the rack, plucking a rag. You lightly dab his face, keeping it damp enough for the next process but dry enough to have water paving its way all over the contours of his face.
“So,” you snort as he playfully leans into your hands and buries his face fully into the rag, soaking up your touch like a cat, “how’s your job going?”
Khol props his chin on the rag, hunched over to do the action, and shrugs. “Nothing all that much to talk about. I’m ordered to make food or join in with the flow of things. Sometimes I serve, sometimes I’m torching the top of a burger.”
Khol takes his chin from the rag, eyes glinting playfully. “Wanna hear how I almost burnt my hair?”
You want to deadpan at him, because of course that nearly happened to him—it’s Khol, but a smile sneaks onto your face, wide and amused. You place the rag on the counter as you reach for the skin exfoliate.
“Do I want to know?”
“Oh, you do.” He flicks the fluffy ears of the headband, a proud smile on his face, “I screamed and had those fire alarms ringing!”
He leans towards you when you flick open the tube, dolloping only a smidge of exfoliate. Your boyfriend's voice is low and conspiring as if he’s letting in the juiciest gossip. “One of the guys shot that fire extinguisher foam right in my mouth—it was awesome.”
You laugh, eyes wide and face bewildered, because what can you do besides laugh at the havoc he caused?
“Awesome? I would’ve been talking to a bald spot instead of your face right now.”
Before he can speak, his cheeks are painted with the exfoliate by your rubbing fingers. He reflexively steps back, grinning face dropping into a grimace at the difference in texture. “Why is it… bumpy? It’s like little rocks rubbing on my skin!”
You pause, then look towards the tube sitting idly on the counter.
Huh, you never thought if little rocks were actually put in it. It’s not, but it never occurred to you that’s what they felt like.
You go back to rubbing the exofoilate. Khol whines more at the weird, rough texture but doesn’t squirm away; he’s trying his hardest to stay still because it’s just some cleaning stuff. It’s not like it’ll hurt, right? No way his sweet, awesome partner wouldn’t prank him—actually, would that even count as a prank? Pranks are lighthearted, but having something burning his skin wouldn’t be lighthearted.
Little did he know, the next step would hurt.
While his mind wanders off to the logistics of what goes into a prank, the kind of easiness he could do around you, his body instinctively melts more into your soothing touch.
Harsh as the exfoliate may be, it doesn’t compare to how gentle and delicately you care for him. The rough texture barely registers when he has light, nimble fingers expertly brushing his cheeks—canceling out his discomfort and making him puddy, malleable, and relenting in your hands.
Only when you run the faucet again to wash the white soap from your fingers, he comes to. Khol blinks then faces his reflection.
“I look like a ghost.”
He faces with you, eyes crinkling, “A ghost with crazy acne.”
You snort as you flick the water from your fingers, shaking them dry. “Wash the soap outta your skin, Casper.”
He giggles, lowering his face to the running water, “And who are you gonna call when you see me—”
“Shut up,” you laugh.
Khol repeats the same face-washing process, but you halt him, taking his bigger, damp hands. With the faucet running as background noise, you guide him to do the next step accurately. “You have to wash out the exfoliate as if you’re washing your face. It’s the only way to deeply wash out it out.”
He pauses, glancing at your hands on his wrists, then back at up you. He ignores the small flutter in his chest from the delicate touch because even when dating you, everything feels like encountering his crush for the first time, and then he listens to your voice.
“Use two fingers to rub it out better.”
The dark-eyed man nods, then faces the water again. Thoroughly, he manages to wash the facial cleanser out of his face, this wash being longer and more focused than the last time.
Khol pulls his face away, eyes shining with a craving for validation. “I did good?” And you can practically see a tail swishing behind him, eager for praise at following your orders.
You quirk a brow, smile lopsided. “You did only your cheeks. Your nose and cheeks and forehead still need washing.”
That imagined tail droops in disappointment.
Khol groans silently but goes back, heading your words. His lithe fingers touch his forehead as you speak again, preparing to scrub away the dastardly exfoliate.
“But you’re doing the technique right. A for Accuracy, handsome.”
That tail immediately starts wagging again, and you can already feel him restraining himself from smothering you. You giggle the minute he pauses his scrubbing, only able to see a hint of his side profile, yet his silent excitement speaks louder than his growing grin.
You called him handsome, he giggles in his head. His heart flutters again—jumping and kicking in ways he wishes he could do right now.
But the bathroom is a bit too tiny for him to perform parlor tricks, so smiling and vibrating with excitement as he washes his face it is.
The last of the bumpy, annoying exfoliate is washed away, and what’s left is a face glistening and softer in ways he didn’t imagine could be possible. Khol’s fingers poke and prod at his cheeks while you grab the rag, dabbing away the cascading droplets plopping on his already darkened tee.
“No wonder you do this.” He pinches his cheek, grinning widely while staring at his reflection as you pat his chin, “I’m touching a cloud!”
You immediately laugh as you take away the fluffy fabric, “We’re not done.”
He purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing as his face scrunches in confusion.
“We’re not?”
You shake your head as you grab the facial toner.
“In fact, this might be the worst part.”
He looks at the bottle of clear liquid, then slowly looks back at you. “What’s that, honey?” He cautiously asks, laughing to drive away the creeping anxiousness.
You pop open the bottle with a flick of your thumb, and he immediately lets out a pained noise, as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Augh—! What the,” he covers his nose, “What the hell is in that bottle?!”
You whistle as you grab a cotton pad from the shelf. With a couple of shakes, the bottle wets the pad into a darker shade in its middle. “Face toner.”
“It smells like a science lab!”
You hold cotton to his face, grinning. “That’s because it’s odorless.”
He huffs, leaning down for you again. “If it’s so odorless, why can I smell it?”
Before you can correct him on the term when it comes to beauty products, he lets out a shriek the minute the wet pad touches his cheek. “H-how—babe, it burns!”
“It’s readying your skin for the moisturizer!” You laugh.
He looks at you, horrified. “You’re drying out my skin?!”
Quickly, he tries to seize the cotton pad, but it’s already hidden behind your back. You tap his nose playfully as he pouts down at you, feeling betrayed. “I’ll be quick. Just hold your breath. When I apply the moisturizer after this, you will be glowing.”
He pouts, more shoulders sagging.
You flutter your lashes, lips curling into an innocent smile. “Please?”
Khol huffs and crosses his arms. He can’t deny you—he can never deny you. Not when you’re being adorable and begging him.
He finally responds, muttering the word in a defeated voice.
“Fine.”
He’s putting his life in your hands; essentially, he’s trusting you won’t ruin his beautiful face. The idea of him glowing, looking refreshed and sparkly, was tempting, but only you looking so pretty has him agreeable.
You reveal the assaulter from behind your back, and he eyeballs it, glaring at it. If anything goes wrong, it’s the toner’s fault—his sweet partner is the innocent victim in this situation. Even if they made the culprit touch his beautiful face.
Yet his glare immediately melts into heart eyes when you abruptly pull his face down for a gentle peck on the lips. Khol’s crossed arms drop like dead weight by his sides from the sweet kiss, caught completely off guard yet fully accepting being swept off his feet.
When you pull back, and before he can chase after your lips for another kiss, he lets out a hiss—the burn taints him once more.
The wet pad begins to be dabbed on his skin.
Khol sighs, and his shoulders sag in defeat. There’s no escaping the damn little thing, so he’ll remain quiet.
And another hiss slips from his clenched teeth.
Or as quiet as he can be.
Thankfully, you’re quick because of how the routine flows through you naturally. Cheeks, to nose, to forehead, to chin, then patting any other untouched areas.
The cotton pad gets tossed in a little bin beside the sink while he stands there, the burn fading into just feeling how damp his skin is… again. Khol stands upright, easing his hunched back—gosh, you just had to be smaller than him. It’s cute, but the little back pain isn’t.
He hums, painted fingers touching his skin. “What now, honey?”
You pull his hand away from his face, and he stares down at you curiously.
“Now,” you reach a hand out and start fanning his face, “we manually dry your face. The toner needs to set.”
He laughs when he watches your hands create little wind. “Okay, this part is pretty nice.”
He closes his eyes and smiles, soaking up how your hands fan his face from every angle.
“Feel dry yet?”
He shakes his head, “A little more.”
You hum and fan your hands faster, lasting longer.
“How about now?”
“A little longer,” he raises two fingers in a little pinch.
Wrists tiring, but still wanting to continue the skincare, you continue fanning his face. It’s no longer glistening, and you’re starting to get suspicious.
You squint your eyes when he bites his lip, knowing very well he does that when he tries to hide his laughter.
“…now?”
“A little longer, honey—” he gets cut off by his own laughter, no longer keeping up with the act, “Okay-okay! I’ve been dry for a minute now. The air just feels nice.”
You place your hands on your hips, unamused, and he opens his eyes while grinning brightly at your expression. His hands cup your frowning face, and his warmth envelops you. “Don’t pout.”
“‘m not pouting,” your scrunched face says.
You then giggle when he tilts your head back and presses his lips to yours. When Khol kisses you, they feel way different from usual pecks—passionate in a way only his body can explain, rather than his words. He pours every inch of his adoration and love into his moving lips, despite it only just being a couple of seconds—it's so easy to get hooked on them. You feel his thumbs fleetingly pinch your cheeks before he pulls away.
The long-haired man’s eyes shine. “Alright. The last step.”
You poke his chest, a little peeved at how quickly the kiss ended since he always kisses you like it’ll be your last. “I’m getting a continuation of that when we’re done.”
He perks up as if you offered gold.
That was suddenly a good motivator.
He quickly snatches the tube and pops it open hastily, squirting a good amount on his palm. A bigger amount decorating the lines on his palm than necessary.
You laugh loudly and take the tube away. “Baby, you squeezed out too much.”
He looks at the glob in in the middle of his palm, then looks at you sheepishly. “It’s not… expensive, right?” You swipe a little from the little mass, snorting at his question. “I bought it in a set. It’s like fifteen bucks.”
He sighs, relieved from believing he put money, your hard-earned money, down the drain.
When your fingers touch his cheek, he realizes he enjoys this last step the most—you weren't kidding; hell yes, this was the best step. The moisturizer is cool and tender when it’s gently rubbed into his skin—feels so nice that’s he’s practically purring, really.
Khol ends up hunching over again—back pain be damned, this feels awesome.
“Ohhh, this feels too good.” The dark-haired man moans out when you begin massaging the substance into his skin—slow and deep, yet gentle and kind. Your fingers are magical.
Yeah, this is definitely his favorite part.
His groans, exaggerated and loud, fill the bathroom, and you laugh at his usual spirited behavior. “That’s enough. You sound like you’re dying.”
“Honey, I am living, and this is heaven.” He quips, opening his sparkling eyes. He’s greeted by your grinning face, a sight he’s always excited to see. “I’m,” he smoulders—that infamous look Flynn Rider once did, “looking at an angel too.”
“You are so corny.” He immediately breaks the facade and bursts out laughing, freeing his hair from the low-tail and standing straight in the same breath. He shakes a hand through the long strands to bring back the usual style, departing from the cute headband as well.
That unruly, long string of hair falls back into place in front of his face. “Me? I’m not just the corn on the cob, I am the cob—woah.”
Your boyfriend pauses as he stares at himself in the mirror. He’s breathless at the sight for only a moment, then he’s beaming, hands on the mirror, and turning his face in every angle. “I’m freaking, like, glowing like a glowstick!”
You cross your arms, basking in his eagerness and how right you were. “I know. You’re welcome.”
He looks over his shoulder, so happy and astonished. “Do you do this every day? Where do you buy the kit from, sweetie?”
Ugh, you nearly melt into a puddle at the pet name. You feel your body heat up as you avert your gaze, feeling flustered while he goes back to checking himself out. “Yes, I wash my face every day, but the exfoliating is every other day. Do that too many times a day, and it’ll damage your skin.”
He nods while still checking himself out.
You then grab the cleanser, staring at its label. “And I order it online from Sephora.”
He nods again, mentally noting your words while still checking himself out.
Khol then pulls away, lazily smirking as he leans his hip on the counter, crossing his arms. They easily flex under his shirt, the fabric form-fitting because he loves showing off his body, as a vein becomes prominent, striking across a bicep. “So,” he draws out, “about continuing that kiss.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
He immediately looks at you like a kicked puppy, and you laugh. “I like that look better.”
You curl a finger for him to come near you, and he’s already latching onto you, thick arms wrapped tightly around your soft waist as he eagerly presses his lips along your face—reverently and adoringly. You giggle, every peck so quick that it feels ticklish.
You reach a hand out and stand on your toes while he’s distracted with showering you with affection. Your fingers card through his hair to style it more, and he pauses his showering of love, enjoying the caressing.
“You are so, so predictable like this.” You snort as you place a thick strand behind his ear. He shrugs, grinning. “That’s good, isn’t it? But I can be unpredictable, I bet you.”
You raise a brow, “How much?”
“Five straight hours of cuddling.”
That sounds like your legs falling asleep. You shake your head. “I honestly wished you betted money.”
His fingers roam your back, eyes glinting. “Money isn’t fun if I’m taking it from you. I like stealing from establishments.”
You look at him immediately alarmed, but he quickly raises his hands, laughing. “Kidding, I’m kidding!” Then he lowers his hands, brows wiggling.
“Or am I?”
“Khol.”
“Okay, I am!”
…
Low music hummed in the store, the kind of song that’s made for mall shopping and for coworkers to slowly go insane to—repeating and spiraling. You barely notice it as you make sure to shop for merchandise in the front of the store, specifically the front.
“Baby.”
You pick an oversized tee, an overrated anime printed on its front.
“Honey, look.” His voice snickering, barely able to hide his amusement.
You don’t bother turning around, knowing exactly what you’re going to see is something egregious. Spencer’s was the only place you could cheaply find a specific set of merch besides shopping online, secondhand dealers the next option.
But it was also infamous for having another world towards the back of it.
“Khol. If I see anything related to a dick, I’m gonna act like I don’t know you.” You hang the shirt back up, too tasteless and annoying you—the shitty anime plastered on the front of it is taking up most of the merch in the store.
His taller form towers over your shoulder, nearly pressing against your back now as he urges for you to look again.
“Look, look.”
You look over your shoulder and immediately bite your lip, not wanting to feel childish with your own laughter.
He specifically picked up a mug with breasts, equally ceramic and glinting under the lights, and had a slogan of “All Natural.”
“I’m actually gonna kill you.”
He giggles, easily entertained as he lifts it higher. “They could poke an eye out.”
“Baby,” he looks at you still grinning, “you’re not buying that, are you?”
The dark-haired male brushes his hair over his shoulder as he purses his lips, acting as if he’s in thought—you know very well he’s made his ultimatum the minute he spotted it. Khol then looks back at the mug, turning it over, “Well…”
He looks back at you, “They look like moobs.”
You stare at him with a brow raised, then look back at the ceramic. I guess you can see it… Wait, now you can exactly see it. They’re sculpted a bit higher than boobs should be.
“They look like my moobs,” he corrects, proudly placing a hand on his chest.
You snort.
“So you’d like to keep a reminder?”
“I’m either getting this or the ‘Guess who saw Uranus’ shirt.” His finger pokes the glass nipple of the mug as you stare at him, trying to remain deadpanned but failing at his ridiculousness.
“So,” you tilt your head while laughing, “not both?”
He glances back at you, grinning. “Both? You’re a bad influence.” Quickly, he turns around to fetch it from the rack towards the back. “Remember, you said it, not me, honey!”
hey so im in the invincible fandom. and a predator decided to kinda put themselves on full blast. tagging wtv fandom tags i can think of to put it on full blast, please reblog
update from @voltnboltn : she uses ai. i was advised by this lovely user to check the pedos pfp and yeah, thats fucking ai.
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
titsay
izzy806
snowghoul
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
areudirty
