𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄 ! i write x readers!! yipee! call me bandaid!
i try to answer every request but theres always a bit of a wait, so please be patient with me <3
SUMMARY – You both don't like Sentinel, that's probably why you two get along (pre-time)
PAIRING – tfo starscream x reader
NOTE – I accidentally deleted the inbox. sorry for that🙏🥲 also can't remember which Starscream you asked for. So I made a sequel instead. sorry again
The vestibule of the Crystal Spire was designed to inspire reverence.
Everything about it—arched ceilings like interlocking wings, polished alloy tiles reflecting the soft glow of Prime-glyphs, air tuned to vibrate faintly with a solemn harmonic hum—screamed “wait quietly and feel insignificant”
You had complied, at first
You sat where aides were meant to sit: not in the center, but near it, just enough to suggest presence without audacity. Your datapad hovered silently beside, its auto-scroll halfway through the fifteenth version of a speech that would never be delivered on time. You’d re-checked it thrice, corrected a typo Alpha Trion had typed on purpose (“to keep you alert” he claimed) and were now idly calculating how many cycles of their life had been sacrificed to ceremonial delays
That’s when the voice dropped in like an elegant knife “He summoned me with the word urgently. That was… three minor tectonic shifts ago”
You looked up
Starscream stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed lightly, wings angled just-so in what could only be called bored martial readiness. His armor gleamed in polished red-silver and trim—not gaudy, but formal. The kind of clean that said “I was born to be looked at and I know it”
“You’re here for Sentinel too?” you asked, feigning surprise
“Unless Vector Prime has suddenly developed a taste for melodrama, yes”
Starscream approached with the gait of someone who had been trained for battlefield grace but had repurposed it into something far more dangerous: elegance laced with sarcasm “He told me it was urgent. That word has no meaning anymore. I think Sentinel just uses it when he wants you to feel guilty for blinking”
You just gestured to the empty space beside them “Join the abandoned”
Starscream sat down—well, not sat, more like lowered himself with performance-grade disdain. He settled his wings carefully, like a peacock folding his pride beneath himself
“Highguard, and now glorified bench ornament” he murmured “A glorious descent”
“If it helps, I’m fairly certain this bench has heard more strategic insight than most command chambers”
Starscream smirked, optics narrowing “A bench never interrupts. A bench doesn’t say ‘let’s circle back’. A bench doesn’t think it’s entitled to a monument for every half-decision”
“Are you referring to Sentinel?”
“I’m referring to every one who’s ever used a twenty-minute story to say no” He tilted his head a little “But yes. Mostly Sentinel”
You relaxed a little more. This wasn’t the first time you’d shared a delay with him, and each time, the Starscream you found was different from what the records suggested. Less self-important, more dry. Less soldier, more survivor with a gift for critique “You’d think for someone who talks so much, he’d eventually run out of things to say”
“He doesn't run out” Starscream sighed “he loops. Like a badly-coded audio file. By the time you realize he’s repeating himself, he’s already declared victory”
You leaned in just slightly “You ever considered breaking protocol and just... walking out?” Starscream gave you a look—mock-horrified “And be vaporized by the weight of Prime disapproval? No thank you. I may be brave, but I’m not suicidal”
They both snorted at that. Quietly. Like two students laughing behind sacred scrolls during a lecture they’d heard ten times before “You’re not what I expected from a Highguard”
Starscream arched a perfect brow “And you speak like a Prime’s scribe but don’t flinch at sarcasm. We all wear masks, darling”
“Mine just has a file index attached”
“And mine’s classified”
There was another silence, but this time, it wasn’t the bored kind. It was the kind that settled between people who got it—whatever it was—and didn’t have to explain themselves further. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open and immediately closed again. Probably a decoy
Starscream sighed theatrically “Well, at least if the planet collapses while we’re waiting, we’ll die seated”
“There are worse ways to go”
“Like under one of Sentinel’s monologues”
You almost chuckled at that remark, almost “Remind me to archive this moment. We might need it for morale”
“Make sure you file it under Delayed Diplomacy and the Art of Not Screaming”
The meeting chamber echoed like a canyon full of bureaucracy and ego—Sentinel’s voice bouncing off the walls with the smug inevitability of an avalanche explaining its purpose to a valley. Measured. Smooth. Loud in all the wrong places. He was on his third rhetorical flourish now—something about reconstruction being like the alignment of celestial gears. You stopped listening two metaphors ago, when Sentinel had compared civic trust to photosynthesis
You sat by the main table, stylus in hand, screen glowing in your palm. But the datapad hadn’t captured a single useful point for at least half hours. Instead, it displayed a single, looping phrase written with mechanical calm
Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream
It was less a note and more a spiritual chant. A written attempt at not flinging the stylus across the chamber and shouting “Define ‘unity’ without using the word ‘unity’!”
Across the room, Starscream leaned against a pillar like a statue carved from disdain and premium alloys. His wings were tilted back in a posture of supreme detachment—carefully calculated to look effortless. But you caught it—the minute twitch in his left optic, the tell-tale tic of someone questioning their life decisions in real time.
Their optics met. Brief. Dry. Miserable in perfect unison
Incoming message: Starscream
"You’re taking notes?"
You just adjusted the angle of your pad just slightly, revealing the message repeating like an ancient curse. Starscream made a choking sound—somewhere between a laugh and a gasp—then immediately disguised it as a dignified throat-clear. Reader would’ve applauded the acting if they had any energy left to give. Sentinel, oblivious as a comet on rails, kept speaking. Something about foundational reintegration protocols "gliding into place like constellations charted by destiny"
Starscream took that as his cue to sidle closer, each step elegant and illicit, like someone slipping poison into a chalice during a religious sermon
“You must be the most patient being on this entire planet” he murmured, voice pitched like a scandalous secret
You didn’t bother looking up. Just raised a optics ridge “I work with Alpha Trion. I’ve sat through lectures that started before sunrise and ended after philosophy itself gave up.”
“Still. You’ve lasted longer than I have, and I’m technically immortal” Their shared look was one of withering solidarity—two burnt-out orbitals circling the same dying star
“He respects you, you know” Starscream said next, optics flicking toward Sentinel with a wry glint “Told me once you temper the tone of his judgment”
You snorted softly, a sound so bitter it could etch metal “Is that what it’s called now? I always thought I was the only thing standing between him and total rhetorical combustion”
“Exactly. You’re like a stabilizer coil for his ego” He paused, mouth curling in amusement that didn’t quite reach his optics “Or maybe a very refined lightning rod”
“Funny. I always assumed you were the lightning rod” You offered a smile thin enough to slice circuitry
Starscream bristled—visibly, wings snapping upward like the feathers of an offended falcon
“Please. I’m the storm. I don’t attract catastrophe—I deliver it in curated bursts”
“Modest, too”
“That’s one vice I never cultivated”
At that moment, Sentinel turned—gesturing toward them mid-sentence with the theatrical flair of someone who absolutely believed his audience was riveted. Neither of them had a clue what he’d just said — Immediately, both straightened, faces settling into masks of attentive professionalism. You looked almost interested. Starscream looked like someone doing an excellent impression of sobriety
Sentinel, of course, continued uninterrupted
Starscream leaned in again, voice softer now, more amused than conspiratorial “You know.. I’ve seen lesser mechs melt down after two kliks with him. Anyone who can sit through this entire speech without leaking coolant should have a statue”
You didn’t miss a beat
“I’ll settle for a nap. Possibly a mild coma”
“Pff. If the Primes don’t canonize you, I will”
“Do I get a halo or just a plaque that reads ‘Martyr of Moderation’?”
“Why not both? Gilded wings, stained glass, a shrine funded by public weeping”
They exchanged another look—this one laced with amusement rather than despair. And maybe—just faintly—a flicker of actual camaraderie. Mutual suffering had welded stranger bonds before
After that brief exchange, it could almost be said that you and he had become… close. Or at least, closer. The reason was painfully simple: the two of you shared a very particular kind of empathy—one with a single, specific name: Sentinel. Yes. You both are tried with that mech. He smiled too much, talked too much, and always managed to make both seem like a virtue
At first, your conversations with Starscream were short—sharp, pointed remarks passed like notes in a forbidden class. They were, inevitably, all about Sentinel. But, somehow, over time, the topic shifted. The insults came less frequently, replaced now and then by dry observations, or comments that weren’t quite complaints. Conversations that… weren’t entirely about gossip. One could even call it development. Or the faint shimmer of something resembling friendship
Starscream, for his part, became a frequent visitor to the Hall of Records—always with a reason. At first, they were plausible. He was there to borrow old tactical archives, he said. For research. For study. And then he’d linger. Just long enough for a few sharp words about Sentinel, and then he’d be gone. Only to return again. Always with a reason
The Hall of Records was always quiet
Not the eerie kind of quiet, nor the brittle hush of tension. Just stillness—the kind that knew its own weight. Ancient. Intentional. Like even the walls were thinking
Starscream didn’t belong there. Not really. This was a space of scholars and scribes, of archivists who measured truth in primary sources and argued over the placement of glyphs. He was a blade. A warrior of the air. Trained to slice through warzones, not scrolls. And yet—he had found himself here again. Not summoned. Not ordered
He wasn’t assigned to anything near this sector. But his wings carried him anyway, with the same sort of ease as when he used to patrol the skies—only now it was polished corridors and soft-glowing archives beneath his step
He told himself it was because the area was peaceful. That the air was better here—cooler, calmer. But he knew better
He always knew better
You was where you always were at a low console near the central atrium, surrounded by softly hovering text-columns and half-folded hologlyphs, digit dancing across script like you were conducting a symphony only you could hear
Starscream paused at the archway, lingering just outside the threshold like a visitor to a shrine. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Not unusual. You got like this—hyperfocused. It was part of what made you tolerable in meetings. Even when surrounded by the most pompous minds on Cybertron, you somehow managed to cut through noise and find the thread of meaning
Starscream didn’t speak. Not immediately. Instead, he watches from a distance—just a moment longer than necessary
The slight furrow between your optics. The absent way you tucked your digit beneath a datapad when lost in thought. The way your mouth moved when you reread something you didn’t quite agree with.The way you tilt your head slightly when concentrating — He’d seen soldiers review combat logs with less intensity
And then, without looking up “You’re here again” A beat. Still no eye contact. Just the calm click of glyphs shifting beneath their hands
“What is it this time? Lost on your way to an ego-polishing ceremony?”
“Charming as ever”
“I try”
The moment he passed the entry arch, the energy field swept over him, verifying his clearance. It always took a fraction longer for him. He was Highguard—technically not bound to this sector, not required to be here unless summoned
“You always look like you’re communing with ghosts in here” You didn’t flinch. Just tapped to pause the scroll, finally glancing his way “If I am, they’re better listeners than most living bots I know”
He gave a low hum—half amused, half... something he couldn’t name
“That includes me?”
“If you want it to”
The seeker stepped in further, arms behind his back like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. His wings twitched once—barely noticeable. In another mech, it would mean nothing. But for him, it was a crack in the composure. He leaned against a nearby terminal—deliberately not the one you was using, because leaning too close would be obvious. So he pretended to be interested in a wall display about 13th Prime and the history of arm-mounted documentation scrolls. For six whole seconds
“How long have you worked? with Alpha Trion?” he asked suddenly
You blinked. That wasn't one of his usual jabs “Long enough to memorize how he deflects questions with parables”
“Impressive. I usually skip to the part where I nod and pretend to understand”
“And how long” he added, more lightly “have you been the only one in the building who doesn’t flinch when I show up?”
“Probably since you stopped scaring the archivists on purpose” Starscream gave you a sideways look—something between amusement and a challenge, circling a console like a cat pretending not to want attention “So I was terrifying”
“You were theatrical”
“Same thing”
You turned back to the screen, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. A giveaway. He saw it. Cataloged it. Filed it somewhere between unexpected warmth and probable danger
None of you say anything else
He stood there. Reading. Occasionally making a dry remark, occasionally not making one when he could’ve—choosing, instead, to let the silence sit between them like something living. Breathing. And he realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this—this silence—felt nothing like the ones he’d trained to survive. It didn’t weigh him down. It didn’t ask him to prove anything. It just… allowed. He glanced at you again, which weren’t even looking at him
Good, he thought, and wasn’t sure why
Because if they had been—You might’ve seen the flicker of something soft at the edge of his mask. And that wasn’t a war he was ready to name just yet
Eventually, when he learned there was a logbook keeping track of all visitors to the archives, you swore you could smell smoke. Something burning. Something that was almost certainly not part of Starscream’s internal cooling systems working overtime to keep his core temperature down. "How often does Sentinel come here? " He wouldn’t ask. He definitely wouldn’t ask that. It would sound… unprofessional. Too personal.
And yet he noticed the tiny cleaning little drone tucked into the corner of the room. He remembered that it never used to be there before. That had to mean something
Starscream shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. He had no reason to
You was capable. Professional. Untouchable, even. And Sentinel? He was just—Sentinel. Predictable. Loud. Ambitious to a fault. The kind of mech who saw people as pieces
“He doesn’t deserve to be near them” Starscream muttered under his breath. Then stopped. Why had he said that? He leaned against a cold pillar outside the Hall, arms folded tight. Watching the faint glow through the archive’s frosted walls
It wasn’t just about Sentinel. Not really
Lately. It was about how your voice changed ever so slightly when Sentinel was around. How you laughed less. Smiled thinner. Became… smaller somehow — less yourself? And maybe that was what bothered him most — That Sentinel took up so much space, even when he didn’t deserve it. That you let him
“It’s not jealousy” Starscream muttered. As if saying it would make it true “Just concern”
Sure. Concern that tightened his chestplates every time he walked in too late. Concern that made him linger in doorways, listening for voices he didn’t want to hear. Concern that had no place in a soldier’s heart, least of all his
He exhaled. Vents shivering just slightly
“They deserve better”
“They deserve my company”
And that was the moment Starscream realized—he might be in trouble
There was something different about the way Starscream entered the Hall of Records that day
He didn’t glide like he usually did—that controlled, weightless drift he favored when he wanted to seem above everything, including gravity. No elegant sweep of wings, no dramatic pause to let the ceiling lighting glint off his plating. No, this time he strode in—sharp-footed, deliberate, like he was walking into a courtroom to deliver closing arguments and maybe strangle the opposing counsel
You noticed it immediately. How could you not? He moved like a stormcloud pretending to be a weather report
“He was here again, wasn’t he?”
The question came without preamble—dry, low, too casual to be innocent
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Starscream rarely did when his mood soured. And today, his tone carried the brittle edge of someone carefully taping over a cracked vase while denying it ever broke
You didn’t even ask who “he” was, didn’t need to
“For a moment” you replied calmly, not looking up “Dropped off a datapad. Nothing unusual”
“Oh, nothing unusual” Starscream echoed, as if savoring the taste of a word he fully intended to spit out. He came to stand beside you, one servo bracing on the edge of the console—just close enough to loom slightly, just far enough that he could pretend not to be hovering. His claws tapped against the surface. Not idly. In rhythm. Like punctuation for unsaid thoughts
“He stays longer every time” he added, eyes narrowing “Must be due to those exceptionally urgent files only you can decipher”
You said nothing at first, simply continuing to sort scrolls with the calm, methodical care of someone pretending you hadn’t been waiting for this exact conversation all morning
“He’s asking about the structural histories of the lower tiers” you said evenly “It’s academic. Not personal”
“Mmhmm. Of course. I’m sure he leans that close to everyone while consulting architectural records. It’s probably his… scholarly posture” Starscream’s wings flicked sharply behind him—betraying what his voice tried to conceal. He hated how transparent he was around them. His body gave away everything. Always had. You glanced sideways at him—just a flick of the optics
“You seem annoyed”
“Annoyed?” he repeated, too quickly “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous”
He gave a breathy little laugh, dry as static. The kind that didn’t reach his optics “Why would I be? I thrive on being replaced as the regular nuisance in your life”
“If that title matters so much, you should’ve shown up more often”
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to schedule my dramatic entrances” he snapped, mouth curling “Next time I’ll file a formal request to interrupt your charming little cross-referencing rendezvous”
There it was. The flare of sarcasm like a flare from a jet’s engine—meant to distract, to blind. But you just blinked
“…You’re jealous”
“I’m not jealous” Starscream shot back—instantly, defensively, too fast to be believable even by his own standards.
There was a pause. A long one.
The air between them tightened—not tense, exactly, but warped, like something delicate was bending under the weight of something unspoken. Then, more quietly, more bitterly
“I’m rightfully suspicious”
“Suspicious of what, exactly?”
“Of how quickly he’s managing to dominate your attention with nothing but pomp and an overdesigned chestplate” Starscream crossed his arms, optics flicking toward the exit before snapping back, like he was already planning his next retreat. But he didn’t leave. Not yet.
You smothered a laugh, then failed to hide the smile “He does have very shiny plate” offered innocently.
Starscream scoffed. Loudly “Mm. Yes. Very polished. Very overcompensated. Probably waxed his plating with the tears of lesser intellects”
“Do you monologue like this every time someone uses the hallway?”
“I just thought this was our filing system” he muttered. His voice dropped a note there—not sarcastic, not angry. Just… quieter. Not quite sulking. Not quite joking. Something else. Something uncertain “It still is”
“Then maybe I’ll leave a few bootprints next time” he said “Stake my claim. Mark the territory. Make it clear who was here first”
You tilted your head, amused now “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yes” he said proudly “But I do it with flair”
“Want a plaque?”
“No”
“Just… maybe a heads-up, next time you plan on loaning out your attention”
His tone was light. But his optics weren’t.
You saw it then—the smallest flicker of something unguarded. Not possessive, exactly. Not romantic, not fully. But something adjacent to it. The kind of ache you don’t name out loud because if you say it, it’ll make it real. And Starscream didn’t want it to be real. Not yet
He straightened with practiced elegance, spun on a heel—and began his exit like a prince dismissed from a court he hadn’t asked to join in the first place. But— He glanced back. Just once. Just long enough to see if you was watching. You were and Starscream? He despised how warm that made him feel. How visible. How stupidly, stupidly seen
Leading Light
human vox (vincent) x fem!reader
synopsis: you're a guest on his talk-show
notes: the devil works slow but i work slower
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Slitting throats and usurping televised host personalities surprisingly required a lot of downtime. And during this downtime, Vincent hosted a show that he so arrogantly named "The Voice of Vincent" where he charmingly brought the hottest celebrities to talk about their recent career choices and answer questions that were ever so carefully manufactured to make them slip out something private.
You stood just beside the stage, hidden from the rolling cameras and the live audience. Makeup artists touched up your hair and lips as you waited for the eccentric host to call out your name and officially welcome you to his show.
Everyone knows Vincent. He was a rising star, almost a household name. Early 40s, tall and charming; you've heard nothing but good about him, and neither have your agents.
Him? Oh he knew of you alright. He kept his beady eyes on you the second you and your voice became public. You were gorgeous, for one, but to Vincent that was just a bonus. Your voice to him was enchanting, hypnotic even. Everyone in a room would quiet down just to listen to the sweet sounds you could produce and he thought that was perfect. Useful. He could use a voice like yours. It would do his own image some wonder and when he finally decided to form his movement, your voice could lure more people in whilst his voice kept them in. He often fantasized about it after shows when the stage empty and the lights were dim. He spent a few nights meticulously planning on how to invite you and which questions would and would not scare you away. But after a while of asking the producers, he's finally got you.
"And now!" A voice pierced through the stage. The employees now scattering away to their respective stations. You could see him standing to address the crowd, his hands clasped together and a wide smile plastered on his face. There was a drum roll now playing for the audience's anticipation. "Please... give a warm welcome to our lovely guest!" You heard your name being called out by both the crowd and the host, and you knew it was showtime.
You mentally prepared yourself and stepped out with a smile and a wave, the audience clapping as Vincent pulled you closer to kiss the back of your hand. Quirky upbeat music played while he led you to the large leather chair that faced both his host desk and the audience. You both sat down and the audience's claps and cheers died down.
He leaned forward on his desk. "It's an honour to have you here tonight!" His smile was wide and he seemed excited.
You shyly said your thanks. You weren't a big fan of talk shows or any type of interview for that matter. TV was still a relevantly new thing. The thought of being watched by thousands of people at once sent shivers down your spine. So, you let your mind go on autopilot, answering his questions gracefully and dodging any unflattering ones that might dent your shining image. The live audience seemed to love you, cheering after every answer.
Just as you were getting worn out, Vincent straightened his blue suit and stood up, "Alright folks! Unfortunately, that's all the time we have today!" He pouted, "Thank you for tuning in!"
Chatter filled up the room as the viewers began to stand up and leave, seemingly satisfied with the entertainment they had for tonight. You fiddled around with your dress as he closed the show up for the night, the stage lights dimming as the crowd slowly disperses outside the studio. It was empty.
Well, how was that?" You look up and see him with his hands clasped and an almost hopeful look on his face. "Hope it wasn't too overwhelming, i know that this was one of your first TV interviews, right?"
"Yes," You stood up, smoothing the fabric of your dress, "It was fine, nothing i can't handle."
He nodded and glanced around the now dark, empty studio, "Good." He muttered, "That's good..."
His face quickly went back to facing yours, his famous smile now back on his face. You could look at him much clearer now. The black and white TV screens don't do him justice. His dark brown hair looked smooth and well kept, his teeth were pearly white and the strands of silver on his head just made him look more charming. His eyes, one blue and the other green, stared into yours.
"I was wondering if you'd want to do these more often? Not necessarily... on camera." He hummed, "Moreso like-"
"Kicking around?"
"Kicking around! That's right!" He laughed, "Anything you want, wallflower!" He flailed his arms to emphasize his words, "Believe it or not, but I'm a big fan of your work, really, i am."
You thought for a minute. It really wasn't too big of a deal. He seemed harmless, just a funny and charismatic show host that only seems excited to get to meet someone like you. Plus, hanging around with someone like him would most definitely get more eyes and ears on you and (most importantly) your music.
You let out a small sigh, "Alright, i don't mind."
"Fantastic!" He put his large hands on your shoulders, "This will be just peachy, the birth of a beautiful friendship-!"
As he spoke, the studio door creaked open, revealing an older man with a mop in hand. Vincent swiftly released you from his grasp and observed whoever entered, seemingly a little peeved at the sudden intrusion.
"Is everything alright over there sir?" The janitor's weak voice called out from the dark stage's wings.
"...Everything's just hunky-dory," Vincent stated with the same host-like tone, but through gritted teeth. He turned back to you. "How about we continue this later?"
And you did. Every few weeks you'd meet up for dinner and getting to know each other, it was surprisingly casual. Nothing too flashy, you felt safe and relaxed with him, so eventually a meetup every few weeks turned into every few days. It didn't take long for you to be comfortable with each other completely. The public took notice too, most believing you two were courting due to the grainy pictures of Vincent kissing the back of your hand just before one of your "friendly" dates.
You weren't necessarily oblivious about his intentions, kind of. You knew he was at least a little bit romantically interested in you, made obvious by all the gifts sent to you, the compliments and the almost constant touching. He had an obsession with your shoulders, you swore, it's like his hands had magnets and your skin was made of metal. You didn't mind, but it didn't help the slow down the dating rumours.
Your career grew as did his. He eventually became a producer for a whole channel after the last one, Robert, mysteriously went missing one night, never to return. Vincent offered you a whole show based on yourself; your songs constantly playing for any American with a TV to hear. And how could you refuse such an offer? In fact, you signed under him, allowing him to take care of all of the PR for you. You didn't have to lift a finger around him, everything was already set.
As he climbed the career ladder, he seemed to get more unhinged. His touches were slightly more forceful, and he became more demanding, but never enough to scare you away. One particular evening out after a recording session he had taken you back to his house for a movie. You couldn't focus on the small monochrome box in front of you as Vincent's hands wondered around your waist, and down your thigh, and back up again. He wasn't watching the movie either it seemed as his hypnotic eyes were laser-focused on your form. His grip was tight, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you still as he leaned in slowly and began to press light kisses on your exposed neck. You craned your next slightly to give him easier access, and the night droned on as you'd expect.
After that night, he was far more open with you. Not open enough to confess to any crimes, God no, but enough to tell you about this movement he's been planning for a few years, and how you'd be oh so perfect by his side. All you needed to do was use that beautiful voice of yours to lure prey in whilst he goes in for the kill.
"Many sharks hunt in groups," He'd tell you. "It'd be a perfect swarm, honey."
There was a moral dilemma. Clearly. But his words would always make your guilt and hesitation melt away. So you listened to him, he always knew what to do.
After every performance you'd mention his rally that was happening in a week. He wanted people to see how much brighter their lives would be with him (and, by extension, you) in it. You were excited, and nervous. You weren't sure how efficient your propaganda was until you actually made it to the crowded underground rally. Vincent stood in the centre, manic looking.
As he was ranting, his eyes locked onto yours through the crowd. He visibly lightened up and gave you a small smile, beckoning you to come closer just as a wire snapped above him.
omg this sucks i just wanted to get something out tbh,,, ill do hc for him later
idgaf if yugioh zexal isnt popular, youll have to pry this character away from my cold dead hands ... idk this is more oc x cannon but not really
an extremely naïve, innocent, annoying, high pitched voice having nuisance
is how vector wouldve described you at first
and hes right????????? like no offense
whilst pretending to be that non existent, loud mouth brat ray shadows, vector clung onto you like a stubborn thorn
and you didnt mind, in fact, you enjoyed the attention
much like kathy, you felt like you never really had a lot of the groups attention most of the time, as they would always skip classes to do god knows what without telling anyone
so, you clung onto him too
the two most seemingly friendly, loud, and idiotic heartland students together 24/7 what could go wrong
not much actually
you always secretly had a small hatred for yuma's friends, your supposed friends
you were always left behind, you always learnt about the exciting adventures they went on AFTER they happened
rio and shark pissed you off too, subconsciously
one thought he was too cool for anything, and the other was angry the second things didnt go her way
maybe vector -or ray, at the time- could feel your grip tighten slightly as shark groaned and complained about whatever yuma was enthusiastically talking about
he'd sneakily look down at you while you were busy starting at shark, and he flashed a smirk to himself, but wiped it off immediately
he was surprised that someone like you, so stupid and fragile and shielded, could even know hatred
he was delighted - a sinister smile replacing his usual bright one while flicking through the journal you stash in your school bag, that you had negative things to say about everyone, excluding ray
tori was too bossy, bronk was ugly, kathy was annoying, rio was spoilt, yuma was stupid, and (his favourite) shark was an ass
while he continued to flick through, he came across a small segment about ray
"ray seemed fake, a little too friendly and a little too energetic, too calculated for a dumb boy like him. but i dont mind, because so am i,"
he shrugged, whatever, and carelessly tossed the book back into her bag whilst she was still in the bathroom
he turned his attention back to the class in front of him and began to think
hiii, i loved your other sal fics!! could you pls write more sal x mean!reader??? stuff like reader who loves pulling his pigtails and shoving him into lockers and calling him all sorts of names especially because they loveee the reactions from him (little do they know..he finds it strangely attractive......) BUT the moment they see travis bullying him they're like, hey back off that's MY punching bag go get your own and he gets all flustered about it
sal fisher x mean!reader
oh my god bruh.....................short.......AF!!!!!!!......
if im being honest with you... sally is the type of guy to pretend to give a shit but not actually give one
after you shove him into a locker, he waits and listens for your footsteps to fade away as you leave for lunch, and he steps out
waiting outside of the locker is larry, with a less than impressed expression on his face, and todd, with his nose buried in a science textbook
"what? dont look at me like that. they were just... helping me find something"
"you'll have to find your own teeth if you let them be so rough with you,"
todd omggggggggg nbgaf
your punches dont even hurt but sal but he'll always force out a whimper and flinch just because he sees your eyes light up every time he does
sally's friends, at first, try to help him
after 4 days of observing how he reacts towards you was enough for them to stay far away from whatever freaky shit he was doing like ok man
you on the other hand, you like fucking with him because he doesnt tell anyone
he just lets it happen?????????????/ okay yay
but it stops being fun when someone else punches YOUR punching bag like what the f guys.... too far...
you have to shoo travis away like a damn fly and he eventually gets the point.................... kinda
like , he only bullies sal when ur not around i love a self aware KING
nezha 2015 (monkey king hero is back) has to be the most peak nezha design along with black myth wukong I DONT CARE what anyone says you can’t change my mind
Normally HATE text posts or group chat posts because they're normally SOO corny and cringe but yours are so funny please don't stop making them
THANK YOUU SM and yeah same i dont like most of them either , pretty sure my gc had a whole conversation about how much we hate text fics too so maybe ill edit and post that later #blessed
Heyo, could I maybe get some headcanons about nezha x male reader where reader is the reincarnation of Nezha’s past boyfriend (he doesn’t have his memories)
💔💔ill write for nezha soon but please read my rules before requesting or you might get disappointed i fear
nezha 2015 (monkey king hero is back) has to be the most peak nezha design along with black myth wukong I DONT CARE what anyone says you can’t change my mind
helloooo! can i request nezha x female!immortal reader and their love is frowned upon? (maybe something to do with classes or with his backstory?) thank you!
nezha x reader (most versions apply)
short asf bc im sick and i have so much work to catch up on ☹️
- being a servant to li jing, you often bumped into his son, nezha
- while he was now a lot more constrained, in his younger days he was very disobedient, often dragging you into whatever mess he’s gotten himself into
- you were less of a servant to him, more of a friend - and eventually, something more
- the prince absolutely insisted on hiding any of your interactions from his father since he knew the heavenly king would go mad
- like the third lotus prince courting one of his MAIDS??? dawggg he’s going to strangle nezha so bad
- due to the whole “inferior, superior” situation, nezha tries not to initiate anything, sorry henni it has to be you💔
- due to the monkey king being captured and contained, nezha had a lot of free time, which is rare for him
- he’s using it all to spend time with you WBKK
- erlang would figure out that you two were a unit due to his third eye (and the fact that nezha gets uncharacteristically nervous when youre around)
- he won’t tell, only because he thought you two were good for each other and he doesn’t get paid enough to gaf
- also blackmail purposes
- to conclude, it’s a pretty secretive relationship, but it’s super fulfilling, it gives you something to look forward to after work
I’ve complained about this numerous times before but I will complain about it again because people just keep doing it.
why do people feel the need to tag their canon x oc stuff as canon x reader. There not the same thing and they are not intended to be the same thing and it is so frustrating trying to sift through x reader tags and constantly getting jumpscared by someone’s canon x oc artwork.
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theartofmadeline
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