I wonder if Victor had to hire evil technicians to fix the machinery and equipment? Did the Connections send him people? Because it would be funny if a regular repair person arrived and had to fix something while Victor loomed over them.
"What's behind those giant curtains over there?"
"People Shredder 3000. The lastest in meat grinding technology." The disarmingly soft voice made the person uneasy and the smell of blood was prominent down here.
Human looks up at Victor, straining their neck to see his grin. That smile had rarely left his face this entire time. He laughs and the person hesitates before joining in nervously for a few moments. The laugh cuts off and Victor leans down.
"So try to not to make any mistakes."
The person finishes with one job and is followed closely by Gideon to another. They swear he smells their hair at one point, perhaps even two. What did he have behind his back? One arm had been hidden away for most of this time slot. The second job is finished quickly and the repair person turns to go.
"Th-thank you for choosing Wrenwood Maintenance and Co. I will send the invoice."
Victor is smiling and has their exit blocked. He reaches out and tears off one of the curtains so the person sees what lies behind them.
"How clumsy of me!"
The human sees the blood splattered death machine of horror and Victor closes the distance, giving them an injection with the syringe he had been hiding.
"Shhhhh... my apologies but I did not feel like going out to get a new subject tonight."
I work in a lab. Usually you have to know how to fix a lot yourself or we have That One Guy™ for just about each machine, even a German guy for the German import to come fix it
Would be funny if That One Guy™ got called and hit the Higuruma every fucking time because he is sick and tired and used to this shit
The smut is starting to feel ai generated dudes what's with the unnecessary italics on every other word and nicknaming already short names. I feel like a stressed out English teacher. I'm about to go back to Wattpad shiet
Going to hold the door open for Sevika first before she gets to it, leading her to glare incredulously and grab the top of the door, commanding you to go first.
Heyyy I love your style of writing! Do you do HCs? For L x an ADHD extraverted forensic pathologist? Genius vs Mad Genius 😂
Hello Anon! This is very interesting and I hope I satisfy this curiosity of yours with maybe a few HCs (I also hope that's enough)
You're a forensic pathologist. Not only that, you're L's go-to when it comes to investigating the parts of a case that are more involved in terms of bodies and manners of death. He's applauded your work, but at the same time does not want any hands-on involvement in it, which makes for a few humorous moments combined with the fact that not only are you more outgoing than him, you also have ADHD.
You talk very animatedly to him about how interesting the human body is when it decomposes and how it behaves when certain things happen to it. "See that laceration, right below the chin? You can tell that the knife was either new or has been sharpened for it to cut cleanly through skin and muscle." L finds some part of it intriguing but listening to you on end does make him queasy.
He finds your lab reports lying around his office quite often and he carries it to you lest you forget where you put it down.
"Y/N, what's that?" L points to a misshapen pale object dangling out of your lab coat. "Oh, it's a calcified bullet I extracted from one of the victims. Don't tell the force I have this."
"Please, please, you haaaave to see it!" You always try to invite him to your lab when you find something. "Y/N, if it's not something that would help me with the investigation, please refrain from calling me." He turns you down, but you send him pictures anyway and then he'll ask about them because he likes hearing you talk.
"A bird flew into my window earlier and died from the impact," you greet him as you enter his office. "You're going to diaphonize it?" "I'm going to diaphonize it."
L has unknowingly taken the responsibility of reminding you of reports and updates on certain cases since you tell him everything. He has a spreadsheet for it.
Whenever there's field work you always try to get him to go out with you but he adamantly refuses every time not only out of protecting his anonymity but also because you'll never get any work done talking to him.
"Y/N, did you take on too many cases at once? Just one? Okay... How many bodies?!"
"Y/N, for the last time I will not pull strings so you can acquire a human body to diaphonize."
"Will you let me keep one of your bones if you die?" You ask, genuinely. "Y/N, you cannot keep my skull."
You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion…
Or, the pale visitor offers to keep anyone from invading your property in exchange for a taste of your blood.
ao3 link
“Suppose I made you an offer,” the pale visitor says in a voice like autumn leaves skittering across pavement, whispery and dry despite the wicked dripping tongue you’ve spied, a sludge of tar coated in a thick layer of saliva.
“What kind of offer?” You ask warily, keeping a tight hold of your grandfather’s Mosin–Nagant rifle as you wait for a reply from the other side of the door. You’ve been locked in a kind of stalemate for several weeks now, unable to venture from your home, unwilling to allow the tall figure inside. He never seems upset by your continued refusal, his voice always calm, his demeanor more polite than most of his human counterparts.
“What if I kept the others away? No visitors. No soldiers. No guests begging for entry. Just you, alone. Undisturbed. At peace. Perfect solitude. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dear hermit?”
You would indeed, and the lure of his words makes you curious. “How would you do that?”
The tall figure beams, the wicked points of his teeth glinting in the porch light. Perhaps when he’d still been human the smile had been ingratiating, charming, alluring. Now it simply seems ravenous. You can feel his hunger wafting right through the door, ready to devour not just your body, but your spirit, feasting on your discomfort and fear, the perfect garnish for his grisly meal. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself about those kind of details,” he purrs dismissively, making your gut twist even more.
“You mean murder.”
The rictus grin because flatter, the muscles in the shallow curve of the visitor’s jaw tensing. A faint break in composure, hairline really, and yet you tremble at the knowledge of that fractured boundary. “I think you are missing the point, my dear.”
“You still haven’t told me what you’re getting out of this.” The visitor hardly needs your permission to eliminate any who wander onto your property; he’s already dealt with several trespassers, even going so far as to display his handiwork, propping up severed heads and arranging corpses in various poses within sight of the farmhouse windows.
The grin becomes a smirk, lopsided and smarmy. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’ll require payment.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. Of all the things you might have imagined the creature to seek to barter for, this was perhaps at the bottom of the list. “You want money?” You ask incredulously.
The intruder laughs, and this, remarkably, is a pleasant sound. It is deep, the kind that resonates not from the chest but from the belly, a rumbling that has to shake itself free, working its way to the surface in gradual increments. “No, no, of course not. I have no use for such a thing.” His head tilts to one side, the sweep of dark hair falling over his chalky brow shifting with the movement, a shadow creeping over the moon. “I desire the only currency that matters—your blood.” He cannot quite tame that wicked tongue inside his mouth, the black tendril poking from behind his perfect white teeth, curling over them to touch his lips in anticipation, prematurely savoring this prospect.
You immediately take a step back. “You want to drink my blood?” You inquire, aghast.
“Just a small amount, really little more than an appetizer for myself. I assure you you’re getting the better end of the deal. I’ve always been generous to a fault.”
You shuffle closer again, peering once more at the shirtless figure through the peephole set into the door. His hands are still folded in front of him in a false display of patience, but there’s a faint line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth punctuating his mention of feasting on your blood.
“It will only take a moment of your time. Once a week should be sufficient.”
“How will you…?”
“Oh, you really are a treasure. How do you think? With a bite, of course. I promise not to make a mess; the punctures will be quite tidy. Minimal scarring, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh, a bitter sound without mirth. “You think I’m worried about my appearance? That’s the least of my concerns.”
The visitor scowls, his relaxed composure slipping a bit further. “What’s the issue, then?”
“You want to bite my neck like some kind of vampire—”
“—It doesn’t have to be your neck. There are plenty of other sites I can feed from,” he interrupts smoothly.
“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’re not going to rip my throat open and kill me instead?”
He looks genuinely offended, the neatly steepled fingers collapsing and parting, his long arms now dangling at his emaciated sides. “This is a contract. A solemn vow entered by both parties. I give you my word.”
You hesitate, and the hesitation surprises you. Why are you even considering this? You might as well just fling open the door and invite him inside.
“Why do you even want it? You can drink your fill from any of your other victims.”
“Do I inquire why you prefer isolation?” He sniffs, one bare heel scuffing against the porch’s flooring as he deliberates whether or not to answer you. “There is a difference between what is taken involuntarily and what is willingly offered. It is like comparing a newer vintage of wine and a well aged one; there is a marked variation not so much in composition as in flavor.”
“If my blood is really as appealing as you seem to think it is, then I ask again what’s to stop you from overdoing it?”
“Are you implying that I have no self control?” His voice is low. Dangerous.
You shift your grip on the gun. Your fingers are beginning to cramp from how tightly you’re clutching it. “No, I’m not. But I have another question.”
He sighs loudly, clearly growing impatient. “Ask.”
“What happens if you sample my blood and you decide it’s not to your taste after all?”
“An event that will never occur. I have every confidence in your stock, just as I’m certain you have faith that I’ll keep your home secure. Enough deliberation. You have the information you need. Make your decision.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then I can promise you will never know a moment’s peace again. I will summon every visitor to this location. It will be a siren song to every human, and the men from FEMA will harass you incessantly. If you think not being able to go out into the sunlight is a hardship, you will surely feel like you’re dwelling in Hell on Earth when you’re tormented by every living wretch for miles.”
“If I agree to your terms under duress, wouldn’t that spoil that precious vintage you’re so eager to taste?”
The visitor’s palm slaps against the door and you jump, startled as the wooden structure rattles in its frame. When he speaks again, the words are pushed out through gritted teeth. “I grow tired of this banter. Do you accept my terms, yes or no?”
“A…Alright.”
His head lifts sharply. “Is that a yes? You agree to the terms?”
“Yes.” You can scarcely believe the word leaves your lips so readily.
The furrowed lines on the pale visitor’s features smooth out, the tension in the muscles between neck and shoulder visibly easing. He smiles. “Excellent decision. I’ll do my part, and return next week so you can hold up your end of the bargain.”
You nod, and then realizing he can’t see you, you manage another agreeable sound.
He departs as silently as he came, leaving you alone once more. It takes you a long time to fall asleep that evening, your mind swirling with thoughts of what might happen when he returns to collect his due.
~~~
That week nothing happens.
Not a single knock at the door. No horrors on display in the yard. No bone chilling cries or menacing shouts. You enjoy the peace and quiet, until you remember what the cost of that luxury will be.
The pale visitor returns exactly seven nights later. He knocks politely on the door. You know it’s him before you even look through the peephole; before his knuckles even rap against the wood. There’s a distinct presence about him, an aura that spreads like an oil slick announcing his arrival, making the hairs on your arms stand on end.
“Good evening,” he greets. “How was the week? Did you enjoy your solitude?”
“Yes.” The sound of the word is a faint croak. “Were there a lot of people you had to…had to…”
“…Dispatch?” He supplies. “A fair few. But you needn’t linger about those unpleasant details. Let’s move on to other topics. Namely, your payment.”
You inhale and exhale deeply. “I think my wrist would be best.” You’ve been giving this some thought, and you feel like this is the least intimate place he might bite.
“As you wish.” Nothing in his tone suggests he’s pleased or displeased with your choice.
“I’m not letting you in. I’m just going to stick my arm outside the door.”
A brief flicker of annoyance creases the corners of his dark eyes, the thin lips spreading to an even narrower line, but he nods his acceptance.
You unlock the door, cautiously easing your left arm through the sliver of a gap you’ve allowed, your heart pounding like mad.
The visitor’s touch is cool and surprisingly gentle. You allow him to bend your elbow, lifting your wrist higher.
“Hold still.”
You close your eyes, struggling to obey. His breath ghosts across the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, warm and humid, the only warning you’re given before his teeth pierce your flesh. You stifle a cry, biting your bottom lip. The sensation is akin to stabbing yourself with a sewing needle, unexpected and sharp, and just as brief. Now suction is applied, lips latching over the marks to form a boundary, the coaxing pressure of his tongue drawing your life essence inside his mouth. You begin to feel drowsy. The feeling becomes increasingly pleasant, almost like slipping into warm bath water.
“Enough.” Your wrist is released and all of that lax warmth fades, the evening air suddenly cool against your damp skin, whatever spell had been cast broken as you become alert once more.
You swiftly withdraw your arm and shut the door, quickly assessing the damage. You’d been expecting to see blood still dripping from the wounds he’d just inflicted, but the twin holes are surprisingly small and there is very little blood staining your skin. A neat job of it, as he’d promised.
“So, homeowner, what do you think? My terms are agreeable, yes? Both parties satisfied with very little exertion or discomfort required.” His skin seems a little less pale, a bit of color highlighting his gaunt cheeks.
“It didn’t hurt too badly,” you grudgingly admit, rubbing your arm more in disbelief at how normal it felt than any attempt to soothe it. “Did you…did you…”
“Did I what?” The wide grin splitting his lips apart informs you that he knows exactly what you’re attempting to ask.
“Did you enjoy the taste? Was it what you imagined it would be?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I certainly did.” You watch his tongue run over his teeth, as if hoping to catch any stray remnants of your blood tucked between them, and you shudder. “Well, I believe that concludes our business for this evening, so I’ll bid you farewell for now. I’ll return in one week.”
The visitor departs and you seek the comfort of a hot shower. You scrub at your injured arm, at the marks left there, and your fingers stutter over your lathered skin as you recall the feel of his mouth pressed there. It is a memory that resurfaces after you’ve slipped into pajamas and returned to your bedroom, nagging and gnawing, making you toss and turn, driving that same arm beneath your pillow in search of cool relief, a distraction from the heated awareness that you’d actually liked the feel of his mouth dragging your lifeforce from your body.
Another week passes. No one comes to your door until the seventh evening.
The pale visitor has returned.
“Good evening. How was the week?”
“Quiet,” you reply.
“And your arm?”
“Healing well.” It’s true; the tiny scabs that had dotted your inner wrist have already fallen away, leaving faint pink dots in their wake.
“Good.” He rocks forward slightly on his feet and the porch floorboards creak.
“I’m going to open the door.” You make good on your claim, a wedge of moonlight spilling through the gap. You hesitate, then widen it, deciding at the last moment to let it swing open completely.
The visitor makes no move to push his way forward, and you’re not certain if you’re relieved or disappointed.
You keep your eyes open when he bites you this time, the same wrist offered up once again. You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion. Solemn. A touch when he is finished that might be a kiss, lips pressing without need, not to sup but to offer a goodbye. He does not speak when your arm retreats back to your side, the movement slow this time, careful. He looks at you a moment longer and then he turns away, descending the stairs and disappearing into the fields.
~~~
“Where do you go?” You ask quietly during another visit. The weeks have spread to months. He has not bitten you yet this evening. The door is wide open. You’re wearing a dress tonight, the buttons lining the front of the material the same shade of onyx as the visitor’s hair.
“What do you mean?”
“When you leave here, where do you go? When the sun comes up…”
“Wherever I can find shelter. A vacant home. A barn. A cellar. Any place that suits my needs.”
“Do you miss having a place to call home?”
A flicker of something in his eyes. Dark eyes to match his hair, your dress, the sky above. “I have no need of such a place anymore.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping up and down your form. “Your attire.”
“Yes? What about it?”
“It’s different from what you usually wear.”
“Do you like it?”
“It doesn’t matter what you clad yourself in,” he claims, but his eyes say something different. “Let us complete the contract.”
“Here,” you say, tapping against the side of your neck.
If he is surprised by your request, he is careful not to reveal it. One hand settles on your waist, the other threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head as his lips find your throat. Bone cleaves skin and vessel and his grip tightens, tugging you against him. You have never been this close. You had imagined he might smell like decay, like the vile things he consumes. Instead you detect pleasant notes of rich earth, fresh cut grass and the smoke of perfumed incense. You reach past the rows of ribs straining his chest and clutch the wing of one shoulder blade.
He stops feeding, releasing you and stepping back. You almost invite him inside. Almost.
He is gone.
~~~
“Good evening.” This time you are the one to issue the greeting. “How was your week?”
“Fine.” He looms at the threshold. His shadow has already crossed it, teasing the feeling of being indoors.
“Come inside,” you invite, before you lose your nerve.
His breath hitches. The night takes on a new kind of quiet, as if holding its breath.
When he enters, he has to duck his head. Your feet are bare like his. They tuck neatly between them when he presses you against the wall. The picture frame set on the nearby table falls. The slips of yellow paper tacked above the cordless telephone rain down like leaves. Your hands cage his slender waist and he shakes. Your lips brush his collarbone and he nuzzles your hair. For every question one body asks, a ready answer is given by the other.
These are the first terms of the new covenant, pressed against flesh, exhaled through breath and what comes behind it, sharp teeth and soft lips and searching tongue.
Saitama headcanons 🌝 (totally not written for my best friend)
Tags: Gender neutral reader, all fluff and SFW
Saitama loves spending quiet mornings with you - he enjoys simple routines like sharing instant noodles or watching TV re-runs together while you sit under the same blanket.
He lets you accompany him on grocery runs, joking that your presence helps him find discounts faster because you’re his “good luck charm.”
Saitama doesn’t need much affection, but when you fall asleep leaning on his shoulder, he can’t help but smile, brushing your hair out of your face softly.
He’s not especially vocal about love, so his affection shows in small, subtle gestures - letting you have the last bite of food, walking you home after dark, or keeping a hand on your back when crowds get busy.
When you tell him you love him, he pauses, blinks, and replies in his usual calm tone: “Oh. Cool - I love you too.” But the faint blush on his ears completely betrays his calm demeanor.
Despite his godlike power, he always acts gentle around you - afraid he might accidentally hurt you with a too-tight hug.
His idea of a “date” can be as simple as making cup ramen together or watching bad hero commercials. But he genuinely enjoys those moments the most.
Saitama rarely loses his temper, but if someone insults or threatens you, he suddenly becomes dead serious - his sharp stare alone is enough to shut anyone down.
When you’re upset, he struggles with words, so he just sits beside you silently until you relax, then tells a dumb joke to make you smile.
He often forgets anniversaries - not because he doesn’t care, but because his sense of time is hilariously bad. You once reminded him, and he disappeared for ten minutes only to come back holding a random trinket as a “gift.”
If you ever ask to train with him, he’ll take it seriously but keep an eye on you the whole time - lightly teasing but also genuinely proud when you try.
He doesn’t overthink your relationship - his philosophy is simple: as long as you’re happy and comfortable around him, that’s all that matters.
I was working on the next page and realized I can't draw V without a reference yet to save my life, so I kind of was forced to make this in order to continue.
For those newer to the blog, V was actually created through polls earlier this year. Here are links to the polls and the personality choices
HEAD / TORSO / LEGS / PERSONALITY RESULTS / NAME
Other V Fun Facts:
V is, in fact, shorter than Kris
V does not view itself as a human nor a monster, though it's aware it was created to replicate a human. It just simply exists, and that's enough for it for now.
My biggest regret is not having 'Better Kris' as a name option.... Because then we could have had the KFC gang and BK.... WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?
I didn't have any plans in the beginning to actually make the vessel a character. Now, V is such an important part of the AU that it's weird to think it wasn't supposed to exist.
I draw V with eyes every time I draw it, and after I finish, I hide the layer or delete it. That's why there is a single ask where V has eyes... I forgot to remove the layer lol I'm on the fence about whether I want to actually make V with eyes canon eventually, but at this point in time they don't have eyes (I mostly included the bonus image because I love how much eyes can change a character's design)
I'm sure some of you noticed by now, but V's color palette varies slightly from the original vessels. I absolutely could not stand the like... brownish-red that the vessel has for its hair and pants, and when I say that I mean strictly for V. I look at other designs of vessels and they make the colors look so nice? Yet, when I use it for V, I want to die a little inside? So, I changed it to just be black instead for my sanity.
This sheet will be added to the master post as well!
Since V is finally officially introduced into the comic, I'll begin doing more asks for them. I kind of avoided them a little until V was actually going to appear more frequently.
I’m a survivor from Gaza, holding on to hope in a world that has fallen apart around me. 💔
The life I once knew — my home, my family, my sense of safety — has been shattered by war.
Today, I live among the ruins, trying to find a path forward through the rubble and heartbreak. 🏚
Every moment is a battle against fear and uncertainty.
What was once ordinary — a safe place to sleep, a future to dream of — now feels like a distant memory. 🕊️
I share my story not to seek pity, but to keep hope alive — to believe that even in the darkest places, kindness can still find a way. 🤍
If my story touches your heart, please consider sharing it or offering support.
Every voice, every act of care, brings me one step closer to safety. ✨
I hope you're doing well. Today, I’m reaching out with a heartfelt request. My family is going through an incredibly difficult time, and I need your help to make our story heard.
🔄 A simple reblog of my pinned post can spread awareness.
💖 A small $5 donation could bring hope where it’s desperately needed.
@nasr-daher
Even the smallest act of kindness can create ripples of change. Your support means the world—thank you for standing with us! 🙏✨
