[kozukind]

kozukind | multifandom blog | AO3.

rules | masterlist | tags

latest works:

ronin beaufort x vampire reader.

KOZUKIND © 2025. Do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any form or social media. 

[kozukind]

I’ve been so inactive but I’m back! I have no requests in my inbox so either you sent one and it got deleted or the like! Fluff, angst— whatever.

Some of the fandoms I write for are: obey me, lads, jjk, haikyuu, genshin, hsr, killer chat, tadc, creepypasta, bridgerton, stranger things, enstars and practically any yandere visual novel. 🫶

I write any reader, gender neutral, female and male.

as for some things I’ve written:

not completed (series)

Never Love An Anchor, a date everything work — gn reader.

Of Life and Death, a multi works series about various gachiakuta readers, heed warnings. — multiple readers.

The devil, renewed. a series dedicated to Lucifer Magne / Morningstar in different scenarios, aus and more — currently only one work, an angel reader.

Whispers of Devildom, a series focused on the characters of obey me an my interpretation of them and their relationship with a gender-neutral mc. — only a leviathan piece written as of now.

Virgin of the red sea. a series about a struggling trans male reader and his self discovery throughout his life in Devildom — internalized homophobia, trans male reader, religious imagery.

stand alone works (completed)

Tongues and Teeth. a lads caleb/mc work, check tags.

stand alone works (on-going)

Purify Your Guilt, Be Free. haunted hotel (fem) ghost reader, reader is abaddon’s vessel deceased mother— eventual Nathan/Reader.

[kozukind]

I really need to stop neglecting tumblr, I apologize. I simply grow lazy and can’t transfer my ao3 works here because.. I forget! However, I have a new gachiakuta fic :).

find it here. I’ll crosspost it eventually. Please do leave kudos or even a short comment! That hypes me up a lot to continue ^_^

This is part of a series which will feature various types of readers, suggestions always open. This specific work is a transfem reader.

Directly tied to my other gachiakuta work: the secret diary of a cleaner.

Summary:

“I can turn you into poetry, but I cannot make you love me.”

Thus is the expression of the hopeless maiden’s desire, a candle whose will to keep shining bright has lost any true meaning if not the simple and forceful yell of the expression “just live”. Rudo is the obligatory punishment to a child like them, a copy of their endless suffering with a shifting trajectory— unlike them, his grief had allowed him to move.

Unlike him, they had nothing left to lose. When picked up by Enjin and letting their naked flesh be cradled by the man’s rough yet gentle hands, the first thing the child does is cry— the fountain works start before they can even explain their own shortcomings, the reason for their aching.

The drive home is silent aside from their soft hiccups soothed only by Gris’ gentleness, they feel ashamed and as usual, hopeless— they’re restless, scared.

or: Team Akuta loses a young teammate, in exchange, they find a gender struggling young boy insisting on his (her) masculinity, biting at his (her) flesh to not let the girl within be born, to not feed this futile hope.

Yet, she is born, and so full of love.

[kozukind]

The secret diary of a cleaner.

PS. this is a work that was already posted on my ao3, but I’m sharing it to tumblr too because I quite like it.

summary: “I have simply forgotten how to be loved.”

But how does one forget love, they ask. Yet they’ve come to the conclusion and the shame that indeed, love has left their grasp and they’ve succumbed to something close yet so far.

The cleaner is tasked with keeping a diary, to write down the undeniable aching that comes with living. In the sanctuary of the papers, words nestled and protected— they lay their vision of the world and alongside it, questions its rot.

Day by day, they too, spoil— they become a meal no one desires to indulge in, and at the prospect of being discarded, they almost want to puke. Relinquish in that disgusting but safe lust— they’re in a rush. An anticipation of death, that surely, will release them.

Yet they never meet it, that exquisite end.

or: a blurry reflexion of life on the ground, from a child who has nothing, and yet, desires to be everything.

AN: I carry a love for Gachiakuta like I don’t think I do for many other shows aside from stranger things and more— while writing this work, I wasn’t sure what I was aiming for, honestly.. it was supposed to be nothing, and then it became something.

I’ve struggled with many things myself, and after looking back on the secret diary of Laura Palmer (a huge inspiration for this work)— I really began to think my thoughts matched the verse and wondered what kind of situation(s) I could showcase the way I wanted it to.

This work makes me quite happy, in a cold and nonsensical way that carries itself over with how the narrative flows and the reader’s choices and actions but I hope some people can either find themselves in it or enjoy it despite its weirdness and unstructured evolution. While thinking of their Jinki— I wanted something meaningful in a way that showed the backstory behind it and the care that comes with owning it. I eventually settled on a pack of cigarettes, weird, I know, but it makes sense in this context.

I wasn’t really sure how I’d make such an object work! But I eventually did it, in a weird brain wracking way! I named it “second breath” not my best skill, coming up with good titles.. but a rundown on what it can do!

The pack releases ash that arranges itself into glowing rune-like marks that stick on surfaces. Said marks can:

trigger small explosive bursts, create blinding lights that inhibit movements and set up trip-wire like alarms.

That’s enough rambling for now, I think— warnings for this such as implied / referenced assault, child abuse, self harm, addiction and suicide idealization

Please proceed with caution! :)

Dear Diary,

I am letting you take a glimpse into my shape for master Corvus has asked me to— and as such, you shall become my sanctuary, of sort, my secret diary. Who will go into the flames with me.

No one is coming for me, I had once said. And I had been wrong yet so right, for even in a room full of people with good hearts, I still felt the same as I did— fueled by the knowing feeling that I had to die, that life wouldn’t just let me get by.

I had quickly realized that the concept of faith was quite the same everywhere— but when filled with such questions and hopes, I did always come to a conclusion so full yet hollow of sense, one Enjin described as being “so me”— fruitful yet fruitless in looking, and today I have discovered that I am loved. By the people, by God.

And indeed, God loves me, but not quite enough to rescue me— so still, today, dear diary.. I write to tell you this, I am still filthy. And that he, somewhere— probably will and is forever thriving. So I ask myself yet again this stupid and cowardly question.

How long until I die, and inevitably climb— just to rise and see what I knew I’d have, an immediate rejection from the holy up high.

Dear Diary, I beg of you

Crucify me.

— your owner, the silent cleaner.

Those are the final words they settle on before closing the sanctuary— the alternate dimension ripe for the feeding, a secret and sealed container, master of all secrets.

The cleaner packs and let the shame simmer, they step out of their room like one steps out of an asylum— aching, frightened and needing. They are but a hollow teenager parading around with the weakest display of pride, trying to make up their life. And when they run into him, the only thing they can do is further lose their pride— for the sphereite looks at them like they could become his entire life.

(Rudo considers them a quest he’s always wanted to achieve, his goal to make friends is as fervent as his mission to avenge his lost father, a burning and all consuming determination to live by his own terms. A drive, that to someone like them, is lost to the sea— never understood or truly seen.

In a world where opportunities are rare, they’ve taken one good look at their hands and given up on anything else. So to be seen much like Enjin and Corvus had seen through them and be offered a chance at a life, as unstable as it was— was a sight for sore eyes.

And so they must disappoint none, they ache for the approval that will come much like Zanka aches for the pride that shall arrive with Enjin’s love and praise, to be loved is to changed— and in his goal for strength, if they’ve understood, the fact the older man believes with him is one of the main motivator for him. Zanka thrives by the prospect of being acknowledged, to go from your average kind of joe to more than low.

Strange, they think. Impressive, they remark— and oh so Zanka, they laugh).

“Hi, Rudo.” Their greetings are always short, devoid of warmth and an actual voice— the sting and raspy symphony offered by their sin of indulging in the smoke follows them daily, even when they never had desired to kill their lungs to the max in the near future. Now, it’s been set in stone, they’re sure.

(Much like their death is set in stone but never to come— Rudo takes a good look at them and sees the smile that does not reach their ears, it’s devoid of anything, and with it, the inspiring imagination of their blossoming friendship, or the cleaner thinks. And yet, it pushes the bundle of unfiltered rage that is Rudo to not startle them.

Later, he thinks. Go see Enji and seek answers, he affirms himself. Just to be met with the odd answer everyone who seems to know them have settled on.

That, unfortunately, that poor fragile lost soul has met with a terrible fate and that with it, comes the greater part of a near end. The blond advises him to speak to them if he wants answers— or even to understand more than any of them. What Enji recommends Rudo is to keep a diary, not because he thinks precisely that the boy needs it but because it’s reason enough to entertain speech with them.

The sanctuary of their existence, the secret not so secret (for everyone knew of it yet never read) diary of their persistence— the reason for their dreaming).

And when Rudo so desires to learn from what he’s been told, greet them just like they’ve greeted him— they smile, pat his shoulders, walking into fire. And there’s nothing greater than that sign and physical barrier, he’s got to try harder.

In secrecy, The ink never slows down, either.

────────

If they had a list of their vice, perhaps it’d show itself like so:

I - One smoke before sleeping.

Dear Diary,

I once again step into your home and place down my belongings as a futile attempt to give myself meaning. Quite silly, if you ask me, or perhaps ask Enjin.

And yet, I suppose you are the man or even woman of the hour. Today, I have spoken to more people than I’ve known my entire life yet have never felt more mediocre than today— Gris and Tamsy are loveable men, if I wasn’t so scared of them, I’d even say they’d be lovely fathers.

Much like I had made the awful decision of claiming my previous owner (before he had been attempting to put me down like the hopeless mutt I had once let fate decide for me to be)— to be the papa of my wildest dreams, a fantasy only seen in a child on the ground who has lost everything.

And yet when my nightmares bless me and force me to remember the warmth of such a body in exchange for food and stability, I grow lightheaded and I scream and I have my little fits. Somehow, big brother Enjin is never too far away as to not let me bask in my tiny “victory”, to be cradled and reimagined as I am, or as I should be. In the endless nightmare of what Semiu had called being “violated”.

(It’s such an ugly word, diary. Like I’m innocent yet so dirty, like a drawing one would bless the walls of canvas town with just to throw up on it— and despise the wall not being a fault, it’s undeniably the one accumulating that filth).

(I’m a good person, my beautiful diary. Tainted in dirt and piss for the sick world to seek enjoyment in. I’m born out of a need to abuse, and in response, I grow nervous like a caged bird singing a lament with hope to get out. But even as I was freed, I still dearly miss a house I could never call home.

In that lonely abode where I was toy for the twisted pleasure of what I had once called my savior, I die and pray— Dear Diary, I see now that my nightmares torture me.

And yet, if you asked if they scare me I’d so eagerly answer as go:

“No, this is my favorite dream. I hope to never wake up nor be freed.”

Oh, Dear Diary,

If I could understand the reason for my aching

The reason for my crying

The guilty shame and sick and twisted enjoyment at my puking.

Then perhaps, I’d be granted liberty— and forever go to sleep,

To below, and infinity.

— your owner, the tormented cleaner.

They sign off the object again, kiss it like it deserves to be kissed and settles on their bed. Today, though, feels much more like the beginning of the end— like they can feel the phantoms of pain, and the tremor of their body as the sensation of thousands of hands— they’re settling and fondling, and their skin will not mend. They’ve kickstarted their own fate, alas, now, nothing will purify them.

Not the adults gently cradling them, not the children (like them) offering them their hands— not Tamsy’s kind expression as he cradles their face and speaks of acts of love, of how if he had to, he’d make everything go south for the chance of their happiness to come. The child (for despite wanting to be made into a toy, a bottom yet erotic shelf product) fails to be anything like one should be. Childish and happy, but then again isn’t any child who is a giver (and not Guita or Remlin) doomed to eternal agony?

They cry at night— smoke one time, and are ready to welcome it inside. The killing ray of the next morning of lies, when they go to sleep as through any nights, they wake up to their own cries and find that they are not in their room but instead with Eishia by their side.

(They must’ve given everyone a fright, once more).

And so with the shame and embarrassment that their busy night brought— they cough and smile, die inside, and set the motion back on track.

Oh, they hope one day, in their sleep— lady death will truly come, and then, they’ll be no better luck next time.

II - The agony at the word “assault”.

Dear Diary,

I spoke with Gris once more this fine morning. And somehow, it made me sick— more than sick, like something compelling me to kill my own being if he spoke more of this, and yet all I did was cry instead of doing anything.

I’m not a victim, diary. Surely, I must’ve wanted it or worse— and what I made with him, it was a beautiful romance even if after the poison he never gave me much more than a smoke, and a glance.

(A glance that carried the meaning of using— I am used, and yet I grow angry at the accusation of being used. I’m a toy meant to be taken again and again and yet the mere thought of such a fate, as terrible as mine already is— makes me double over and clutch my stomach.

I cry like I so often do when thinking of a potential papa, nothing feels right— like this wasn’t meant to be my life. And for all his awkwardness and inability to find the right words, in those moments, Enjin hugs me.

It doesn’t feel as disgusting as if it was anyone else, with Sir Enjin, it feels like I’ll never be impure again. Perhaps because on that mission with lovely (how I miss her) Amo, he had clearly stated that women like her were not her type. And if much like my beautiful soul sister, I am a whiner meant to only be despised— I reassure myself that in such a statement lies the admission that I will not be touched.

Not in a frightening way, of course).

I like Enjin, not in a loving, romantical, whimsical fantastic utopia— but in the simplest way of how in his viewpoint, I am a child, I had never been a child before the cleaners, all they ever said was that I was “ready”, mature, rough but ultimately deserving of the punishment befalling me.

Enjin reads me bedtime stories, I never got those before. Zanka holds me in his arms when all I want to do is pick at my skin and disappear. Riyo does my hair, not very often, but that’s fair.

…Rudo looks at me and smile, it’s well, an attempt at a smile— but somehow it feels like with all of those people and the ones I have not talked about such as Bro, Dear and August, I feel like I go from hell looking up at heaven to a resident angel— amongst them, like this is my happy end.

Indeed, perhaps I am violated, diary. And perhaps— I feel guilty that other people know the words better than me but that had been my only constant for years, the cycle of torture. Corvus tells me I needn’t put a label on it until I’m ready, so instead I smoke and ignore everything.

(Enjin smokes but he hates it when I do, he pulls the forbidden object from my mouth and scoffs— instead— childishly fitting— he hands me a lollipop— and maybe that’s what my subconscious has always really asked for.

It fills me with more joy, it feels like less of a ritual and an actual thing I love, candy. But candy was always rare to me, and it’s so important to Dear and Rudo— so I feel like overindulging in something that isn’t mine will make me dislikable.

That’s so weird, huh? How can one day be so unbelievably precious, and another a nightmare— made to have me suffer, burn, and develop a newfound emotion towards my agony, the accumulation of my need to be dirty. I’ll call it lust, some will call it a “must”, to look at my body in a.. better way).

Goodbye, Dear Diary,

I hope one day you’ll fulfill my dreaming,

and kill me and thus this agony.

— your owner, the one with a terrible fate.

Another entry made. Perhaps better than any blade— they close the diary and hold it close to their chest, in the dark of the night they sob and shake. They miss it, the pain that comes with the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon, the witness of their punishment and of their humanity— until human goes to doll, and from doll to human.

Tomorrow, they are heading to their first mission in a while— they’re— they’re not sure they’ll do well. Unsure they’ve ever done well. Yet everything stays, everything is said. And they smile at what Enjin had so stupidly told them earlier, that warm bubbly feeling spreads to their chest just like Zanka beams whenever he’s praised, and they make it a mission to repeat the promise like a mantra to ready themselves.

Those words, kind and soft— wanting them to be more.

Enjin stares at them and hums, he lets the child coddle close to his side as he’s counting the cards. They never play along with the games, instead they simply watch. But as always, even if unwilling or terrible at it— a child he found is a child he will keep, and so Enjin hums and ruffles their hair while they beam.

And then, he makes a promise, knowing that their next mission probably eats at their skin.

“When we get home from this mission, I’ll get you that stuff, all the lollipops in the world— cause I know ya gotta do one ‘ella of a good job.”

They laugh— they laugh like they rarely laugh, they use their dying voice.

It’s a fascinating thing, to have nothing yet everything— and this is how they conclude their day of agony, by thinking, and wishing— but ultimately (if only for today) finds no reason to entertain their crying.

What a beautiful gift. This cursed and wretched yet healing diary.

[kozukind]

If anyone liked this, it’s part of a series on ao3 which the second part of has been posted, find it here.

[kozukind]

The secret diary of a cleaner.

PS. this is a work that was already posted on my ao3, but I’m sharing it to tumblr too because I quite like it.

summary: “I have simply forgotten how to be loved.”

But how does one forget love, they ask. Yet they’ve come to the conclusion and the shame that indeed, love has left their grasp and they’ve succumbed to something close yet so far.

The cleaner is tasked with keeping a diary, to write down the undeniable aching that comes with living. In the sanctuary of the papers, words nestled and protected— they lay their vision of the world and alongside it, questions its rot.

Day by day, they too, spoil— they become a meal no one desires to indulge in, and at the prospect of being discarded, they almost want to puke. Relinquish in that disgusting but safe lust— they’re in a rush. An anticipation of death, that surely, will release them.

Yet they never meet it, that exquisite end.

or: a blurry reflexion of life on the ground, from a child who has nothing, and yet, desires to be everything.

AN: I carry a love for Gachiakuta like I don’t think I do for many other shows aside from stranger things and more— while writing this work, I wasn’t sure what I was aiming for, honestly.. it was supposed to be nothing, and then it became something.

I’ve struggled with many things myself, and after looking back on the secret diary of Laura Palmer (a huge inspiration for this work)— I really began to think my thoughts matched the verse and wondered what kind of situation(s) I could showcase the way I wanted it to.

This work makes me quite happy, in a cold and nonsensical way that carries itself over with how the narrative flows and the reader’s choices and actions but I hope some people can either find themselves in it or enjoy it despite its weirdness and unstructured evolution. While thinking of their Jinki— I wanted something meaningful in a way that showed the backstory behind it and the care that comes with owning it. I eventually settled on a pack of cigarettes, weird, I know, but it makes sense in this context.

I wasn’t really sure how I’d make such an object work! But I eventually did it, in a weird brain wracking way! I named it “second breath” not my best skill, coming up with good titles.. but a rundown on what it can do!

The pack releases ash that arranges itself into glowing rune-like marks that stick on surfaces. Said marks can:

trigger small explosive bursts, create blinding lights that inhibit movements and set up trip-wire like alarms.

That’s enough rambling for now, I think— warnings for this such as implied / referenced assault, child abuse, self harm, addiction and suicide idealization

Please proceed with caution! :)

Dear Diary,

I am letting you take a glimpse into my shape for master Corvus has asked me to— and as such, you shall become my sanctuary, of sort, my secret diary. Who will go into the flames with me.

No one is coming for me, I had once said. And I had been wrong yet so right, for even in a room full of people with good hearts, I still felt the same as I did— fueled by the knowing feeling that I had to die, that life wouldn’t just let me get by.

I had quickly realized that the concept of faith was quite the same everywhere— but when filled with such questions and hopes, I did always come to a conclusion so full yet hollow of sense, one Enjin described as being “so me”— fruitful yet fruitless in looking, and today I have discovered that I am loved. By the people, by God.

And indeed, God loves me, but not quite enough to rescue me— so still, today, dear diary.. I write to tell you this, I am still filthy. And that he, somewhere— probably will and is forever thriving. So I ask myself yet again this stupid and cowardly question.

How long until I die, and inevitably climb— just to rise and see what I knew I’d have, an immediate rejection from the holy up high.

Dear Diary, I beg of you

Crucify me.

— your owner, the silent cleaner.

Those are the final words they settle on before closing the sanctuary— the alternate dimension ripe for the feeding, a secret and sealed container, master of all secrets.

The cleaner packs and let the shame simmer, they step out of their room like one steps out of an asylum— aching, frightened and needing. They are but a hollow teenager parading around with the weakest display of pride, trying to make up their life. And when they run into him, the only thing they can do is further lose their pride— for the sphereite looks at them like they could become his entire life.

(Rudo considers them a quest he’s always wanted to achieve, his goal to make friends is as fervent as his mission to avenge his lost father, a burning and all consuming determination to live by his own terms. A drive, that to someone like them, is lost to the sea— never understood or truly seen.

In a world where opportunities are rare, they’ve taken one good look at their hands and given up on anything else. So to be seen much like Enjin and Corvus had seen through them and be offered a chance at a life, as unstable as it was— was a sight for sore eyes.

And so they must disappoint none, they ache for the approval that will come much like Zanka aches for the pride that shall arrive with Enjin’s love and praise, to be loved is to changed— and in his goal for strength, if they’ve understood, the fact the older man believes with him is one of the main motivator for him. Zanka thrives by the prospect of being acknowledged, to go from your average kind of joe to more than low.

Strange, they think. Impressive, they remark— and oh so Zanka, they laugh).

“Hi, Rudo.” Their greetings are always short, devoid of warmth and an actual voice— the sting and raspy symphony offered by their sin of indulging in the smoke follows them daily, even when they never had desired to kill their lungs to the max in the near future. Now, it’s been set in stone, they’re sure.

(Much like their death is set in stone but never to come— Rudo takes a good look at them and sees the smile that does not reach their ears, it’s devoid of anything, and with it, the inspiring imagination of their blossoming friendship, or the cleaner thinks. And yet, it pushes the bundle of unfiltered rage that is Rudo to not startle them.

Later, he thinks. Go see Enji and seek answers, he affirms himself. Just to be met with the odd answer everyone who seems to know them have settled on.

That, unfortunately, that poor fragile lost soul has met with a terrible fate and that with it, comes the greater part of a near end. The blond advises him to speak to them if he wants answers— or even to understand more than any of them. What Enji recommends Rudo is to keep a diary, not because he thinks precisely that the boy needs it but because it’s reason enough to entertain speech with them.

The sanctuary of their existence, the secret not so secret (for everyone knew of it yet never read) diary of their persistence— the reason for their dreaming).

And when Rudo so desires to learn from what he’s been told, greet them just like they’ve greeted him— they smile, pat his shoulders, walking into fire. And there’s nothing greater than that sign and physical barrier, he’s got to try harder.

In secrecy, The ink never slows down, either.

────────

If they had a list of their vice, perhaps it’d show itself like so:

I - One smoke before sleeping.

Dear Diary,

I once again step into your home and place down my belongings as a futile attempt to give myself meaning. Quite silly, if you ask me, or perhaps ask Enjin.

And yet, I suppose you are the man or even woman of the hour. Today, I have spoken to more people than I’ve known my entire life yet have never felt more mediocre than today— Gris and Tamsy are loveable men, if I wasn’t so scared of them, I’d even say they’d be lovely fathers.

Much like I had made the awful decision of claiming my previous owner (before he had been attempting to put me down like the hopeless mutt I had once let fate decide for me to be)— to be the papa of my wildest dreams, a fantasy only seen in a child on the ground who has lost everything.

And yet when my nightmares bless me and force me to remember the warmth of such a body in exchange for food and stability, I grow lightheaded and I scream and I have my little fits. Somehow, big brother Enjin is never too far away as to not let me bask in my tiny “victory”, to be cradled and reimagined as I am, or as I should be. In the endless nightmare of what Semiu had called being “violated”.

(It’s such an ugly word, diary. Like I’m innocent yet so dirty, like a drawing one would bless the walls of canvas town with just to throw up on it— and despise the wall not being a fault, it’s undeniably the one accumulating that filth).

(I’m a good person, my beautiful diary. Tainted in dirt and piss for the sick world to seek enjoyment in. I’m born out of a need to abuse, and in response, I grow nervous like a caged bird singing a lament with hope to get out. But even as I was freed, I still dearly miss a house I could never call home.

In that lonely abode where I was toy for the twisted pleasure of what I had once called my savior, I die and pray— Dear Diary, I see now that my nightmares torture me.

And yet, if you asked if they scare me I’d so eagerly answer as go:

“No, this is my favorite dream. I hope to never wake up nor be freed.”

Oh, Dear Diary,

If I could understand the reason for my aching

The reason for my crying

The guilty shame and sick and twisted enjoyment at my puking.

Then perhaps, I’d be granted liberty— and forever go to sleep,

To below, and infinity.

— your owner, the tormented cleaner.

They sign off the object again, kiss it like it deserves to be kissed and settles on their bed. Today, though, feels much more like the beginning of the end— like they can feel the phantoms of pain, and the tremor of their body as the sensation of thousands of hands— they’re settling and fondling, and their skin will not mend. They’ve kickstarted their own fate, alas, now, nothing will purify them.

Not the adults gently cradling them, not the children (like them) offering them their hands— not Tamsy’s kind expression as he cradles their face and speaks of acts of love, of how if he had to, he’d make everything go south for the chance of their happiness to come. The child (for despite wanting to be made into a toy, a bottom yet erotic shelf product) fails to be anything like one should be. Childish and happy, but then again isn’t any child who is a giver (and not Guita or Remlin) doomed to eternal agony?

They cry at night— smoke one time, and are ready to welcome it inside. The killing ray of the next morning of lies, when they go to sleep as through any nights, they wake up to their own cries and find that they are not in their room but instead with Eishia by their side.

(They must’ve given everyone a fright, once more).

And so with the shame and embarrassment that their busy night brought— they cough and smile, die inside, and set the motion back on track.

Oh, they hope one day, in their sleep— lady death will truly come, and then, they’ll be no better luck next time.

II - The agony at the word “assault”.

Dear Diary,

I spoke with Gris once more this fine morning. And somehow, it made me sick— more than sick, like something compelling me to kill my own being if he spoke more of this, and yet all I did was cry instead of doing anything.

I’m not a victim, diary. Surely, I must’ve wanted it or worse— and what I made with him, it was a beautiful romance even if after the poison he never gave me much more than a smoke, and a glance.

(A glance that carried the meaning of using— I am used, and yet I grow angry at the accusation of being used. I’m a toy meant to be taken again and again and yet the mere thought of such a fate, as terrible as mine already is— makes me double over and clutch my stomach.

I cry like I so often do when thinking of a potential papa, nothing feels right— like this wasn’t meant to be my life. And for all his awkwardness and inability to find the right words, in those moments, Enjin hugs me.

It doesn’t feel as disgusting as if it was anyone else, with Sir Enjin, it feels like I’ll never be impure again. Perhaps because on that mission with lovely (how I miss her) Amo, he had clearly stated that women like her were not her type. And if much like my beautiful soul sister, I am a whiner meant to only be despised— I reassure myself that in such a statement lies the admission that I will not be touched.

Not in a frightening way, of course).

I like Enjin, not in a loving, romantical, whimsical fantastic utopia— but in the simplest way of how in his viewpoint, I am a child, I had never been a child before the cleaners, all they ever said was that I was “ready”, mature, rough but ultimately deserving of the punishment befalling me.

Enjin reads me bedtime stories, I never got those before. Zanka holds me in his arms when all I want to do is pick at my skin and disappear. Riyo does my hair, not very often, but that’s fair.

…Rudo looks at me and smile, it’s well, an attempt at a smile— but somehow it feels like with all of those people and the ones I have not talked about such as Bro, Dear and August, I feel like I go from hell looking up at heaven to a resident angel— amongst them, like this is my happy end.

Indeed, perhaps I am violated, diary. And perhaps— I feel guilty that other people know the words better than me but that had been my only constant for years, the cycle of torture. Corvus tells me I needn’t put a label on it until I’m ready, so instead I smoke and ignore everything.

(Enjin smokes but he hates it when I do, he pulls the forbidden object from my mouth and scoffs— instead— childishly fitting— he hands me a lollipop— and maybe that’s what my subconscious has always really asked for.

It fills me with more joy, it feels like less of a ritual and an actual thing I love, candy. But candy was always rare to me, and it’s so important to Dear and Rudo— so I feel like overindulging in something that isn’t mine will make me dislikable.

That’s so weird, huh? How can one day be so unbelievably precious, and another a nightmare— made to have me suffer, burn, and develop a newfound emotion towards my agony, the accumulation of my need to be dirty. I’ll call it lust, some will call it a “must”, to look at my body in a.. better way).

Goodbye, Dear Diary,

I hope one day you’ll fulfill my dreaming,

and kill me and thus this agony.

— your owner, the one with a terrible fate.

Another entry made. Perhaps better than any blade— they close the diary and hold it close to their chest, in the dark of the night they sob and shake. They miss it, the pain that comes with the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon, the witness of their punishment and of their humanity— until human goes to doll, and from doll to human.

Tomorrow, they are heading to their first mission in a while— they’re— they’re not sure they’ll do well. Unsure they’ve ever done well. Yet everything stays, everything is said. And they smile at what Enjin had so stupidly told them earlier, that warm bubbly feeling spreads to their chest just like Zanka beams whenever he’s praised, and they make it a mission to repeat the promise like a mantra to ready themselves.

Those words, kind and soft— wanting them to be more.

Enjin stares at them and hums, he lets the child coddle close to his side as he’s counting the cards. They never play along with the games, instead they simply watch. But as always, even if unwilling or terrible at it— a child he found is a child he will keep, and so Enjin hums and ruffles their hair while they beam.

And then, he makes a promise, knowing that their next mission probably eats at their skin.

“When we get home from this mission, I’ll get you that stuff, all the lollipops in the world— cause I know ya gotta do one ‘ella of a good job.”

They laugh— they laugh like they rarely laugh, they use their dying voice.

It’s a fascinating thing, to have nothing yet everything— and this is how they conclude their day of agony, by thinking, and wishing— but ultimately (if only for today) finds no reason to entertain their crying.

What a beautiful gift. This cursed and wretched yet healing diary.

[kozukind]

I’m not too knowledge on how alive the x reader fandom is for the bsd community, but would anyone be interested in a male reader based off the author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry? I have a lot of project about male readers in various fandoms and the thought just struck me and I was like.. woah, that’s funky, why can’t I make it real?

Just a ramble but likeee.. !! The reader’s ability would be the little prince, I won’t ramble too much as of right now as to how it works but it’d be how Elise is Mori’s ability.. yeah lol

[aetsiv]

i think because of the whole "writers write for themselves" notion that's becoming increasingly popularized, people forget that we still thrive off interaction and kindness. i write for myself but kudos and comments and bookmarks and really any sort of interaction with my fics genuinely motivates me to keep writing and keep sharing my works.

[victimofdavefiloni]

this!!!!

[kozukind]

I love sacrificial OM MCS, like the kind that’ll put the brother’s happinesses before theirs and see nothing wrong with it until Solomon points it out. The “awareness” of bad and good between humans and demons is interesting,, lesson 16 fucked me up i love it sm though,,

Someone should send me OM requests

[kozukind]

Hii I'm the one that asked you were still writing it, I didn't mean to come off as rude or pressuring, if you weren't writing it I would've left it at that! I really was just wondering because I've seen people share their ideas before but not go further with it (which is fine ofc, it's their life)

Helppp no worries! I didn’t see it as rude at all <3

[kozukind]

Hey kozukind, hope your doing well, was just coming in here to thank you for your hardwork on writing for KC, and I appreciate ya, I felt like I need to apologize for the other anon who was asking if you were still writing their request (as to me personally, it sounded rude, if they were not being rude then I apologize for insinuating it.) Please take your time with wrightibg and don't burn yourself out!

I hope you have a wonderful day/night!

🌺-anon

Awww thank you anon! This is really lovely and kind and dw, I didn’t quite see it as rude myself, and I’ll never feel pressured to finish anything because I mainly write when I wanna (which in itself is because adult life is kicking my ass but shhh..) so I’ll post what I do when I wanna and will!

Thank you! I hope you have an amazing day/night too!

[kozukind]

Would it be to weird and quite odd to think about the idea of writing an oneshot between Belphie and a resentful MC but not in the “i loathe you” way but more so in the “I think you didn’t and still don’t know any better” while they’re actively thinking about just ending their own existence because their brain is playing tricks against them?

Yeah? Okay..

[kozukind]

Are you still going to write the ronin x male reader with internalized homophobia fic

I am always actively writing it, I’m just not done yet, I quite have a lot to say. As an apology, take this wip :).

[kozukind]

Heyy could you write comfort about ronin x trans reader that doesn't adhere to gender norms? (Like they're transmasc but don't necessarily dress masc iykwim) :D

AN: This is is a sweet request, I really hope I did it justice— quite fun to think about, too. I tried my best with the characterization but I promise nothing, small tiny winy lore for this, its implied reader is a killer but not really important to the oneshot in its essence.

The reader is referred to with he/they pronouns and said to be wearing different styles (principally gothic lolita, not sure why— it sounded cute haha) and he’s lowkey an edge lord as much as one can be, I won’t lie.

I kind of really liked this. Mainly the idea of the two’s different personas. Ronin’s “Butcher” like nature versus the reader’s “prince” attitude which marks a difference as to why and how they kill. Ronin recognizes the filth of his lover while the other sees himself as royalty above the rules of the common people.

(It’s implied the reader is from a noble family or an affluent one.. but not much).

Rushed lowkey, kinda failed I’m sorry LMAO. Probably a lot of mistakes, not beta read.

pairing: Ronin Beaufort x Transmasc reader, he/they pronouns used.

Ronin and the “Bloody Knight” paint a wonderfully grotesque picture. First, because the “Knight” is not the chosen slasher name of his beloved and the media seem to ignore all their attempts at a rebrand, which in return pulls a familiar feeling out of The Butcher— the beautiful and always present need to mock and tease as his show of affection.

For how oddly unpoetic as it presents itself as, the aforementioned killer dislikes the idea of simply being given the label of a horseman, bestowed with an accolade he never agreed to and so reduced to nothing but a brute in his own words, still— The Devil finds it beautifully amusing.

(Not the media’s poor naming games, but rather the rage that rises out of his beloved— something like him, who nourishes itself out of negativity and can and will eagerly swallow and in return, have a good day, almost everyday for the upcoming week).

It’s all incorrect, for the knight is indeed a charming (and necessarily evil) man but he does not adorn himself in the likes of an armor or the simple decor of a gent’s exterior. The knight is a ferocious enemy and warrior, wearing the comfortable costume of a princess which shows his lack of care for society’s expectations, much like they show no problem with crossing their arms, looking someone dead in the eyes and correcting them— granted, the looks (barely) deceive, but they’re not a doormat to be stepped upon.

And if not Ronin, who else could love oddities much like he does? A pure beautiful contradiction and show of what the common folks of Angelwood would label “corruption”, But as himself, The Devil would instead call it not quite a statement but a pure confidence fueled confrontation.

In his beloved’s words, an aggressive and violent way of killing isn’t immediately needed to be a brute— the boy is but also technical and very professional in the way he guts the filth of the earth, much like some, his darling has no real profile as to who they strike, and perhaps that makes it even more wonderful.

Still, if Ronin is on a good day, then the other next to him is certainly fuming with a common anger— pacing around, causing the soft material of the dress he’s stuffed in to flow beautiful, biting at his thumb with a pouting expression, which if adorable— also shows an eagerness and anticipation at slaughter.

“Perhaps they’ve grown mad. Have you heard of it? Me, a methodical flower compared to a stupid beast. I’m a beautiful prince punishing unruly subjects, Ronin. Can you believe I’m being compared to a hollow brained knight who just strikes if asked?” They’ve struck a pretty harsh nerve, Ronin must say. And yet, as rotten and non fitting of a loverboy to think, he must admit he prefers the prince like this— stripped of the holy virtue he showers himself in and raw in the form of his dirtiness, something the evil like him feeds off of, and he always fuels the other to do their worse.

“Maybe ya gotta teach ‘em, darlin’. Real slaughter of the lambs so they get the title right this time, don’t ya?” Bad, bad man— a lover full of no shame, perhaps even comparable to all the mad men roaming this earth.

(Him and his lover included, because Ronin sees no holiness possible in the both of them— not only because of society’s norms that they ignore, but because of their sins, comfortably blooming within).

The rest of the week is peaceful like this, the prince slaughters and slaughters— adorns his mark on his kill by signing them with the right title, and eagerly beams when the TV finally starts to refer to him as it should’ve had from the start, perhaps out of a want to believe it’ll calm the executioneer and so, the people’s fright.

It doesn’t, but they tried.

The boy is beautiful, not because he’s simply him but also because he knows how to be more than that without shame. Undeniably male yet never quite locked into the box the townsfolk expect him to be stuck in, Ronin’s lover carries an ease to go by the saying of a “strong man” yet combines with his pride the soft grace of what people would label a “sweet woman”.

What a talk, truly— for why should a piece of fabric carry such a heavy meaning? Generations have lost their priorities, if simply being pretty has now become a sin. On soft days like these, he takes a walk outside with the prettiest of attire he has— a long beautiful yet plainly plain dress that alludes to femininity, yet through it, is a simple show of true masculinity.

(Because unlike men and boys these days, theirs isn’t fragile— and frankly, when they’re like this, they’re the best in their own skin).

Still, it’s not only the idea of being lady-like in an odd sense that brings comfort— anything outside of the commonly expected routine or ballad of society fills him with a great sense of satisfaction, as if unlike the faceless people, he’s not stuck in a motion.

A feeling both he and the devil of his life share, seemingly. He remembers how he and Ronin were at each other’s throat, how perhaps he could’ve met with a horrible end, if they weren’t so sweet. Ronin had literally begged to be killed, not out of a need to truly meet a death, but out of the desire to corrupt a soul that considered itself pure, the prince wasn’t foolish enough to see the manifestation of hell itself as agonizing or struggling.

No, he’s sure the man only wanted to mess with him and get under his skin— which to an extent, he always seemed to achieve even by doing nothing, perhaps because of his laid back and undeniably peasant nature. That, or Ronin was admittedly splendidly at ease with annoying people like some have never before.

(Both options work, do they not? When he notices the house, the sanctuary of evil— the prince has no time to think of it too much. Settling on putting the pondering away, in his mind palace).

“Oh, what a terrible man.”

And yet, in this game of life— he’s everything he has.

[kozukind]

Okay let me cook now, let me cook (WIP)

…yeah so vol 5 finale rewrite, huh? Haha.

[noroi-om]

Merry Christmas Everyone!

To everyone who have Christmas (or not), happy holidays! Let you have smile on your face and bw good!

[kozukind]

I am working on requests but also, my daily non related posting bs. Gachiakuta x reader fanfic, summary below.. warnings in the beginning notes. Check it out if you wanna!

[phoenixyfriend]

Reblog if you write fanfic and would be totally down with your followers coming into you askbox and talking to you about your fic