Trying to expand the x reader I write for, a few of my fandoms are listed on my pinned post, but would anyone be interested in more deltarune related stuff but also is there a x reader scene for metal family enjoyers? I just finished it up to the last episode of season 2, and I love it!
You can find my kris x soul series on my ao3 too, it’s called, Raising A God, ongoing.
A tale as old as time, two humans find love and are banned from paradise above. It’s almost as usual as the tell tale signs of the loss of control Kris endures, a punishment worse than death— the concept of sharing their beloved.
If an unlikely knight, despite all, love finds its way to the girl and the human, both them and Susie create what they find is an unlikely romance, between them and their opposite lovers. Festival day has never been sweeter.
Sugary treat on a soft cotton bed, the kind of many blessings that grants them cavities, Kris falls in love with the past and for a selfish second lays duty aside, focuses on the beauty by their side and feels their jealousy subdued.
It’s something that belongs to them, not the soul, not their promise— it’s something entirely new.
or: what if instead of third wheeling, Kris sought out their second childish friend for a chance at their very own happy ending— a tale told from both points of views, jumbled and messy, but shakily happy, and crazy.
AN: This is likely the first and (or not) last writing of mine that will ever have “you” narration, that or it’ll be reserved for the deltarune fandom. My idea was to jump from Kris’ pov to the reader, and while I am content in what I’ve done, I can’t guarantee it is done well, but oh, I’ve tried!
It made me happy to write this, and my love for Kris is something that’s only doubled as the chapter progressed. Their anguish and inability to truly voice love as something they own was.. kind of charming yet gut wrenching.
This is meant to be written as an aborted weird route kinda thing, but the reader’s pov plays in when them and Kris are really interacting with suselle, so it’s not too noticeable.
I’d like to maybe continue on with this childhood friend reader, who unlike Kris, has a dilemma they can’t understand. They don’t want to be a monster, they’re happy as human.
But they also can’t relate to the only human peer they have, so it hurts!! Ah, proofread for once, but very badly!
The ending is a bit, maybe. Those who played the weird route get it.
Enjoy!
The festival meant love, joy, and a whole other sweet thing out of which Kris could make rhymes; happiness of a lifetime, enough joy to ignore the devil by their side.
The soul is excited to toy with them, make them the witness of what essentially is their two friends finally reaching happiness, while they, lonely Kris, sink further into the sand.
Still, there is hope in the sentiment of their upcoming date, which to the soul’s misery is not with Berdly. A blessing really, although Kris is unsure if a date with them instead is any better.
(Not because the other’s personality is akin to Berdly’s but for they’re way too sugary, something sweet and kind that’ll leave them with cavities, but to be spared the awkwardness of being alone, they’ll make do.
A double date, a festival with them, the sole other human.
In some twisted way, they can’t help but be content with this development, an outside source that knows none of their depravity. Someone who in the vast knowledge of their sins, makes Kris feel like they’re not guilty.
A savior who can free them of the cycle of sealing dark worlds and pretending, someone who cannot say whether they enjoy or hate the new kris but can notice some things are amiss
Someone with wide eyes, that knows and sees).
And so faith, in some odd way, seals their fate. Kris, aware of their inability to either get Noelle nor Susie settle for the next best, someone as sweet as the deer yet as fierce as the other monster— another loner.
The only human after them.
It’s quite a painting they make, a silent thing and the glowing sun. Kris enjoys basking in the other’s glow only because they can do one thing right; allow them to hide in plain sight. They’re too pretty to ignore, it’s amazing they even agreed to begin with.
It’s like when they were small ducklings, always holding the other’s hand and serving as Kris’ light, a very real and brave knight.
Over the years just like with Noelle, they had drifted apart and, for a while, Kris had been able to hide the (sole) second human of Hometown by not speaking of them all. They had been able to hide the gentle soul from the.. less than kind soul, to shelter them from the wicked angel.
To keep someone as deserving of joy as them, sane.
(Yet as it comes to be known, the devil is a charmer, and if unlike people who feel there is something wrong with them but say nothing, the other of their kind had immediately been honest.
They would only come to ensure Kris was not constantly third wheeling, not because of pure love or as a heroic feat— they only wanted to soothe the soil of their worry.
To maybe, like the other many people, assume that Kris was going through a phase all teenagers like the both of them experiment.
All that comes, though, to the other human, is immense suspicion).
Kris is still like an elusive puppy that’s only been recently adopted, if they no longer hide behind the other like they once had when they were both little things, the festival day comes, and the other is immediately waiting at their door.
Worse, they offer their hand— and like a foolish maiden only aided by the implications of a possible romance, Kris takes it, blushes and tries to ignore the soul’s feelings and squeeze.
Tighter and tighter, until this sensation becomes warmer and warmer— it makes things feel more tender.
This, in some odd way, is their (probably only) chance at having a lover.
────────
As best as they try to not remember to protect their own privacy, Kris’ heart and feelings in some odd sort of way, are weak to the other— and so, additionally, they have a lot of memories.
Cherished little tales that should be privy to them, unknown to the parasite in their chest, yet, nostalgia gains the better of them and so, they recall a puppy love they still cling to, even if knowingly, they (somewhat) feel the same for Noelle and Susie.
(It’s young love, they suppose, their inability to really tell if they desire friendship and are foreign with the concept of if the three love interests proposed to them really make their heart beat like it’d never before.
Kris is unsure if their fascination comes from the fact they can’t have either, and that their refound flame for one of their former friend— is not an awful attempt to replace or ‘fix’ themself.
Which in addition, is to be questioned if the joy is truly theirs, since after all, the soul came into play in even asking them. They’re so nervous, ready to paint the floor with bile and more lies.
Love comes with time, but love is already at their doorstep— and they’re shy, yet they can’t just fall back in line).
Love finds its way to Kris like it finds its way to the girl, instead of their wheeling, they hold hand (even if shyly) with the other as Noelle and Susie ready themselves to do whatever it is real lovers do together.
Though they suppose in a sense, they are a charmed young thing, the soul’s guidance makes them want to end it all, though not everything can be blamed on the deity as Kris themself squeezes tighter and tighter.
It’s only when the other speaks up that they’re pulled up from under the waters, lucid once more and aware.
“Wanna do something too?— ‘course we don’t have to, but I dunno..” Trailing off, they stare at the ferris wheel, it is in moments like these that Kris understands the notion of past, present and future.
They had always done everything with Noelle, and not much help for their other childhood friend, perhaps because they had always encouraged otherwise, it was an entire thing— focusing on everyone’s sake but their own.
Kris remembers the many times they’d done so. Writing Noelle and them for royalty at the festival, urging the both of them, small and ready to mimic Asriel and Dess to ride the ferris wheel, to do so many lovey dovey grown up things.
Well, love works in mysterious ways, but even then, Kris thinks they would’ve (and should’ve) done more for the other, maybe urging them to partake in a life that was also supposed to be theirs. But they had always waved dismissedly and settled on the idea that if people were happy, they had nothing to be bothered with.
Simple as is, they were awfully patient— even now as they wait for the awkward teenager that Kris is, they let them take the reins and let their poor (not so) frail hand be clawed at.
And as always, even if their voice has become foreign to themself and anyone who would notice if time was taken— they say “yes”, a yes that the soul probably, too, whispers. Both are uttered for utterly different reasons.
One is for LOVE, and one is for love. It’s as simple as two doves, one which is wicked and the other is a lesser evil, for Kris wouldn’t go as far as to call themself deserving of the title of pure, granted, they’re being used but they’re agreeing nonetheless.
…but for once, at least for a few hours, today is their day, is it not? So, selfishly, they want to have their own thing— their “human thing”.
“Awesome, Ferris wheel it is then?” Said with so much gentleness, the cherry on top being Sans having to remind the two children of his presence as they take too long staring at each other— Kris looks at the floor, the other just smiles at the skeleton.
And so they’re in for a ride. For a moment, Kris wonders how things could’ve turned out different if they had been more human, like the other. Not so obsessed with fitting in.
(Because fundamentally, that is the reason for their different upbringing, the other human had been adopted by an equally nice monster family, but they had never tried to reshape reality.
They were human, simple as is— and in that distinction, they found a certain happiness. Like reading their favorite book: The History of Humans and Monsters).
Kris doesn’t like to dwell on the past and furthermore let the soul be curious of their past, so instead, they take comfort in the rotation of the ferris wheel, awkwardly but tentatively lying their head on the other’s shoulder.
It makes them zone out, disassociate. They suddenly remember a lot of things they had not thought they could remember.
It’s like a flash of many different things, each ranked by a list, even if tiny, of how many wonderful memories the two of them ended up sharing. Granted, most (all of them) only happened when they were kids.
Like for one, when chaos was very present, and yet, the other human always had this simple notion of being calm and prepared. Reading a book even as the once normal picnic dissolved into a mess of trouble, groans and screams.
Kris, as ever the prankster, had always liked to tease or mess with Noelle, perhaps as retaliation in a sense— a kind of amusement they can’t quite pinpoint why they enjoyed. Though they always remembered rushing to hide behind their human friend, whose head was engulfed in their book even as Kris used them as a very literal human shield.
They didn’t dislike it though, that’s for sure, for the smile gracing their face never went away. Even as they had to carefully settle down their book and encased the other in an embrace while proclaiming protection.
Kris thinks, aside from Noelle and their admiration for Dess much like the one they had for Asriel— this was their real puppy love, something that made their usual unnoticeable blush apparent as they hugged back and grinned in victory at Noelle’s lament.
Secondly, and perhaps, actually, the best memory— is the many late night talks they had, Kris always finding a way to convince Toriel that the other had to stay over.
(And perhaps it had been more easy because having another human meant Kris would learn things from them, that probably had been the hopeful scenario their mother crafted, which as always with the mess they were, failed.
But at least they felt really loved).
“I don’t think it’s bad to be human.” They had always explained, late at night while letting the tv go on, even as Kris’ face was already sporting a frown.
That never really bothered them though, they’d just playfully rolled their eyes and grin at the other human child— and then they’d present their hand, patiently wait for Kris to take it, and trail the lines on their palm as if fascinated by it.
It made them feel kind of silly, how easily red they got and how big their grin became. They always liked messing with the other, knowing it never got to them,
“We’re both humans, but soon enough my horns will grow in, and then you’ll be the only real one left, y’know?” Back then, their voice still had been theirs— a luxury they had long lost now, Kris always remembered that evening as the night the real deity of their life came to be.
They had simply smiled, poked Kris’ headband and ultimately grinned as well— grasping the other’s face in their equally tiny hands and laughed.
“Well, I guess it’s okay! You’ll still be my best, not so human, not so best buddy!” Always so ready to please, so ready to go along with their stupid whims, they mimicked their mother as much as Kris loved to mimic Dess, joining their faces together and nuzzling before simply clinging to them, taking them both down to the ground of the living room as they both laughed.
It always felt nice, to be allowed to be another kind of menace with them— Kris supposes that’s where their liking came in, as funny as it sounds.
Maybe they always desired someone strong because they were tired of being the one.
And as any late stays concluded, Toriel would always find the two with their limbs tangled, Kris’ head comfortably resting on the other’s chest as if content to hear their heartbeat while the other’s arms encased them.
It was as though a larva soon to be a butterfly protected by a cocoon. Kris always slept well on nights like these and never woke up in a foul mood.
The ride doesn’t last that long, Sans doesn’t even let them up the top, nor did Susie and Noelle. Though, Kris believes they’ve had enough time to daydream either way, so it’s of no matter.
What really and always will do it for them, is the squeeze of their hand and the next words that make the already present butterfly in their belly slap their wings faster.
“So..” they’d always begin, humming before grinning wide, invading the other’s space and getting all up in their face as if to see the emotions behind those veil like bangs.
“Where are we going next? Take your time.” They always ask with a sort of non-existent time limit, as if the festival will wait all day or millennia if they must— so Kris takes the rare initiative they’re given, ignores how fast the soul could ruin it for them, and tugs the other alongside them.
Their hands together create this warm feeling, an odd kind of guilt blooming. It’s shameful and wrong love, granted— but pure, teenager love, too.
There is no doubt.
────────
The human isn’t really a human and whether in that statement you speak of Kris or simply yourself is not to be known. You’re a pretty bad person as it stands, less of a savior and more the butcher that leads the sacrificial lamb to its slaughter.
And still, Kris remains— you hadn’t exactly expected them to. Not when their flame with Noelle had been rekindled and yours had (as you rightfully thought) dimmed. Dess’ disappearance had left everyone with their own scars, never quite closed, except maybe yours, in some regard.
You’d applied a bandage over it early on, maybe because you’d only ever been in the small little group to begin with because Kris existed, and that another human, in yours, was the best gift one could give a small lonely child.
Funnily enough, the town likely forgets it— but it must be a reminder you’ve long since stopped throwing in, sometimes it needs to be lighted up once more though, because people tend to let their mind trick them— you were here before them, you were effectively there before Kris.
A lonely child is a lonely child nonetheless, but even surrounded by many young monsters, you never felt as alive as you had been when your mother drove you to the Dreemurr’s— watched as mom (for yes, you had a tendency, back then, to consider Toriel yours alone) stepped aside.
What hadn’t been expected is what stood hidden behind her figure before she moved, only to reveal someone quite like you, maybe more shy though. Because if you were the radiant sun and kris something that had to be space adjacent, maybe the moon too, was far too noticeable.
You’d always wanted to refer to them as a star, maybe a small planet, millenias away from the earth’s solar system.
Even if they were, they’d be your favorite discovery, the kind of once in a lifetime achievement you can never go back from— a very real Kris, your Kris, a Kris that existed not for you, but allowed themself to orbit around you.
There had been festivals like this one, way back when, before Dess left and you subsequently stopped tagging along in hopes of not making it weird— you had always been too energetic, maybe too alive for people that deserved mourning.
Your goal was to have Kris and you elected, though you never spoke much of the ideal, rather happy in getting Noelle out of her shell. Not only because you were kind, but because it’d please everyone by your side.
Dess would be happy and teasing, and in return, Kriss would be content too— because surely, even as a child back then, you could see how life worked for them.
If Dess was content, so was Kris, and if Kris was pleased— so were you.
Still, they had lost, like they’d lost many times before. But this year they had put their all into it, Noelle even broke down in very real tears.
You never knew how to soothe people without being overbearing, so you had let Dess have a go at it as you stood there, watching everyone coo over the crying deer.
You hadn’t felt cast aside, you just kept to your part. Like a benevolent flower ready to calm someone by letting them admire them, during the whole parade, you nestled between Kris and Noelle, holding their hands as the girl clung to you.
It never felt like you had been jealous, because you hadn’t been. Still, your lack of action or as your father called, to sugarcoat all your horrible traits; your patience, never let you enjoy yourself.
Nobody had voted for you, but many people never get voted, so you did as you always did, and smiled.
Life’s constant punching bag, a human amongst monsters— a human that unlike Kris, never really knew why, but it had no desire to really fit in. You loved HomeTown for what it was, your small little town.
…but it never really felt like a solid home, especially when unlike Kris, you had no sibling to speak of, and your nights when not over at theirs were spent staring at your space wallpaper.
Space is a beautiful place, where neither humanity nor monsterkind rest, a place between linear and liminal, something you could have.
A consciousness where you’re nothing but a tiny dot in a grander scheme, those were your thoughts even as a small thing, a way of thinking that continued even as tragedy struck.
Yet you only conformed, ignored your own wants and played the kind nurturer.
You remember when Dess went missing.
Not because it particularly harmed you, you never really found yourself close to her as the others were, but because after that, Kris became a shell of themself.
(They had always been a little shy in a sense, but never outright dead inside, …but no they were, and you weren’t sure how long you could stay by their side).
You lasted about four weeks with this gimmick, coming to soften Toriel’s worries and sitting with Kris, sometimes watching TV— but the closer they came to killing every trace of themself they’d established, the harder it was for you, a child that had been lonely before they came to understand.
You tried a long of things, by such a saying, you mean it— so many things, born out of desperation.
“..Kris?” It’s always like that on the phone, your voice gets all quiet and you try your best to keep a gentle tone. You always fail to hide your excitement when near them, and they usually always loved to tease you about it.
They still did, but they sounded tired, exhausted.
And as patience personnified, you let them get better, that is to say, you vanished without a trace.
It makes you recall why you’re even at this festival in the first place.
You still see it as a contradictory yet welcoming surprise when just before the day of the festival, as you’re settling into bed because your mother had always insisted that “the early dove” gets more love— you hear your cellphone’s ringtone.
(You almost forgot how nice it sounded, you’re not quite sure what the song had been called, ah, Once Upon a Time—? Maybe? You think that had been it).
You only had approximately 10 people that could even have your number, and even then, double digits were too gracious, considering that despite being so kind, you were alone, if not completely gone in people’s mind.
A goner, if you’d be jokingly thinking of your social status.
Your contact list is as bare as your heart, which you confidently wear on your sleeve. It contains the only few people that’ve mattered over the years, even if talking with them is a long gone history.
Toriel, Sir Asgore (for calling him simply Asgore or dad like you’ve once called Toriel mom.. felt odd), your own parents, ah— Noelle and Kris.. oh, and Berdly!
On technicality, you owned Mr. Sans’ number too, but he wouldn’t call you so late, if at all. So you just assumed it’d be Toriel, asking if you’d be at the festival like she did, each year, even after the incident.
You’d always answer in that energetic but shy voice of yours, apologizing with a small “sorry, mom”— a nickname only uttered when you and the older woman were alone, to show her that you couldn’t come.
You’d be alone. Kris and you weren't as close as you could’ve once been, if anything, your existence likely made them sick.
You’re sure of that, because even if not close emotionally to Dess, your mother and hers had insisted you were at times, one in the same. Both rule smashing bandits ready to play tricks, and you too recall, that only in those troublemaker hours did you and the monster get along.
…ah, but the phone— you pick it up and almost gawk at the name on your screen— it’s Kris, as in, the very real and now forever distant Kris.
They remembered your existence, did they accidentally “come back” to previous senses? There was no way that amongst the apparently many new friends they were harboring, including the very scary Susie, that they could even spell your name anymore without issue.
But as the eyes are the door to the soul, your mind hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It indeed was your once beloved friend, your human buddy, the one you’d always playfully scold with an over the top “you’re so silly!”
You immediately respond to the call, like a bird tempted by a prize, though in your case, at best, you’re chasing after mediocre crumbs.
“…hi!” You sound almost desperate, a little breathy and happy— and you are, but the shame is still here. You can’t help but add onto the pile, immediately, in your awkwardness, ruining any chance of romance your delusional brain could’ve built.
“Did—” you sound unsure, yet you’re also certain of your following statement, knowingly ready to accept the loss. “Did you get the wrong number, Kris? It’s okay if you did—! It happens to me! All the time! Ahaha!”
It doesn't, because you have no one to call. The other end of the line is so silent, you think you’re about ready to cry.
But then you hear their voice. Not the weird voice this brand new image they’re trying to hold owns, but the small almost imperceptible monotone like tone they own, between unaware of their own rhythm and fully knowledge on how dry yet playful they could sound.
“…Hey.” They say, and you can help but beam with an ever higher “hey!”, then a reminder of how early your parents like to doze off, you quiet but grin nonetheless— a small little squeak of joy, you repeat the “..hey!” but quieter, your fear barely hidden amongst your positive emotions.
“Do you wanna go to the festival with me?”
You think you remember exactly how you reacted then, as you settled in your beat, your soul pulsing inside your chest as you felt the nausea come from the overwhelming idea of this being a nightmare, that soon enough, you’d wake up in a cold sweat.
They must notice your silence, and your heavy breathing— why are you so unable to own subtle panic? Ah, another thing that’s fundamentally Kris’ thing.
“…Forget i—” “WAIT!” It’s so quick, you give yourself whiplash from trying to sort your feelings, but oh, you want it— you’d love it, you dream of it, every year.
“I wanna go! I’ll go— … if you’ll have me, is that okay? I’ll be— Noelle, kind of, well no, her dad did.. tell me she’s going with Susie at the festival, ah and you friends— I get you don’t wanna third wheel and—” you can’t help but sink further into the send it seems, you always do.
“…Pfffft. He..hehe..”
You cut yourself, blinking at the sound coming from your device— a laugh, from Kris? Your Kris? After all those years, you can still pull such gentleness from deep within them?
…good to know!
“I’ll let you sleep now.” They still know how to make you have tunnel vision, apparently. Because they hang up so quickly, you’d believe they’re the flustered one, when you’re the one feeling so! But it makes you smile, it soothes whatever ache was settling in by your side, ready to cuddle you for the night.
Well, not tonight— that feels right.
And the next day hour passes, you have fun, you suppose— after the Ferris wheel, which you’ve many thoughts about, you, Kris, Susie and of course, Noelle— before getting ice cream, decide to stop by to hope for a prom king and queen.
(..weird notion, you’ve always called it royalties, because you’re neither king nor queen and so is Kris. You’re just you and they’re just them).
You wonder what you should do, it’s actually a lot. Should you vote for you and your pair, or do as you’ve always done the previous years when the event still mattered in your head? You’d usually go for Asriel and well, yeah— but now, Noelle isn’t trying to win with Kris.
So, maybe.. just maybe? You could—
“..Hey.” Kris whispers to you, and you can’t even recall how or when they’d gotten so close, seemingly focused on you as they show you their papers, two names clear as day.
You and Them, in that messy handwriting of theirs— your name stylized while theirs remain bland, you can’t help but chuckle as you watch and watch, it’s cute, really.
As if motivated, you finally decide on allowing yourself this, writing both of your names in your best version of your handwriting, grinning at each other with a flush to your respective faces.
It seems Susie and Noelle easily notice your secret exchange, because the purple monster immediately spins you round and tries (and succeeds) to take a look at your paper. Which then, has her leaning in, whispering something to Noelle.
As if convinced, the deer girl beams and nods with her partner, suddenly motivated as she scribbles down on her paper, and immediately both of them present their offering to you and Kris.
They’ve voted for you two, too.
You stay quiet for a while, almost sniffling as Susie starts to laugh and Noelle gets closer to you as if panicked you’ll bawl from what you’ve perceived as immense kindness.
Kris, near you, simply smiles— you think you notice an almost relaxed expression on their face unlike the few days where even if they think they can hide it well, you can notice their immense distress.
Moving on, not before being teased by Susie about “winnin’ and getting diseases from kissin’”, you’re ready to follow the two girls after your group has gotten ice cream.
(A simple nice vanilla flavor for Kris, you don’t like too much sugar, funny as it is— but they’re the one, and it doesn’t get as romantic as this to you, that wanted to share. You don’t care for the flavor, just the promise of the indirect kiss).
Kris isn’t the same though, you find, for their grip on the arm you’re not using is somewhat tight. It makes you stop in your tracks and reconsider.
Susie and Noelle are going to the water, maybe.. Do they want them to have more privacy? You can agree on this. So you smile at the two and urge him with your hand to go, they both blush, but play along the opening you leave them.
Even tho you think, just like you, Kris probably felt Susie’s worry— but you’re sure she’ll ace it.
Whatever she says, Noelle will be content to have time spent with her.
So you and Kris are alone, and you smile softly before fully grinning.
“Wanna go to my house? We can watch TV.” You’re not sure they’re interested in whatever sappy romance series you’ve been watching, but they’d like anything you do, and so, they follow.
It’s honestly, not as awkward as you’d thought, in fact, you’re pretty sure that many times— the way you and them both consume the ice cream borders on you being grounded if your parents walked in.
But again, you’d do anything for Kris.
Which is why after finishing the treat; you go along their whim, even if they seem to resist themself in the idea of going.
So you end up in your room, a lifetime of memory, nothing changed.
The photos on your walls are still there, the many and various memories of the two glued to each other— the testimony to a lifetime of devotion to someone as flawed as them.
(But you’re no better yourself, you’d argue).
“I kept everything.” You remark as they watch the walls, particularly a picture of you and them on halloween— you’d always liked to switch the stories, forcing them to dress as an angel and you had the devil.
In the picture, you and Kris are very much mimicking Asriel and Dess’ behavior, your faces are close to one another, you almost lay some kind of kiss on their face as you both stare at the camera.
You’re both slightly flushed but giddy, ah, how sweet— speaking of both you, in the picture! And maybe currently too!
The next words shock you as much as they please you, because Kris always pull the rug from under your feet and makes you swoon.
“…Wanna do something crazy?” and they offer you their hand, like they hold all the answers— like they can fly and take you with them.
And like a fool in love, what other choices do you owe if not the right one?
“..Yes.” you answer breathlessly, like you’re being saved by an angel.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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,,
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
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!
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?
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.
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!
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2087
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