The Void

🔥I’m on a highway to hell🔥 And you're coming with me (20f)

[redwolfxx]

~·˚₊🦆 Welcome to the void🦆₊˚·~

masterlist/request info

hi and welcome to my void!

this blog is my space to practice creative writing — i’m more used to technical research papers and wanted to branch out into other writing styles

this blog was edited/made on computer site so it may look different on the phone, sorry in advance.

spoiler: sometimes i'm real slow at updating, and sometimes i binge update

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

About me:

- I'm obsessed with fish and have many tanks, pls ask me about them 🥺

- I'm obsessed with hot men

- College can suck dick (derogatory)

✨ current fandom interests ✨ lookism, one piece, marvel rivals, ult spiderman, dc young justice, way too many animes (try me), call of duty, hsr, destiny, various video games.

✨ current favorites✨

lookism: gun/goo (literally top tier)

one piece: ace/doffy/croc

marvel rivals: venom/iron fist/spiderman

etc....

i don’t write for all of them, but feel free to ask!

[redwolfxx]

taking a kinda break rn from writing (more than i already have); as i'm currently studying for the mcat.....🫡

will be back when im back

you can still send in requests they just won't get done for a bit...

[lettaniko]

Finally finished this piece after months of reworking. Far from perfect, but I’m glad it’s done. Inspired by the amazing Bruno Redondo, Dan Mora, and especially Dexter Soy.

[redwolfxx]

when will chapter 3 for twin dragons come out? ❤️

Hi! Sorry i forgot to link it to the m.list when i posted it. It is now linked!

Post by @redwolfxx · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 18 · twin dragons · CHAPTER THREE lin lie x reader x danny rand iron fists x reader (strategist) context: marvel rivals a/n

[redwolfxx]

hiii! im like 82% sure your requests are open so if possible can i req a jealous!gun x reader :3? you can make it any gender you want (male preferred but honestly i don't mind any as long as you'e comfortable ><) some people are getting too handsy with reader who's on a mission to infiltrate another gang, and gun notices

a/n: hi! yeah my inbox is open, i just suck at being timely about this stuff.

tried to do more gender neutral, hope this is close to what you were looking for!

hands off!

jealous!gun x reader

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

You'd been assigned in an undercover role by your boss Charles Choi. You were to infiltrate one of your boyfriend Gun's gangs that he ran.

Something about illegal activity, not than any of what they nor you did was indeed legal, but this was more so.

Rumors of trafficking, drug smuggling, and underage gambling had been spreading and it was important to lock this down before it became a real problem if these rumors were true.

As expected anyone with unsavory rumors of the sort wouldn't exactly be expected to be a decent human being with the basic respect for others.

When Gun had first heard of your new assignment, he pressed in whether this was really a good choice, pressing that he could go in and just brute force find this information out. There was no need to subject yourself to such an environment.

Leading up to your infiltration you conducted hours of research, learning the gangs habits, structure, everything.

It had been about a month since you went to go work for this crew, and luckily -saying that lightly- it wasn't human trafficking, but it was drug smuggling, gambling for all ages, other such things.

You needed to gain the boss' full trust in order to take the ledgers to turn in to Charles so they could be dealt with accordingly.

The gang was, as expected, crawling with filth. Men with rings adorning fingers and eyes lingering longer than they should.

To your relief, it had only been unsavory stares and unnecessary comments from them, nothing more. No one followed you nor pressured you. No attempts to cross your line in the sand once you declined their various...offers.

However, on this one particular day, there was a odd twinge to the air. An unusual tension that had caused tighter words and stricter orders from the higher ups.

And at the end of the day, when work was over and the lot of you had headed over to the nearby bar, all hell was set loose.

You were all regulars so the bar owner and workers paid your group no mind considering the large amount of business your group brought day after day.

It was if, the few hours of this single day, being "cooped up" in tight suits and a struct schedule had worn them down as if this was their everyday life and this was their first chance to break free in a year.

Voices filled the air with loud bouts of laughter and arguments between members of your group. Glasses occasionally dropped and tables occasionally flipped. Rowdier than usual, and the alcohol and drug consumption increasing tenfold.

Eyes that were the only thing to linger now were followed by unwanted touches and vulgar comments thrown to passing patrons and some directed towards you.

Unbeknownst to you and your group, the cause of the higher-ups stress, due to an unannounced audit, was sitting across the bar from your group, nursing a drink.

From across the bar, Gun sat with his arms folded, expression unreadable behind tinted glasses. You were too far to see him, let alone the twitch of his jaw when one of the gang members leaned a little too close. Or when a hand brushed your lower back under the guise of guiding you somewhere quieter to talk. You flinched—barely—and kept your face calm, trying not to blow your cover with a fight of any sort.

He tried to let you handle this yourself, you were an adult, he trusted you, and he knew you could handle these things.

The final straw came when some guy—greasy smile and too much cologne—that you sat next to in a booth placed a hand on your thigh. His jaw tightened, he was going to let you handle this, he knew you could, he knew you needed to get critical information from this guy, if he recalled this was a higher-up in the organization, in charge of the books if he remembered right.

But, when the old pig tried to move his hand higher than it should ever have even considered going, Gun was already moving.

Gun was prepared for any consequences that would follow whether that be a lecture from you or Choi.

His presence hit like a cold wind. One second, you were enduring the act; the next, a hand closed over the guy’s shoulder—tight. The air shifted.

“I don’t remember seeing you ask to touch what isn’t yours,” Gun said, voice cold. Dangerous.

The man froze, recognizing him as the man who caused the chaos earlier that day within his higher ranking members like himself. Trying to play it off, he attempted to grunt out something along the lines of. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Gun didn’t let him finish. He yanked the guy back so fast the chair toppled. A hand to the collar, a knee to the spine, and the man was face-down on the floor before anyone in the bar even processed what happened.

You stood quickly, heart pounding. Not from fear. From something else.

Gun looked at you. Not cold. Not angry.

Something else.

Protective. Intense. Territorial.

“Why are you here? Do you not trust me to handle this?” you whispered, stepping toward him.

His gaze flicked down your body—slow, deliberate. “I trust you. I don’t trust them."

He glanced at the groaning man on the ground. “This mission’s over. You got what you needed.”

“I was getting more.”

Gun’s hand brushed your wrist—gently. “And he was getting greedy.”

You looked down at where his fingers touched yours. Warm. Anchoring.

“You’re not subtle when you’re jealous,” you murmured.

He smirked, just slightly. “I’m not trying to be.”

A long beat passed between you.

The others in the room were too stunned to interfere. No one dared challenge him—not with the sharp glint in his eye, the casual violence in his posture.

I guess that was it for you so called subtle infiltration, you had most of what you needed anyway.

After a moment of intense eye contact, you relented. “Fine. You win. Let’s go.”

Gun didn’t let go of your wrist, even as you walked out together into the cool night air.

Only once you were far enough from the building did he stop.

“You okay?” he asked, quietly now.

“Yeah. How about you? You seemed quite tense back there."

“I’m the one who had to watch someone else paw at you like a toy,” he muttered. “You tell me.”

Your heart beat harder. “It was just part of the job.”

Gun stepped closer, fingers brushing your waist now. Less hesitant. Less careful. His voice dropped.

“I don’t want it to be.”

You looked up at him, breath catching.

“And what do you want?” you asked.

His answer came without pause.

“You. No roles. No missions. Just you.”

[redwolfxx]

Hi ! Wanted to ask if you could write a fluff happy story with james lee ( when he's in highschool ) maybe like a date with the reader ? And if you could tag me if you do it ? Thanks !

you're lucky i like you

james lee x reader

a/n: hi i'm so sorry i literally did not see this ask back then, but now it is done.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

You should’ve known James Lee didn’t do anything halfway.

He didn’t just top exams — he finished first and didn’t bother showing up to the award ceremony. He didn’t just win fights — he walked away without a scratch and with his hands still in his pockets. And apparently, he didn’t ask people out on dates either.

He told them.

So, when the perfect prince of your school casually stopped by your desk in the middle of biology and said, “You’re free today after school, right?” you stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Um... I think so?” you said, blinking.

“Good. You’re coming with me.”

And with that, he walked off.

No explanation. No smirk. Just a flick of his hair and a calm arrogance that made you want to throw your pencil at his back.

After school, James was already waiting for you near the back gate, leaning against the fence like something out of a manga panel. One headphone in, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

You approached, wary. “So... where exactly are we going?”

He didn’t look at you right away — just started walking.

When you didn't follow at first, he stopped to look back.

"Are you coming or not?"

You tried to keep up, but his legs were longer and his pace unapologetically fast. Still, when you finally caught up, you noticed he’d slowed down just enough for you to match.

“You always walk this fast?” you asked, a little breathless.

“I usually don’t have someone with me,” he said, glancing at you. “But I guess I can adjust.”

Somehow, that simple sentence made your face heat up.

You ended up at an old arcade tucked between two buildings. The sign flickered with half-dead lights, but the inside buzzed with life: flashing machines, retro games, the scent of cheap snacks and overheated consoles.

James slid a gaming card into your hand without a word.

“I already beat the high scores,” he said, clearly waiting for praise. “But maybe you’ll surprise me.”

You gave him a look. “And let me guess — if I don’t, you’ll make fun of me for the rest of the week?”

He smirked, the very picture of self-satisfaction. “Obviously.”

But you weren’t going down without a fight.

Thirty minutes later, you were definitely losing.

James destroyed you at every game — driving, dancing, shooting. He wasn’t even trying hard, which somehow made it worse. After each win, he’d glance over with that smug tilt of his head and say something infuriating like:

“Don’t take it personally. I’m just built different.”

Or worse:

“You looked really focused that time. Almost thought you had a chance.”

You threatened to throw your water bottle at him. He laughed, and for a split second, it was easy to forget he was the same guy who could bench press half the school.

Then you reached the claw machine.

“I want that one,” you said, pointing to a squishy cat plush with big round eyes. “Bet you can’t get it.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Watch me.”

He slid in a token. Missed. Narrowly.

“Fluke,” he muttered.

Second try. Closer — but still no plush.

You were grinning now. “Thought you were good at everything?”

He looked like he wanted to fight the machine.

By the fifth try, when he finally snatched the plush and dramatically handed it over, his ears were red and his pride clearly wounded.

You clutched the plush to your chest, triumphant. “You like me that much, huh?”

James narrowed his eyes, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

You leaned closer. “Too late.”

Later, the two of you sat on a curb outside the arcade, sharing a warm convenience store snack and watching the sky turn pink.

James was quiet for a while, then said, “You’re the only person I’ve brought here.”

You looked at him. “Really?”

He nodded, still chewing. “I hate crowds. People try to talk to me, challenge me, show off. It’s annoying.”

You laughed. “So why me?”

James shrugged, then met your eyes. “You’re... quiet. But you say what you think. You’re not scared of me. And you don’t try to impress me.”

Your chest did a weird little skip. “And that’s enough for a date?”

He leaned back on his hands, smug again. “No. That’s enough for me to chase you.”

You stared. “Wait. Are you saying you like me?”

James smirked. “I’m saying you’re lucky I do.”

You were speechless — and he loved it.

When you finally stood to leave, plush in hand and heart threatening to leap out of your chest, James walked you home without being asked. Just like earlier, he adjusted his pace — this time without pretending he didn’t care.

At your front door, he stopped.

“Next time,” he said, eyes sharp but warm, “you’re buying the snacks. I already carried this date.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “I think my winning personality carried it, actually.”

James grinned, rare and real. “Keep thinking that. It’s cute.”

And then, like the cocky menace he was, he turned and walked off — hands in his pockets, looking like nothing special had happened.

But you were still standing there, plush in your arms and cheeks burning, realizing this might’ve been the best date of your life.

[redwolfxx]

was watching the way of the house husband

and why is it literally gun?? Also tatsu is literally the best.

[redwolfxx]

⇨ [twin dragons]— [lin lie x reader x danny rand] !series

🦆 more coming soon…

[redwolfxx]

✅= edited/rewritten/replaced as of 5/22/25

⇨ [memories] [pt. 2] — [james lee x reader] ✅

⇨ [you're lucky i like you] - [james lee x reader] ✅

⇨ [ love, your shadow]— [james lee x reader] ✅

⇨ [ your eyes only]— [kim joongoo x reader] ✅

⇨ [always that close]— [kim joongoo x reader] ✅

⇨ [home screen]— [kim joongoo x reader x park jonggun] ✅

⇨ [built like a hero, dense like a brick]— [vasco x reader] ✅

⇨ [buy your love]— [jay hong x reader] ✅

⇨ [just missed]— [jay hong x reader] ✅

⇨ [the path you took]— [johan seong x reader] ✅

⇨ [get him back!]— [park jonggun x reader] ✅

⇨ [if you died]— [park jonggun x reader] ✅

⇨ [if he died]— [park jonggun x reader] ✅

⇨ [not a simp]— [park jonggun x reader] ✅

⇨ [hands off!]— [park jonggun x reader]

🦆 more coming soon…

[redwolfxx]

home screen

goo x reader x gun

summary: gun/goo/rder/poly : lockscreen/homescreen, showing each other, reader gets shy

tw: embarrassment, suggestive, gun&goo are warnings themselves

a/n: for those of you who read it the first time, I've rewritten/edited it to be significantly less embarassing for me to acknowledge having wrote.

---------------------------------------------------------

It started like any other weekday evening — curled up on the couch between two oversized men with too much attitude and not enough personal space awareness. Goo had his legs thrown across your lap like a spoiled cat, flicking through videos on his phone at full volume, while Gun scrolled silently through emails on his.

You, nestled in between and minding your business, unlocked your own phone to check a message—just for a second.

And that was your first mistake.

Goo craned his neck a little too suddenly. "Wait, was that your home screen?"

You flinched. "Nope. You saw nothing."

Gun looked over, eyes glinting. "It looked like a picture."

“It’s called a background image,” you said dryly, locking your phone and hugging it to your chest. “Very common.”

"Of us," Goo added with a delighted grin. "I saw an arm. And unless you're cheating on us with some other ripped guy, that was definitely Gun's."

You buried your face in your hands. “You're making this weird.”

"We are weird, babe," Goo said, poking your cheek. "Now show us.”

“No.”

"Fine," he said, puffing up his chest like this was a negotiation. "Trade deal. You show us yours, we show you ours."

You gave him a suspicious squint. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

Goo beamed, already unlocking his phone. “Because you absolutely will.”

He turned the screen toward you. His lock screen was—of course—a blurry meme from TikTok. Something incomprehensible with impact font text and a cursed face. You blinked at it.

“That tracks,” you muttered.

“Wait for it,” he said, and with a flourish, he swiped to his home screen.

There it was: you. Mid-sleep. Mouth hanging open. Face unflatteringly squished between Goo’s bicep and Gun’s chest. Hair a mess. Drooling.

“GOO.”

You lunged, trying to grab the phone, but he laughed and stretched his arm effortlessly out of reach. Your attempts to climb him only made it worse, especially when he let you get almost there before lifting it higher.

Gun chuckled softly from beside you. “Interesting choice.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Goo said, still holding the phone hostage. “Gun, your turn.”

Gun pulled his own phone out with the calm menace of someone too confident. No flourish. No dramatics.

His lock screen was deceptively sweet—a photo of you and him at a recent charity gala, both dressed to the nines. His hand on your back. Your smile soft, almost shy.

You blinked. “That’s… actually nice.”

Gun glanced at you. “That’s the point.”

And then he turned the screen again—to the home screen.

You almost screamed.

There you were. Face flushed, lips parted, hair a mess, sweat glistening on your collarbones. It was post-something, very obviously, and your expression was dazed and high on bliss.

“Gun! What the hell—delete that!”

He raised an eyebrow, like he was confused by your reaction. “I like it.”

You buried your head in your hands. “You are both insane.”

“It’s art,” Goo added helpfully.

“Kill me now.”

“Alright, your turn,” Goo said, nudging you. “You promised.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

Gun leaned closer. “We showed you ours. It’s only fair.”

You hesitated.

Goo pouted.

Gun stared.

You cracked.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“No promises,” Goo said, already grinning.

“I will physically throw you off the balcony.”

“That’s flirting, and I accept.”

You unlocked your phone, handed it over with a grimace, and immediately turned to face the wall like some shamed anime character in exile.

“Lock screen first,” Goo announced.

A pause.

“Oh, it’s us!” he said, a little too enthusiastically. “That event last month. Damn, we look good.”

You muttered something incomprehensible into the couch cushion.

“And now the moment of truth,” Gun said, voice rich with amusement.

Another pause.

And then:

“Oh-ho-HO,” Goo cackled. “You creep. This is what you’ve been hiding?”

“Shut up,” you groaned, face burning.

Gun didn’t speak right away. But you felt the weight of his silence — that signature intensity like he was analyzing every pixel.

Your home screen was… well, it wasn’t that bad. To you. It was a candid photo you’d snuck one morning — the two of them, fresh out of the shower, towels slung low around their hips. Goo was mid-laugh, water dripping down his chest. Gun was looking into the mirror, head tilted back slightly, hair damp and slicked back. The lighting was ridiculous. Their muscles looked unfair.

“You took this?” Gun asked quietly.

You refused to turn around/

“Secret admirer,” Goo grinned. “And here I thought you were the innocent one.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You know,” Goo said, casually throwing his arm around your shoulders, “if you want more material, all you have to do is ask.”

“Goo—”

“I’ll even pose. Mood lighting. Oil. Get you some options for the week.”

“I swear to god.”

Gun handed your phone back. “It’s flattering.”

You took it back with a scowl, swiping up to change the screen like your life depended on it.

Goo leaned into your ear, voice a low whisper.

“Hey babe. Paint me like one of your French girls.”

“Goo, I will throttle you.”

“Not in front of the kids,” he whispered dramatically, looking at your phone like it had feelings.

You threw his phone out the window. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided to just… never open your phone around them again.

Ever.

[redwolfxx]

For those who read it the first time. I'm so sorry.

In any case, it's been edited to be less cringey, a little more comprehensible, still embarrassing to acknowledge its existence.

I think it's slightly better now.

[redwolfxx]

the path you took

johan seong x reader

tag: angst

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

You and Johan had always been inseparable, two souls quietly bound since childhood. When people said his name, yours followed, as if the two of you were one. You knew every way to make him smile, every quiet fear he kept hidden beneath his calm. You were the person who held his hand through storms, the one who stayed awake late, helping him study or listening when he said nothing but needed someone there.

Life had started getting harsh and scary, but with him, everything felt safe. You made promises to each other—unspoken but sacred—that no matter what, you’d never let go. You believed it. You trusted it.

But life has a way of pulling people apart slowly, without warning.

At first, it was subtle. The texts you sent went unanswered for hours, then days. The calls you made turned to voicemails, and voicemails were left hanging in the silence. You reached, always reaching — but the distance grew wider, like an invisible wall rising between you.

You tried to believe he was just busy, that he was wrestling something inside. You told yourself he’d come back, that maybe he needed time to fix things you couldn’t see.

But he didn't come back. He left you with no parting words.

The only trace of his existence being his avoidance of you, from darting eyes to crossed streets. The boy who once held your hand as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded now left you standing alone on the other side of the street.

You sent messages that stayed unread, called when his phone was silent. You waited for him to answer, to explain, to come back — but the silence only deepened.

You searched for clues in memories: late nights in the park, whispered dreams of forever, the way his eyes would brighten when he saw you.

How did all of that disappear without a word? Your heart ached for the Johan who cared so deeply — the one who promised he’d never leave your side. But the boy you held onto was slipping away, fading like a distant star.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. And then he was gone.

No texts, no calls, no sign that he ever cared. Just emptiness.

You wanted to hate him. You wanted to forget. But the space he left behind was too big, filled with everything you’d shared and lost.

Then, one evening — long after you had accept his abandonment and at the edge of lost memories— your phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

A message, simple, conveying so much yet so little.

I’m sorry. I’m trying to find my way back - Johan

It couldn't be him, not after all these years without him. But, god did you want it to be.

Your heart rate quickened as you reached to respond. You had so many questions, so many words.

But you hesitated to even respond.

Years of silence built a wall around your heart, and opening the door felt impossible.

But, you couldn't help it.

You replied, cautiously.

He responded slowly at first — a message here, a call there — like he was testing the waters. Explaining, apologizing, telling you about the battles he fought alone, the darkness he had to face before he could even think of coming back to you.

You listened. You wanted to listen. Because beneath all that distance, the Johan you loved was still there. The one who cared, who was scared but trying.

Yet, with every tentative step forward, you felt the weight of all the lost time. The nights you spent wondering if he remembered you, the moments you wanted to scream at him for leaving without a word.

Trust doesn’t heal overnight. And love — real love — means risking everything to believe in someone again, even when you’re afraid.

So now you stand on the edge, hesitant but hopeful. Wondering if the path he took away from you can lead back home.

If the bond you built — so strong once — can survive the silence.

If the Johan who left can be the Johan who stays.

And maybe, one day, the answer will be yes.

[redwolfxx]

built like a hero, dense like a brick

Vasco x Reader

request: vasco = dense as a brick

a/n: i'm not a huge vasco fan, so i hope i did him justice 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened—when Vasco went from “weirdly strong guy who reads dictionaries for fun” to someone who made heads turn just by walking into a room.

It was gradual, like most things with him. His training with Burn Knuckles had always been intense, but lately it seemed like he was sculpting himself into a walking statue. Broader chest, stronger arms, tighter shirts that no longer hung off him like laundry. Even his voice had deepened, just enough to catch people off guard when he spoke.

Not that Vasco noticed. Of course he didn’t.

You noticed, though. And apparently so did half the population.

Today was meant to be a quiet Saturday. Just you and Vasco. No Burn Knuckles chaos, no errands, no stress. You'd planned to grab lunch, maybe browse a few stores, and hit the arcade. Something normal. Something you didn’t have to share with anyone else.

But normal wasn’t in the cards.

It started at the ramen shop.

The waitress had been way too friendly from the moment you sat down. At first you tried not to think anything of it—maybe she was just bubbly. Until she leaned in, elbows on the table, and said with a grin, “You’ve really been hitting the gym, huh?”

Vasco looked up from his menu, blinking like a confused puppy. “I do push-ups every morning.”

You hid your smile behind your hand. Of course that was his response.

The waitress giggled. “Well, it’s working. You’re built. You know that, right?”

He paused. “I am built?”

“Totally. You’ve got a superhero kind of thing going on. Bet you could lift me.”

Vasco blinked again, then tilted his head. “Why would I lift you?”

You choked on your water.

The waitress laughed again, a little forced now. “Just saying. You’ve got the look. Tall, strong, handsome... kind of hard to miss.”

That’s when Vasco turned to you, dead serious. “Do I have a look now?”

You grinned. “Apparently. Eat your noodles.”

He did. But not before whispering, “She keeps blinking weirdly. Is that a signal?”

Later, when you were walking through the market, the sun warm on your backs and the streets buzzing with weekend energy, it started to wear on you. The waitress hadn’t been the only one.

Three different girls had stopped him on the sidewalk to ask for directions they didn’t need. One gym bro had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Damn, dude. What’s your routine?” Even the cashier at the bookstore looked like she forgot how numbers worked for a second.

It wasn’t Vasco’s fault. That was the worst part. He never played into it, never flirted back—he didn’t even seem to realize it was flirting. But that didn’t stop the heat curling in your stomach every time it happened.

You told yourself you weren’t the jealous type.

But you were starting to wonder.

You stopped on the bridge overlooking the river, the breeze tugging gently at your shirt. Vasco was beside you, his bag full of claw machine prizes (all won by him, naturally—his grip strength was terrifying). His expression was soft, like he could stand there forever.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What? No. Why would I be mad?”

“You keep sighing. And frowning. And your walking speed increased by twenty percent.”

You stared at him. “Did you measure that?”

He nodded, dead serious. “Rough estimate. But noticeable.”

You rolled your eyes, then looked out at the water. “I’m not mad. Just… irritated.”

“With me?”

“No. Just... people.”

He tilted his head. “Because of the compliments?”

You exhaled. “Yeah, maybe.”

He frowned. “Compliments are supposed to make people feel good. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, Vasco. That’s the thing—you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just... you. And people notice now. And they flirt. A lot. And you don’t realize it, which somehow makes it worse.”

“Oh,” he said softly.

You expected him to say something awkward or oblivious—but instead, he stayed quiet for a moment, thoughtful in that rare way he got when he was truly trying to understand something.

“I don’t care about being noticed,” he said finally. “I just want to be with you.”

You turned your head, surprised by how calm and certain his voice was.

“I don’t like the compliments,” he added, almost like a confession. “They confuse me. They feel… slippery. Yours don’t.”

“Mine don’t?” you echoed.

He shook his head. “When you say nice things, they make sense. They come with your smile. Or your hand on my arm. Or your laugh. I know what you mean. With them… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like anything I want.”

Your chest did a little twist at that.

“You always make sense to me,” he said, turning to face you fully. “Even when you’re mad. Even when you sigh a lot.”

A beat of silence passed before you leaned your head against his shoulder. He was warm and solid and didn’t flinch, even though you knew the move probably still surprised him.

“You’re really dense sometimes, you know that?” you murmured.

“I know. Jace tells me every day.”

You laughed.

“Just promise you won’t fall for any random waitress with big eyes and a fake laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t let anyone lift you.”

“Why would they lift me?”

“I don’t know. Revenge.”

He smiled, and it was the kind that made your stomach flutter.

He reached for your hand, a little hesitant, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want something so small. But when you laced your fingers through his, you felt him relax, just slightly.

The two of you stood there for a while, watching the sky slowly bleed into a richer blue. Boats rocked gently below, and somewhere nearby, a musician played soft guitar.

Eventually, he walked you home, and you both stopped at a food truck for something sweet. You got ice cream. He got two because he couldn’t decide.

At your door, you turned to him, still holding hands, still riding that soft buzz in your chest.

“Thanks for today,” you said.

He nodded. “Even the confusing parts?”

“Especially those.”

You kissed him quickly—just a brush against his cheek, but it turned him bright red.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” he said, voice a little too loud from nerves.

You stepped inside and closed the door, pressing your back against it for a second with a ridiculous grin on your face.

Outside, Vasco stood on your porch for a few seconds longer than he needed to, staring at the spot where you’d kissed him. Then, with a big, dopey smile, he walked off into the night.

[redwolfxx]

ive decieded

everything is getting rewritted/redone/if not deleted.\

sorry if something you like gets deleted

SPOILER (i hate it all, ahahahaha)

[redwolfxx]

~·˚₊🦆 Requests / Masterlist 🦆₊˚·~ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

📭 request box: OPEN

✨🐤 REQUEST GUIDELINES ✨🐤

✧ want to be tagged? yes/no ✧ character & fandom ✧ type: fluff, angst, imagine, drabble, etc. ✧ theme or vibe? ✧ general prompt / scenario

will accept asks of varying types and can work with you to create something if wanted, i am "open minded" (quote: hongdae guy)

WILL NOT:

will not do male!reader because i'm a cis hetero female and cannot faithfully write from the male perspective as such.

also, won't' do anything real bad like incest, pedo, etc, because absolutely not.

~·˚₊🦆 Masterlist 🦆₊˚·~

(most of these are gender neutral or fem reader) Lookism

Marvel Rivals

🦆 more coming soon…

[redwolfxx]

home screen

goo x reader x gun

tw: teasing , suggestive?, gun/goo are warnings themselves, reader dies of embarrassment, as am I

a/n: for those of you who read it the first time, I've rewritten/edited it to be significantly less embarrassing for me to acknowledge having wrote.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

It started like any other weekday evening — curled up on the couch between two oversized men with too much attitude and not enough personal space awareness. Goo had his legs thrown across your lap like a spoiled cat, flicking through videos on his phone at full volume, while Gun scrolled silently through emails on his.

You, nestled in between and minding your business, unlocked your own phone to check a message—just for a second.

And that was your first mistake.

Goo craned his neck a little too suddenly. "Wait, was that your home screen?"

You flinched. "Nope. You saw nothing."

Gun looked over, eyes glinting. "It looked like a picture."

“It’s called a background image,” you said dryly, locking your phone and hugging it to your chest. “Very common.”

"Of us," Goo added with a delighted grin. "I saw an arm. And unless you're cheating on us with some other ripped guy, that was definitely Gun's."

You buried your face in your hands. “You're making this weird.”

"We are weird, babe," Goo said, poking your cheek. "Now show us.”

“No.”

"Fine," he said, puffing up his chest like this was a negotiation. "Trade deal. You show us yours, we show you ours."

You gave him a suspicious squint. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

Goo beamed, already unlocking his phone. “Because you absolutely will.”

He turned the screen toward you. His lock screen was—of course—a blurry meme from TikTok. Something incomprehensible with impact font text and a cursed face. You blinked at it.

“That tracks,” you muttered.

“Wait for it,” he said, and with a flourish, he swiped to his home screen.

There it was: you. Mid-sleep. Mouth hanging open. Face unflatteringly squished between Goo’s bicep and Gun’s chest. Hair a mess. Drooling.

“GOO.”

You lunged, trying to grab the phone, but he laughed and stretched his arm effortlessly out of reach. Your attempts to climb him only made it worse, especially when he let you get almost there before lifting it higher.

Gun chuckled softly from beside you. “Interesting choice.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Goo said, still holding the phone hostage. “Gun, your turn.”

Gun pulled his own phone out with the calm menace of someone too confident. No flourish. No dramatics.

His lock screen was deceptively sweet—a photo of you and him at a recent charity gala, both dressed to the nines. His hand on your back. Your smile soft, almost shy.

You blinked. “That’s… actually nice.”

Gun glanced at you. “That’s the point.”

And then he turned the screen again—to the home screen.

You almost screamed.

There you were. Face flushed, lips parted, hair a mess, sweat glistening on your collarbones. It was post-something, very obviously, and your expression was dazed and high on bliss.

“Gun! What the hell—delete that!”

He raised an eyebrow, like he was confused by your reaction. “I like it.”

You buried your head in your hands. “You are both insane.”

“It’s art,” Goo added helpfully.

“Kill me now.”

“Alright, your turn,” Goo said, nudging you. “You promised.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

Gun leaned closer. “We showed you ours. It’s only fair.”

You hesitated.

Goo pouted.

Gun stared.

You cracked.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“No promises,” Goo said, already grinning.

“I will physically throw you off the balcony.”

“That’s flirting, and I accept.”

You unlocked your phone, handed it over with a grimace, and immediately turned to face the wall like some shamed anime character in exile.

“Lock screen first,” Goo announced.

A pause.

“Oh, it’s us!” he said, a little too enthusiastically. “That event last month. Damn, we look good.”

You muttered something incomprehensible into the couch cushion.

“And now the moment of truth,” Gun said, voice rich with amusement.

Another pause.

And then:

“Oh-ho-HO,” Goo cackled. “You creep. This is what you’ve been hiding?”

“Shut up,” you groaned, face burning.

Gun didn’t speak right away. But you felt the weight of his silence — that signature intensity like he was analyzing every pixel.

Your home screen was… well, it wasn’t that bad. To you. It was a candid photo you’d snuck one morning — the two of them, fresh out of the shower, towels slung low around their hips. Goo was mid-laugh, water dripping down his chest. Gun was looking into the mirror, head tilted back slightly, hair damp and slicked back. The lighting was ridiculous. Their muscles looked unfair.

“You took this?” Gun asked quietly.

You refused to turn around/

“Secret admirer,” Goo grinned. “And here I thought you were the innocent one.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You know,” Goo said, casually throwing his arm around your shoulders, “if you want more material, all you have to do is ask.”

“Goo—”

“I’ll even pose. Mood lighting. Oil. Get you some options for the week.”

“I swear to god.”

Gun handed your phone back. “It’s flattering.”

You took it back with a scowl, swiping up to change the screen like your life depended on it.

Goo leaned into your ear, voice a low whisper.

“Hey babe. Paint me like one of your French girls.”

“Goo, I will throttle you.”

“Not in front of the kids,” he whispered dramatically, looking at your phone like it had feelings.

You threw his phone out the window. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided to just… never open your phone around them again.

Ever.

[redwolfxx]

if he died

(Gun x reader)

Tw: death

Summary: Title

A/N: i'm a gun stan 🫣 can't help myself, he's too fine, sorry for all the angst - such a mood killer, gonna have to write something happier this makes me feel like 💩😭😭

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

If he was killed

It was late. He should’ve been home by now.

Normally, you'd hear the door creak open, his boots hitting the floor with that heavy, familiar rhythm. He’d brush past you, a quick kiss to the forehead on his way to the bathroom, probably bloodied, bruised, and cursing under his breath—but alive.

But that night, the silence stretched.

You told yourself he was tied up with work. Maybe Goo had dragged him to one of those godawful karaoke bars they used to frequent. Maybe the job took longer than expected. You kept making excuses as the clock ticked past midnight, then two, then three.

Your texts remained unread. Your calls rang unanswered.

Goo was your last resort. They hadn’t been on good terms for a while, but you didn’t know who else to turn to.

You were scrolling to his name when the doorbell rang.

Relief surged in your chest—until you remembered: Gun had a key.

You grabbed the metal bat from the closet and approached the door, eye to the peephole.

It was Goo.

You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you. Just stood there.

When you tried to invite him in, he didn’t move. Instead, his arms opened.

A hug.

From Goo.

That was when your gut twisted. Your chest tightened.

You asked where Gun was. Demanded it. Over and over. Each question sharper than the last.

But Goo didn’t answer. He just held you as you broke down, fists weakly beating against his chest, sobs ripping from your throat. He didn’t say the words. He didn’t have to.

You knew.

He was gone.

Not from injury or accident—but killed. You weren't told the details. Not that night. Not for a long time. But you suspected—it had something to do with his past, with revenge, with debts he never paid in kindness.

You locked yourself away for days. Friends called. Texted. You ignored them all. The world kept spinning, but yours had stopped the second Goo showed up.

Weeks later, his lawyer came by with his will. Titles, accounts, assets—all yours. You refused to sign anything at first, convinced it was a mistake. That he’d just gone underground. That he’d come back. That this was some elaborate game.

But he didn’t.

Eventually, you found yourself in Japan, at his family’s estate. His grave was flawless—polished black stone, pristine lettering, a quiet bench beside it. Of course it was perfect. Gun had always been so OCD about things like that.

You sat. And cried.

You cried because he never got to grow old. You cried because he didn’t get a goodbye. You cried because you loved him.

You cried until you couldn’t.

And then you went back home. Back to the apartment that smelled like him. That still had his clothes in the closet. That echoed with memories you couldn’t shut out.

You lived. You moved forward. But the grief never went away. It dulled, numbed, but it stayed.

Some nights, you still wake expecting the door to creak open.

It never does.

If he died of natural causes

You grew old together.

Not without scars—God knows life with him was never easy. But you shared a home, a life, and a love that held through storms most wouldn’t survive.

Eventually, he slowed down. The fights became fewer. The blood less frequent. And you moved to Japan together, somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

You worked a 9-to-5. He ran the Yakuza from the shadows, though he rarely spoke of it anymore. Eventually, he insisted you retire. Told you to focus on your hobbies. Said he had more than enough money to waste between you both.

You had children. You tried to keep them out of that world—but blood calls to blood. Your son followed in his father’s footsteps. Your daughter fled from it, building a quiet, bright life of her own far from shadows.

Time passed. Wrinkles formed. His hands grew slower, his eyes softer. But his love for you never wavered. If anything, it deepened. Grew quiet, reverent. He still held your hand every night.

Eventually, the violence faded. Your son took the mantle. Gun finally stepped away, reluctantly, but grateful.

You bought a place in the countryside. A lake behind the house. A garden in front. He whittled wooden figurines for the grandkids. You tended the flowers. Sometimes Goo visited, older and somehow still chaotic, but softer now.

And one night, years later, he went first.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

He held your hand until the very end.

The two of you buried beside each other near the lake, where the two of you used to watch the water ripple in the wind.

The funeral saw your children (now parents of their own), friends, and even enemies came to pay their respect to the Shiro Oni and his wife.

Time took many things. But it never touched the love between you.

---------------------------------------------------------

Note: i love him so much i'm actually gonna lose it if he goes

(EDIT: this was written when ptj announced a major character was gonna die and we all thought it was gun, lmaooo i'm so relieved it wasn't)

[redwolfxx]

if you died

(Gun x reader)

TW: angst, themes of death, mentions of religion

Summary: You die, how does he react

A/N: Sorry it's been a while, running low on inspiration. Was gonna add some others but wasn't sure on how they might react so I'll save it for another time. Lmk your thoughts!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

If it was of natural causes:

Gun stood at your hospital bedside, expression unreadable. The usual sharpness in his eyes had dulled—not with tears, but with something heavier. He didn’t speak. He didn’t touch. He simply watched. The machines had long since gone silent, leaving behind an oppressive stillness in the room. You looked peaceful. And Gun hated that word.

Later that night, he returned to his place, walking through the door like it was just another evening. He sat on the edge of the couch for a long time, in silence, staring at the floor.

Goo had told him to throw it all away—your things, your pictures, your voice notes buried in his phone. Clean breaks. Surgical. Efficient. But when he walked toward the closet to start, he froze. He couldn’t even touch the clothes. Couldn’t move the shoes you left by the door. Couldn’t bring himself to erase you.

So instead, he used the spare key you once gave him and went to your apartment. It was too quiet. Too hollow. The cat was gone. The plants—once suffocating every surface—had been given away. The framed artwork you loved, taken down. A shell. A space emptied of its color.

He collected only a few things: the ring you always fidgeted with, some of those ridiculous photo booth strips you insisted on taking, a couple books with your annotations scribbled in the margins. Then he left. Didn’t look back.

He placed those pieces of you carefully around his apartment. Next to the stubborn plant you gave him that somehow never died. Near the ugly drawers you insisted looked good with his furniture. The colors clashed terribly.

He never spoke your name again. Not in public. Not to Goo. Not even when pressed. It wasn’t out of shame. It was about preservation. If anyone so much as spoke of you with anything less than reverence, they didn’t speak again.

But in the quiet hours of the night, when the world was still and the weight of loss pressed hardest on his chest, he whispered your name into the silence. Hoping the sound alone might bring you back—even if only in a dream.

However, if you were killed:

When he saw your body, something in him snapped.

It wasn’t visible. Not at first. His face was stone. But his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles split. You died alone, terrified—and he wasn’t there. He was supposed to protect you. And he failed.

The killer vanished. Gun didn’t care why. Revenge against him, some personal vendetta—it didn’t matter. They made one mistake: they left you behind. That gave him everything he needed.

He hunted. And when he found them, there were no words. No questions. Just punishment.

He wouldn't kill them quickly. Gun didn’t believe in quick endings. Not for this. He took everything from them—brick by brick, person by person, until their world was as empty as his.

Only when he was satisfied, only when the rain drowned their cries in a forgotten alley, did he let them die.

Afterward, he would return to your grave. Leaving your favorite flowers. Standing in silence. Reading your name again and again, as if he could undo it by sheer force of will. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't scream. He would just… stand there. The wind too cold, the ground too still.

When he came home, a package was waiting.

Your handwriting. Clean. Familiar. It might as well have punched him in the chest.

He stared at it for days. Passed it without touching it. Sat across the room from it like it was radioactive. Goo tried to open it once and nearly lost a hand.

Eventually, he opened it.

A letter sat on top. Handwritten. Calm. Final. You wrote it in case something happened. You told him not to blame himself. Told him to live. Told him you loved him.

He read it once. Then again. Then again.

Inside the box were fragments of you: photos, inside jokes scribbled on sticky notes, your ring, your favorite plant with a note threatening him if it died. He placed everything carefully around his apartment. Your voice, your memory—stitched into the corners of every room.

Time passed. He didn’t move on. Not emotionally. Not romantically. His heart would stay locked in a room only you had the privilege of a key to.

He would moved homes eventually. Each time, he packed the box. Your photos. The plant. The ring. Every time, he asked aloud if you liked the new place. The silence never bothered him.

Your things were still there as they always would be. Your ring on his nightstand. The photos near his desk. Your name still whispered into the quiet, night after night.

In life and in death, Gun was yours. And he never stopped waiting.

And in the quiet, when no one was watching, he would whisper your name like a prayer. Praying to anyone that was listening to bring you back to him in more than just his dreams nightmares.