Hey there! My name is Kash and I'm 18+, my pronouns are she/her and I'm a writer here on Tumblr except I literally have no motivation and all my writing kinda sucks ngl. this is a new account and this is still the same person from @k4steria!!!
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all readers are welcome!
Inbox is currently open!
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FANDOM'S I WILL WRITE FOR:
Final fantasy
Red Dead Redemption II
Assassin's Creed (all games)
DC (comics/movies)
Mortal Kombat (most games)
Lies of P
Devil May Cry
Metal gear (Most games)
Elden Ring
Death Stranding
Marvel (comics/movies)
Sekiro, shadows die twice
Jojos Bizzare Adventure
Onimusha
Twisted Wonderland
Obey me!
Bungo Stray Dogs
Gachiakuta
Death Stranding
Persona
Prince of Persia
Vagabond
Street Fighter
Haikyuu
Bluelock
Kuroko no Basket
Tekken
Overwatch
Castlevania
Naruto
Ghost of Tsushima
Uncharted
there's probably more but I'm lazy so have these for now
you can also ask me if ill write for a fandom, im in so many I lowk forget which ones im in ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
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WHAT I WILL WRITE:
character x reader
headcannons
oneshots (IM SO BAD AT ONESHOTS SO IM SO SORRY IF THESE SUCK)
smut (it’s gonna suck tho)
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WHAT I WONT WRITE:
male readers (I did it once, did not feel good about it but i will write for gender neutral readers)
reader’s pronouns are unspecified; reader is racially ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.
[ao3 version]
this one’s for anna <3333 my best friend and simp in arms… pinnochio (pinocchio? whatever, you get the idea) is deeply in love with you, bestie. here’s proof. ;) @pinocchiospissrock
Living in Krat, you’ve grown used to frequent conflicts between puppets and humans. The number of humans continues to dwindle in the city, as they’re brutally maimed and torn apart by the rebellious force of puppets intent on taking over Krat. You’re lucky to have survived this far. That said, you've certainly had some close calls. The jagged scar running down your forearm is proof of the resilience and strength you’ve needed to continue living in such a complex time.
You often find yourself lost in memories. Krat wasn’t always like this; it used to be a city bustling with life and energy. Now, you’re afraid you can’t say the same. As one of the only surviving humans, you were forced to go into hiding years ago. You haven’t seen the outside world in years. You can’t remember what life felt like before this—before you began living as nothing more than a shadow.
You don’t have company. You haven’t had a conversation with anyone since before the uprising. You’ve grown into the habit of talking to yourself each morning, if only to prevent your voice from dying. It has adapted a raspy quality that it never had before, but you can’t find the energy to be bothered about it. After all, you have no one to talk to in the first place. Why should it matter if your voice has changed?
In your self-imposed confinement, you often find yourself pacing about your residence, surveying each and every inch of the space. Remaining hidden for so long has caused you to develop a bit of paranoia. The slightest of noises is enough to provoke you into pulling out your gun.
This surveillance habit is how you find yourself walking through your hallway mechanically, popping your head into each room and confirming that everything is untouched. You’re not sure why you bother to check anymore—you haven’t had a visitor in years (enemy or ally). You suppose the routine gives you comfort.
You hardly even bother looking at your bedroom, paying the space an idle glance before continuing on. A brief dark spot in your vision has you rubbing your eyes roughly. You freeze in the hallway, confused by the fact that this dark spot disappeared the moment you walked away from your bedroom. Heart thudding in your chest, you backtrack to your bedroom. The space looks exactly the same, and you’re almost satisfied enough to leave again when your eyes catch on the corner of the room. There is a puppet resting against the wall, taking up the space you knew to be empty before.
It—no, he, you realize—isn’t moving. He’s staring ahead with a blank expression on his face. You take a moment to inspect the puppet; he hardly looks like a puppet. In fact, if it weren't for the robotic arm, you’d easily mistake him for a human. Although, upon closer inspection, you do notice that his facial expression looks a little… wooden. The puppet has a rather flat affect.
How in the hell did this puppet get here? You have extensive security measures situated throughout your residence; this is nearly the only place on the planet where you’re truly safe from the raging battle between the mechanical and the organic. At least, that’s what you thought. The puppet lurking in the shadowed corner is tangible evidence that this battle, this war, is inescapable.
You’d like to be able to communicate with this puppet somehow, even if it’s just to say that he needs to get the hell out of your house. You contemplate your next words. “What’s your name?” you find yourself asking. The puppet freezes, his gaze slowly lifting from the ground to look at you. You bite your lip and wait for him to answer, despite your gut feeling that leads you to believe he can’t speak. Sure enough, after a few minutes pass, no words are uttered by the puppet.
It doesn’t take you long to decide your next move. You cautiously take a few steps to the side—making sure not to break eye contact with the puppet in case he decides to move. You eventually make it to your dresser and grasp the crank on the side of your ornate wooden music box. A sweet melody reaches the air and out of the corner of your eye, you can see a slight movement. When you look up from the music box, you realize the puppet is now standing at your side. You chance a sidelong glance at him. Can he hear the music? He must be able to—since he moved to stand closer to the source of the melody.
Now that he’s next to you, you can take notice of the craftsmanship and beauty that seem to piece the man—puppet—together. His skin is incredibly textured, despite the noticeable lack of blemishes and scars. His eyes are a piercing blue-grey, with a slight opulent haze that makes it seem as if he’s looking straight through you. His lips are pulled taut in a flat line. The puppet’s hair is dark and brackets his face in loose yet elegant waves. He is… overwhelmingly beautiful.
You feel lost for words. Thankfully, the puppet seems utterly entranced by your music box. His eyes appear wider than before, and his posture looks more relaxed than before. You idly wonder if the puppet has ever heard music before. It seems he hasn’t, if his enchanted expression is anything to go by.
The puppet’s gaze is locked on the music box with startling intensity. His unmarred, humanlike hand is hovering over the object with uncertainty.
A flicker of movement draws your gaze to his side, where his mechanical arm rests. The puppet raises his other arm and his mechanical hand spasms for a moment, before continuing on its path up towards the music box. Your heart drops when you realize what he’s going to do next. The steel joints bend smoothly and you watch with bated breath as his fingers get impossibly closer to your music box. There’s a thick tension that settles in the air. The antique clock on the wall ticks ominously. You wait for the puppet to brutally crush your music box, to splinter the wood until it’s nearly unrecognizable. You’re left waiting for several moments, as nothing of the sort occurs. When the puppet finally moves, his hand clasps the crank with a gentleness you certainly wouldn’t expect. He rotates the crank several times and the music begins to play once more.
After these movements, the puppet turns around to face you. His facial expression is nearly the same as it was before, but you can somehow sense that he’s waiting for you to do something. You swallow hard, feeling rather restless. Despite the unmistakable fact that this puppet hasn’t attempted to harm you, you can’t quite quash your instincts. You’re living in a war torn world, after all. War against puppets is all you have ever known.
The puppet’s arm twitches, breaking you out of your reverie. You watch as his arm rises, leaving his hand outstretched in the short distance between the two of you. The puppet’s eyes flick down to his waiting hand. Heart racing in your chest, you inhale slowly before taking his hand.
For a dreadful moment, the puppet’s grip tightens on your hand painfully. You try to wrench your hand back, but he seems to notice your distress and his grip loosens to a more manageable pressure. You remain standing, with the puppet’s hand clasping yours. The puppet’s eyes flit from the music box to you. Does he want to dance?
Your suspicions are confirmed when he tugs you forward. The gesture is very light and noncommittal, as if the puppet is afraid of hurting you. You’re now standing quite close to him—close enough to see the light in his eyes momentarily glow brighter. The music box continues to play its elegant tune and the music drifts throughout the room, creating a rather peaceful atmosphere. You close your eyes for a moment and allow yourself to simply… exist. You push away the instinctual fear, doubt, and guilt; instead, you smile at the puppet and allow him to guide you around the space in a slow dance.
You haven’t danced in a long time. Indeed, there hasn’t been anything to dance for. The city around you is a grim, hollow shell of what it used to be. Few humans remain; the ones who do are forced to stay in hiding. It’s a miserable life—confined to the space between these shoddy walls, banished to flinch and grab a weapon at the slightest of sounds. You don’t know how much time has passed; the sunlight rarely graces the city and, when it does, puppets roam about in search of more victims.
You’re lost in thought—so much so that the puppet’s hand rising to your forearm nearly makes you flinch. You manage to suppress the instinct and instead look at him expectantly. There’s a troubled pull to his lips as he stares down at where your skin peeks out from your sleeve. You begin to realize the source of his distress. Sure enough, the puppet slowly drags your sleeve up to reveal the rest of your forearm. The puppet’s eyebrows furrow as he stares at the scar you were given all those years ago. You swear you see his expression darken for a fraction of a second.
Before long, the slow dance comes to an unspoken end as the music fades to nothing. The puppet’s hands remain on your form for a moment, almost as if he doesn’t want to let go. You soon disregard that notion, as his hands fall back to his sides and he blinks slowly. You stare back unflinchingly. The puppet lurches forward inexplicably, his metallic arm reaching out to caress your cheek. You close your eyes for a second, drinking in the physical contact you’ve been missing for so long.
When you open your eyes, the puppet is gone. You take a deep breath, feeling as if you just woke up from a deep sleep. After a few moments, you chance a glance at your dresser. Your wooden music box’s lid is upturned. It appears your midnight dance with the mysterious puppet wasn’t just a dream.
