Possibly A Male Insert Writer

｡⋆✩✧𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓✧✩⋆｡

Hello! You may call me Cheese, although it should be noted Cheese is not my real name. (Yes, people have assumed my parents named me Cheese...)

This is an 18+ blog, but I don't post smut on Tumblr, so minors are free to interact!

My pronouns are he/him, and I am an INTJ-T and a Sagittarius

This blog is for fanfic, view my Masterlist and What I Write For by clicking the links in my bio! Sometimes I post my artwork. A lot of my posts are reposts and silly stuff with my Tumblr friends, sorry for clogging up your dashboard if you're only following me for fanfiction!

I figured it was time I actually did an introduction! So, here it is! Ta-da!

Current theme: I SPY!

What I'm Currently Working On:

Ominis Gaunt x GN Reader hurt/comfort

John Marston x Male Reader longfic: angst, fluff, smut (will be on ao3 exclusively!)

Barty Crouch Jr. x Male Reader textfic

Sirius Black x Male Reader

The walk to Jericho only took a brisk forty minutes. People stared out their windshields at your distinctive Nevermore uniform. Stripes alternating in black and blue, the sign of an outcast. Most looked with disgust, but some seemed more curious. Though it was hard to gauge through the split second of eye contact a fleeting car could offer. Nevermore was the black stain on Jericho. Unable to be scrubbed out, forced to remain a part of Jericho for the rest of its legacy. Although some people would argue that Pilgram World is more influential. You are not some people.

Finally, the welcome sign to Jericho greeted you. Its residents, however, certainly did not. Main Street was always pretty in the academic sense. The perfect place to loiter around while drinking expensive coffee that didn’t even taste good, all for the performative act of looking superior. It’s also where you need to stop by. You brush past strangers along the sidewalk, disregarding the glares they give. The town perpetually looks like the morning after a storm. Moody, but pleasantly chilled.

Behind a pane of glass, you see cuts of meat and freshly stuffed sausages. The writing on the door named the building as Mancini’s Main Street Meats. An apt name, considering the location.

The bell chimes at the top of the door as you enter. There’s a lingering smell of iron that you can nearly taste. A man pokes his head out from the back, Mancini, you assume. He has a stern face and pronounced mutton chops that are silvery in some parts. He steps out, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron. “Anything I can help you with?” he asks. His voice is much softer than his eyes, which hold a disdainful sharpness. The Nevermore uniform almost always draws that look from normies. You scan around for a moment before replying, “Do you sell organ meats? I’m specifically looking for brains, if you have them. I’m conducting research on nervous tissue.”

It’s a lie, blatantly so, but the butcher seems to buy it.

The man doesn’t appear fazed in the slightest by your request. He pushes off the counter and retreats into the back, leaving you to observe the selection further. Fine deli meats, cured ham, ribeyes, and sirloins. Standard fare for a small town butcher, you suppose. The walls are painted a pale blue, and beside the main display stands a chainsaw-carved bear holding a welcome sign. The eyes are painted with a thick gloss finish.

Before you’re able to dwell on the subtle creepiness of the bear’s eyes, the butcher comes back with a bloodied bag. He sets it down on the counter, reaching into the bag with a gloved hand and pulling out a perfectly intact brain. “Will this do?” He extends the brain to you, letting you verify the quality. By the size, you guess it’s either sheep or pig brains. You’re not an expert, but you’re sure it’ll be fine to feed a zombie.

You nod curtly. “Yeah, looks perfect.” The butcher nods back, weighing it before properly wrapping and bagging the brain. The price comes out to about $12. Clumsily, you unfold your worn leather wallet and set $15 on the counter. You don’t bother to accept your change as your fingers slip into the plastic handles of the bag. Neither you nor the butcher says anything as you turn to leave. The bell chimes once more above your head.

Well, at least you know where to buy brains now.

The walk back to Nevermore feels impossibly long. Fatigued feet drag along the asphalt, feeling like they’ll fall off any moment. Your wrist is tired from the cutting weight of the bag. Every now and then, you switch which hand is holding the delicate cargo. Cars breeze past like before, flicks of red and white to color your view of the road. Some part of you even contemplated whether this was worth it. If he was worth this effort. He’d probably be ungrateful, anyway. Your steps become more akin to a march as doubt seeds its way into your mind. No, you assure yourself, after all you’ve done to keep Isaac alive, he would appreciate your efforts.

Isaac is your responsibility now, as much as the thought bothers you. You’d reanimated him, stitched his wounds, and absolutely freaked out once you figured out who he was. But he is in your care.

You still felt guilty for lashing out.

Eventually, those curled iron gates come into view, and you let out a sigh. With a newfound bounce to your step, you practically sprint to the shed. Students briefly watched the spectacle before returning to their regular schedule. It wasn’t completely unlike you to be in such a hurry, so they didn’t think about it too deeply. Or, at least, that’s what you hoped.

Once you are finally at the shed, you pull the key out of your pocket and fiddle with the chain on the outside. You slip into the shed, your attention landing on a familiar pale figure. Isaac is sitting on a lab stool, messing with the focus knobs of the microscope. The sight makes you frown, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you ask, “What are you studying?” He stares at you with an eerie calmness, but his tense shoulders give a less composed impression. Isaac visibly relaxes when he sees you’re not going to get possessive over your lab equipment. It was part of the agreement. You had to deal with it, even if you didn’t like it.

Isaac glances at the slide in place. “I collected a sample of my own tissue. I wanted to see if any of the cells were living,” he explains. You hum, setting the bag onto the counter. The plastic creases onto itself. Thoughtlessly, you question, “Where’d you sample from?” In theory, Isaac wouldn’t be able to collect living tissue unless he cut himself open to access it. Isaac shrugs, “I scraped a bit from one of my stitches.” Now that draws your full attention. You almost roll your eyes. Some genius, he is.

You place a hand on the counter, leaning into it as you gaze down at Isaac. “And all the cells were dead?” You already know the answer to your own question. Not just because Isaac is dead, but also because the location he is sampling from would’ve been dead tissue even on a living person. “Yes,” Isaac confirms, raising an eyebrow at your guess. With a small sigh, you continue, “Did you ever study histology to any degree? The top layer of your skin is all dead cells. I thought you would’ve known this.” It’s condescending. Rude, even. But the fact that Isaac doesn’t know this fact is astounding.

Isaac sits up straight, huffing at your comment. “Of course, I studied tissue anatomy,” he defends. His lips tug into an irritated frown. Isaac’s defense isn’t very convincing. To test him, you reply, “Oh, yeah? In which layer of skin does keratinization start?” Isaac doesn’t say anything. His brows furrow, and his frown deepens further as he sits speechless. He’s visibly upset, as if the answer had slipped his mind and he could only remember now that he once knew.

All this time, you were convinced Isaac must’ve been the brightest student to ever grace Nevermore’s hallowed grounds. Now, though, it feels like an insult to your own intellect to have been compared to the man.

The notion brings a strange excitement. That perhaps, only with Isaac’s apparent forgetfulness, you’ve officially outranked him.

You laugh softly. Grabbing the bag, you toss it to Isaac. He nearly drops it, but clings to the plastic curiously. “An apology for my poor manners” is the only thing you can think to say. Isaac digs into the bag, pulling out the carefully wrapped brain. The white paper has spots stained a light pink. A dumb grin adorns his face. “For me?” he questions, as if not fully believing it. You raise your hands, palms facing up. “As if I’m planning on eating brains?” It’s a good enough answer for him. The mention of brains makes Isaac perk up.

His fingers delicately undo the wrapping. Flesh peeks out from the paper, and Isaac cradles it reverently. There’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes you uncomfortable. He looks starved. A man possessed by a craving more than the necessity to remain polite.

Isaac’s brown eyes meet yours for a moment before he gazes back down at the brain in his grasp. A continuous bundle of nervous tissue. Axons upon glial cells, long dead, but still so tenderly soft. Isaac can practically taste the synapses sparking in his tongue like a battery.

You watch as Isaac sinks his teeth into the gray matter. A resonant hum rumbles in his throat. It’s a sickening sight, and the sound makes you nauseous as you stare at Isaac greedily eating the gift you’d brought back. That could be you next.

In only seconds, Isaac has managed to shovel every ounce of that $12 you’d spent down his throat. He cleans the tips of his fingers with quick licks, lapping up all that he can. Hesitantly, you reach for the paper towels and hand him a couple. Although just as quickly, you avert your eyes. You don’t have to be looking at Isaac to just know he’s entirely amused by your revulsion. You swallow down a gag as you immediately turn around to fetch a glass of water. No mugs. Fuck, that’s right, this is your lab. There’s a cupboard overhead that has all your glassware. You grab a beaker, seeing as that’s the next best thing, and pour distilled water in until your queasy stomach says to stop.

The cool water feels like heaven against your lips. Every time your eyelids flutter closed, though, all you see is Isaac tearing away chunks of flesh. The bob of his Adam’s apple with every swallow. How his tongue darts out and wipes the corners of his grin of plasma.

You reach into the cabinet once more, pulling out a grow mix and generously sprinkling some into the beaker. The hinges creak as you shut the wooden door with the press of your hand.

Isaac watches with great intent. His eyebrow quirks. “What are you, a plant?” he teases, staring at the yellow and green packaging of the bottled fertilizer you’d unsparingly poured into the beaker. After gulping down half the glass, you reply huskily, “Somewhat.”

The color returns to your flesh, not looking quite so grey anymore. Like calathea leaves, you unfurl into a brighter hue. Healthier looking, you like to think. Nevermore is home to all sorts of outcasts, and yet, you are the only Sun Seeker in attendance. It wouldn’t surprise you if Isaac had never met one before.

You set the beaker down, glass clicking against the table. Bluntly, you explain, “I’m a Sun Seeker. Half plant, I guess you could say.” Subconsciously, your fingers make their way toward the grow lamp perched on the table to turn it on. Isaac’s eyes widen, muttering, “So, that’s what that’s for.” He seemed to have been snooping while you were gone. The purple glow feels incredibly nice. An all-encompassing embrace from an artificial sun that you keep to maintain yourself while working. Strangely enough, the presence of the grow lamp appears more interesting to Isaac than the revelation of your outcast type.

Throughout history, Sun Seekers have been perceived as almost ethereal creatures. Coveted and respected, with numbers dwindling in recent times. Many outcasts were seen as just that, outcasts. Sun Seekers, however, managed to win the admiration of the general public. A representation of rebirth and fragrance. Naturally, normies found them appealing.

This attraction meant that several Sun Seekers wed normies, directly leading to the small population that remained.

The lack of Sun Seekers in the modern world led to them being seen as mythical, or, as some have speculated, extinct. You were living proof of a legacy. A pariah among outcasts purely based on your unusual nature.

Nitrogen and phosphorus settle in your stomach, easing the nauseous sensation that reverberates throughout your core. It’s a small miracle. Your hand reaches for the beaker once more, as if on instinct, and you bring the fertilizer-infused water up to your lips for another helping.

“So, do Sun Seekers have special traits?” Isaac pipes up, leaning casually against the wooden table. The blood-stained wrapper is still resting in his lap, but Isaac makes no move to throw it away. You chuckle humorlessly into the glass. With a shake of the head, you deny any such claims. “No, not really,” the words are spoken against the beaker, further muffling them.

With a raised finger, you correct yourself, “Well, actually...” You trail off, turning to look at the calendar nailed on the wall. This month’s butterfly image is of the eastern tiger swallowtail, Papilio glaucus, you recall. Several days have events scrawled onto them, including the estimated time of the next spring bloom. Your eyes meet Isaac’s, speaking offhandedly, “I’ll be in full bloom in about three weeks.” Isaac leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The action causes the paper in his lap to crinkle, and you nearly wince as your gaze flicks to the physical evidence of the disturbing imagery you’d witnessed earlier.

His tone is evidently tinged with curiosity, “Full bloom? So, what, you’ll have flowers sprouting from your head?” You stare back at him blankly. A slow blink, and several seconds later, Isaac thinks he understands. The silence is enough to confirm Isaac’s ill-informed guess. “Ah,” is all he says.

Yes, spring is fast approaching. Not long before the flowers on campus begin forming buds, along with you.

There are other details to this as well, though. Blooming is one thing, but the types of flowers are another discussion entirely. It feels a little strange explaining the intricacies of your outcast type, but it appears as though Isaac is entirely clueless as to what you are. Or, maybe in his zombified state, he’d forgotten. He’s clearly interested, gazing at you like you’re the next best specimen to inspect, and perhaps right now, you are.

“The flowers vary based on the emotional state of the Sun Seeker,” your voice is pointed, like you’re giving a lecture. Isaac hums. It’s a peculiar thought that you don’t stick to one variety of florals. Any kind of bloom was possible, so long as you were in the right mindset associated with it. “The Victorian flower language is actually based on a diary written by Lady Mary Montagu. She wrote about every bloom she had since she was a teenager, and categorized flowers based on how she’d felt in the weeks leading up to her bloom.” It is a fun fact you are quite fond of.

The language of flowers is often romanticized; red roses for love, and daisies symbolize innocence. Gifting flowers is intrinsically a tender act. Both for their appearance and pleasant fragrance, floral offerings have been normalized between lovers and worshippers for centuries. The list can, and does, go on. But these personal entries and records of Mary Montagu’s also documented flowers that held more bitter emotions. You suspect that you’d likely find a few orange lilies or tansies in your arrangement this spring.

Isaac’s arrival in your life feels like a cruel joke from the universe. A wild twist of fate. Never before had jealousy held such power over you. It bothers you that you’re forced to share space with a person you’d associated with some high and mighty intellect, only to find that Isaac’s genius seems to have deteriorated in the past thirty years. In a way, it soothes your ego. Sure, you do feel bad that you enjoy knowing that Isaac has forgotten some aspects of science, but not bad enough that it truly impacts you. If anything, a smug satisfaction settles internally. You passively wonder what he was like before he died. More articulate, you imagined, and brazen enough to think himself above death. Ironically, his reanimation proves that insolence is correct.

You’d chosen forgiveness, you remind yourself. Holding a grudge would only lead to conflict, which was completely unnecessary at this point. Now you were committed to the idea of keeping Isaac like some macabre pet in your lab. Plus, it wasn’t Isaac’s fault that he, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun.

Since you’ve considered it, perhaps among various flowers representing bitterness and scorn, you’ll find purple hyacinths.

Isaac’s smooth voice snaps you from your thoughts. “Is that so?” he inquires, tilting his head ever so slightly. His loose curls fall with the motion. Dark strands brush against his forehead, though he makes no effort to sweep them back. “It is,” you reply, “Lady Mary Montagu is likely the best documented Sun Seeker in history.” The woman was an avid poet, and many of her works reflected her aristocratic life experience. A true, unabashed view into the Sun Seeker’s mind. She wrote extensively, and it is thanks to her contributions that the greater world sought to better understand the significance of blossoms.