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Pieter Lee 9teen He ᴘʜ istj-t 🐈‍⬛

terminal branch station

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yummydummyangel

Put me in a headlock puhhheasddedded daddy

mreowsu

Yo i think im gay

koaflower

kaiser and ness !

no, i’m not a human ⋆｡°✩ day 2

includes. mentions of death, gore. inspired by no, i’m not a human. no romance involved, but it is a reader insert.

a/n. finally made a part two for everyone that asked! @mreowsu read day 1 here and go play the game if you haven’t already hehe <3 MIGHT make this a series cuz i love writing interactive fics.

it was bound to happen.

your neighbor—the kind, trusting man that he was—could never survive in an world like this.

you could do nothing but watch as thin wisps of black smoke curl into the aurora night sky. the heavens paint a pretty illusion of northern lights—a cruel mockery of the death shrouding your vision. people in white flock from the neighborhood, their clothes stained with rubble and ash.

there’s a distant knocking at your door.

you tear your gaze away from the window, ignoring the guilt gnawing at your chest. the earth continues to revolve, dead or alive, and you have no time to mourn.

the house is quiet save for the occasional creaky floorboard or muted hum from the tv. every day feels like a further descent into madness—disfigured shadows scampering past and bodies strung up high on flickering lampposts. you’ve learned to stop flinching at every small noise.

no FEMA officers have appeared since your confrontation with that strange, teal-eyed man. for whatever reason, you have an inkling that death passed by your house last night.

[skip this part if you did NOT let sae in.]

it’s been a long time since you’ve had company.

you find sae sitting in the living room, his body sunken into the couch with a distant expression on his face. you’re not sure if he’s moved at all in the past 24 hours. the tv displays a vibrant backdrop of green fields and blue skies, a voice droning on about different numbers and names you can hardly make out.

a soccer match.

you didn’t realize they still aired those.

he glances up at you as you approach, his shoulders stiffening a little before he lets out a slow exhale. dark bags hang under his jaded eyes, his face now as lifeless and still as the room around him.

the gash in his side is healing well, medical gauze forming crisscrosses over his toned chest as his coat lays folded over the couch.

sae isn’t in the mood for small talk right now. you’ll have to save your questions for later.

reluctantly, you return your attention to the front door. the knocking grows more insistent, and like every other hellish night, you approach it. here’s where the interactive story begins.

[it’s up to you whether you let them in or not.]

instructions: pick a dialogue line and follow the response based on the matching number. you can only use the clues and background information given by the three options to arrive to a conclusion. no, i won’t tell you if they’re visitors or not at the end. suspense! :b

“hello..! oh wow, there really is someone living here,” the man says, peering back at you through the peephole. the light illuminates his profile, eyes wide and tinted a dewy magenta. his accent is thick, like honey poured over broken glass, lips stretched thin into a smile that’s far too chipper for his surroundings. you envy him, as unsettling as it is. hope is all you can have in a place like this.

slung around his shoulder is another man—blond and in his early 20’s. they seem to be around the same age, though his toned body is covered in blemishes and scars, hands hanging loosely by his sides. his features, if they weren’t marred by crimson, are reminiscent of youth. the kind you see in magazines and billboards. dark blue clings to the tips of his hair, tangled and muddled with god knows what. the other boy shifts a little, as if sensing your stare.

he grins. “oh, don’t worry about my friend here! he just needs to rest.” his friend makes no objection. no… anything. you’re not sure if he’s even alive. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot and bleary, standing motionless against his shoulder.

1 — who are you?

2 — what happened to your friend?

1 — “oh, forgive me! i’m ness. this is my friend, kaiser.” he gestures to the blond, eyes glimmering with adoration as he speaks. “we were just passing by. i didn’t think… anyone was still living here.” his gaze shifts past the porch to somewhere you can’t quite see but can envision all too well. the neighbor’s house—burnt to a crisp and lined with grotesque bodies littering the gravel pathway. you could still imagine his daughter's shrill laughter as she rolled down lush fields of greenery, now tainted black and dying. in its place are wooden pikes planted into the soil, human skulls rotting on the sharp end. he shifts uncomfortably.

2 — “we ran into a few visitors on the way here. i managed to escape, but my friend got injured. he’ll be up and walking again after some rest, won’t you, kaiser?” the blond—kaiser—lifts his head up, albeit slowly. blood cakes his arm in dried rivulets, deep gashes obscuring what seems to be a rose tattoo. diamond blue eyes pierce through yours, the skin on his lips parched and flaking. kill me, they seem to say. ness lets out a strained laugh, adjusting his hold on his friend. “he’s just a bit delirious right now! the heat’s affecting us all, you know?” he pulls at his shirt’s collar, sweat clinging to the skin of his neck. the fabric is damp and stained—a testament to the long journey they took here.

1 — can he talk?

2 — why did you come here?

1 — he blinks at you, almost offended before his expression melts back into that all too pleasant smile. “of course he can talk! he’s just… tired. that’s all.” his friend doesn’t move, only breathes shallowly—jaw clenched tight and a thin line of saliva trailing down the corner of his mouth. he laughs nervously, brushing it away with the pad of his thumb. “see? he’s fine. just resting his voice.” he leans closer to kaiser as if shielding him from your steely gaze. “it’s been a long day for us.” it’s clear he won’t elaborate further.

2 — ness hesitates, eyes darting toward the treeline where the last threads of smoke coil into the sky. the grip he has on the blond shifts. “we didn’t mean to intrude,” he starts softly. “i was looking for somewhere safe to stay.” kaiser coughs then—a wet, gurgling sound—and ness steadies him immediately, thumb brushing along the blond’s jaw where the skin looks peeled. “the empty houses in your neighborhood make good shelter… but it looks like FEMA got here first.” he gestures to the side, at the fields of gray and dilapidated buildings. “i couldn’t just leave him out there.”

1 — where were you headed to?

2 — is your friend a visitor?

1 — “i… don’t know. anywhere. away from those monsters. we were with a group but…” he trails off, biting his lip. it’s clear he doesn’t want to recount the details. “kaiser doesn’t do well with others.” his gaze drifts over to the man on his shoulder, eyes softening a fraction. he doesn’t elaborate, just fishes out a small pack of canned foods and energy drinks from his backpack. corn, fruit, green beans—it’s enough to last an entire week, if rationed correctly. the straps of his bag are loose and tearing at the seams, held up by only a few makeshift slips. “there’s more. we’re willing to share if you let us in.” a bribe.

2 — his face goes pale as if you’d just suggested something utterly horrific. “a… a visitor? him? ha… hahaha! you’re real funny, ma’am/sir. it’s rare to meet people with a sense of humor these days.” the smile on his face quickly returns, almost as if it’d never left at all. he straightens himself up. “of course not! kaiser is… he would never be one of them.” he punctuates the last word with a scowl, features twisting in disgust. the man on his back lets out a weak groan. “he’s just tired. we need a place to stay until he heals up. you understand, don’t you?”

an eerie thud comes from behind them, like light footsteps crunching on gravel. there isn't much time left. you'd have to make your decision soon.

ness clasps his hands together. the smile on his lips doesn’t fade, but you can tell he’s growing impatient.

“we—we won’t disturb you, promise! it’s really not safe out here for him… i’m worried.”

1 — you should leave

2 — come in

3 — only if your friend stays behind

1 — he falters, eyes widening in panic. it’s the first genuine reaction you’d seen since the conversation started. “did—did i say something wrong? i don’t understand…” his nails leave crescent-shaped indents in his marred skin, hard enough to hurt. ness lowers his head. something inhuman scrapes against the pillar, slow and deliberate. they’ll die before morning, that much is certain.

“i should’ve known better,” he mutters to himself, that strange, delirious look in his eyes. he adjusts his grip on the blond, pulling him upright with surprising strength. his expression stays hollow, gaze fixed on a point past your shoulder. “let’s go, kaiser.”

you watch as they limp down the porch steps, silhouettes shrinking until the fog encapsulates them completely.

they’ll die, and the blood will be on your hands. the silence that follows is unsettling. better safe than sorry, right?

2 — “r-really? thank you! you won’t regret this, i promise!” he guides kaiser over the threshold with careful hands. the blond stumbles once, catching himself on the doorframe. up close, his breathing sounds uneven, a wet rasp that doesn’t match the steady rise and fall of his chest. his gums look irritated when he winces, a thin smear of red along the inside of his lip.

ness doesn’t seem to notice. or maybe he’s pretending not to.

“you’re doing us a big favor,” he says, stepping inside and glancing around your entryway with quiet interest. his clothes cling to him, soaked through with sweat and dried dirt. he brushes a few flakes of debris from kaiser’s sleeve, gentle in a way that makes something in your stomach pull tight.

“we just need a place to rest for the night.” he looks up at you, smiling eerily. “that’s all.”

3 — he stares at you, brows knitting like he didn’t hear you correctly. “what..? what do you mean?” his hand closes around kaiser’s arm, steady but tense. “there’s nothing wrong with him,” he says.

you can tell he’s trying to keep his tone even, but it wavers with uncertainty, like he doesn’t even believe it, himself. the porch light flickers, catching on the sheen of sweat sliding down his forehead and the faint tremor in his fingers. “i’m—i’m not leaving him. i promise i’d...” he trails off, biting his lip when he realizes you’re not changing your mind.

“fine. we’ll go.” his voice is strained as he speaks, bitter resentment swirling in his eyes. he doesn’t look back when he steps off the porch.

“have a good day, miss/mister.”

the scraping stops entirely, plunging you into a heavy silence. you have the feeling that you’d just narrowly avoided death tonight.

koaflower ᥫ᭡.

mreowsu

HUZZZAAAAAHHHHHHH

#I'm looking toward whether this becomes a series or not #but either way I LOVE THIS ALREADY #blue lock #x gn reader #bllk x reader #no im not a human au #no im not a human #alexis ness x reader #kaiser x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk

koaflower

sae itoshi !

no, i’m not a human ⋆｡°✩

includes. mentions of death, gore. inspired by no, i’m not a human. no romance involved, but it is a reader insert.

a/n. praying to god no one’s done this yet. it’s my first time writing an interactive fic with choices but this was sooo fun hehe. i’m gonna be real embarrassed if no one knows wtf this game is or what i’m going on abt. prob gonna make one for a diff character, prob not. we’ll see!!

the world outside is ruined.

bodies litter the gravel paths—limbs bent and fractured in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible, little bits of cartilage peeking out from the hollow gashes. the world as you knew it is long gone, now desolate and caked in dying embers.

it’s only been two weeks, maybe three now, since the first known sighting of a visitor was reported—nasty, hostile creatures from the underground seemingly affected by a brain parasite.

the days blend together in a kaleidoscopic blur of blacks and blues. everyone you love is gone, and still, you hide out in your little pocket of safety. how much longer? the view outside your window, once vivid in color and the sound of playing children, is now painted in death.

the FEMA officers took the last of your inhabitants, promising you true retribution, yet you understand the hidden implication. they’re dead.

a knock sounds at your door, and like every other hellish night, you approach it. here’s where the interactive story begins.

[it’s up to you whether you let him in or not.]

“hello.” a man, perhaps in his early 20’s, stands on the other side of the door. he carries a brown sling bag over his shoulder, the fabric worn and rusted like it’s a light brush away from snapping. he looks at the peephole, trying to discern if you’re really there or not.

“sorry to bother,” he says, his voice dry and raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a while. you couldn’t blame him. what is there to say in the midst of an apocalypse, when everything is either dead or dying?

“can i come in? i just… need a place to stay for a few days.” his eyes are a brilliant shade of teal framed by long, dark lashes, hair a faded magenta pink. he could’ve been a model in his past life, though the heavy bags beneath his eyes made him seem more jaded than youthful. even the dying sun could not rob him of his beauty. but you’ve played this song and dance a hundred times before, and you know deep within those eyes could be an otherworldly secret.

visitors have no definite appearance.

1 — are you a visitor?

2 — did you walk all this way?

1 — he raises a brow, looking at you like you might be the stupidest person alive. “do you expect visitors to say yes?” he asks, tongue darting over dried, cracking lips and a glimpse of pearly white teeth. point taken, but he didn’t have to be such a dick about it. at your silence, he sighs, rolling his shoulders out a little. it’s hot where he stands, the heat sticking to his skin despite the sun’s disappearance beyond the horizon. “no. i’m not a visitor, and even if i was, i wouldn’t tell you that.” he casts a glance back at the neighboring houses. of course, there’s no one else here. only corpses and faces where there shouldn’t be any.

2 — if the worn soles of his shoes and the crisscrossed scars on his legs weren’t evidence enough, he nods. “yeah. i ran out of food. i was hoping to refuel for the night and then get out of your way.” it’s hard to make out from the dim lighting of your porch, but his hand clutches at his side, dampened by a slight… crimson? you’re not sure what color that is. “i came from the backwoods, just out north. rin—i mean…” his eyes flicker with emotion before it eclipses, gone before you could even register it. “they’re gone,” he whispers. “if i had known, i wouldn’t have wasted so much food.” his tone harbors on apathy, but you could tell it was more than that. grief. damnation. an attempt at consolation.

1 — how did you survive on your own?

2 — are you alone?

1 — his expression sours. a hint of impatience, only shown in the slight furrow of his brows. it’s gone soon after. “i wasn’t. why does it matter?” his eyes dart to the side in distaste. he didn’t seem to like repeating himself. you take note of the resentment brewing behind his cold facade. dangerous. “i’m a—no.” he shakes his head, trying again. “i used to be a soccer player. i’m athletic. can handle a few visitors and the distance, if that’s what you’re asking.” he frowns. softer now. “though if i were as strong as i’d thought, maybe they’d still be here…”

2 — “what do you think?” it comes out forcibly, barely strained with emotion despite the thin line of his lips. he takes a deep inhale before looking off to the side, maybe at the rusted stain in the wall or the chipping paint. you’re not sure how much longer this house can hold up. “visitors,” he murmurs. “they caught up to us. about a group of them. they looked so… human. i told my brother not to—“ he pauses, eyes closing like he’d seen flashes of something traumatic. “…you get the idea.” you wonder what horrifying things he’d seen to make such a melancholic expression.

1 — are you hurt?

2 — why do you think you’ll be safe here?

1 — his breathing is a bit ragged as he glances down at the deep gash on his side. it’s clearly infected, the thin strip of cloth he’d secured over it hardly serving as a proper bandage. he looks like he’d rather not talk about it. “yeah. got this when i was running. the… thing took my weapon. didn’t think it would try to use it against me, though.” he waves it off, slightly wincing from the movement. “it’s not as bad as it looks.” he doesn’t say anything else.

2 — “don’t have a choice. im out of supplies. no food, no water, weapon’s gone,” he monologues, scoffing but there’s no humor behind it. “even i know my limits. i’m good as dead if i stay out here.” he empties his pockets—a splintered knife, only good for cooking now, and a couple dollars in cash. money has no use at the end of the world. he doesn’t show you the contents in his sling bag, but it’s not large enough to hold anything other than snacks and some personal belongings. maybe nothing at all in its sorry state.

an eerie thud comes from behind him, like light footsteps crunching on gravel. there isn’t much time left. you’d have to make your decision soon.

sae shifts his weight awkwardly, as if feeling your scrutinizing gaze on him. he casts several small glances over his shoulder, shuddering though there’s nothing there. not yet.

“so… you gonna let me in or not? i won’t waste my time standing out here.”

1 — come in

2 — you should leave

1 — “thanks,” he says softly, entering your home and immediately shedding off his torn coat. his skin is muddled and cut, dirt peeking from beneath his fingernails. his eyes shine an even brighter teal beneath the dim yellow lights of your hallway. he nods in appreciation. “i won’t be dead weight.” it’s a promise, judging from the bitter resentment behind his eyes. either you’ve just gained the biggest adversary or dug yourself a hole six feet under… that’s to be determined. you just hope the FEMA agents won’t get him in the next round.

2 — “tch.” harsh lines form on his face, lips twisting into an ugly scowl. he seemed accustomed to rejection, though the last glimmer of hope fades from his eyes. he could resent it and you, but he understands. if the roles were reversed, maybe he would leave you out to die as well. “of course. i should’ve expected that. you’re no better than those FEMA agents,” he mumbles, dusting the debris off his shirt and turning away. “i’ll be going then.”

guilt tugs at your heart as his figure retreats, low and crouched with a hand over his wound. who gave you the authority to be an executioner of death? despite that, it’s too risky to let another person in. kindness isn’t something you can afford in the midst of an apocalypse.

you just hope you made the right choice, or in the worst case scenario, he finds a place to stay.

koaflower ᥫ᭡.

mreowsu

OH YES

#no i am not a human #blue lock #itoshi sae

are you okay??? omg😨

uuummm 😅✌️✌️ okay first awff i wanna explain why and how i disappeared for almost 2 weeks i think... i spent em for physical therapy cuz my legs went crazy but also nothing too crazy at the same time—BUT DZONT WORRY! it's all good now and i have decided to come back stronger than ever 🦵 i appreciate u big time 4 checking up on me anon. js keep in mind to always look both ways before crossing the road 🥀❤️‍🩹

#line: station notice

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

C-could y-you d-Do b-bachira m-megs a-as our husband like going out on a date to see the stars and boom it starts raining but we play in the rain meow

⋆.˚🦋༘

yeeeoowww i owe you the biggest apology for hiw super duper delayed this ended up... writer's curse + life tag teamed me, but i finally made it back alive! i really liked your request though, and i hope you enjoy... (& that u didn't wait too long...)

you don’t even remember who suggested it first, but somehow the night turned into a drive that turned into a late dinner that turned into him saying, “hey, let’s go somewhere and look at stars.”

so now you’re both parked at the edge of nowhere, the air a breeze that combs through your hair. bachira’s sitting cross-legged on the hood of the car, finishing the last bite of convenience store ice cream, his curls pulled back messily.

“you know,” you say, “this is technically your fault if we get lost.”

he licks his thumb, shrugs. “romantic though, isn’t it? dying together under the stars?”

“you’re such an idiot.”

“yeah,” he grins, eyes darting to you, soft and gold and too much, “but i’m your idiot.”

corny.

you roll your eyes, but the smile breaks through anyway. he always wins like that—just by being him, just existing.

the sky’s a quiet thing tonight (if bachira decides to keep his mouth shut), big and open and almost kind. he keeps pointing at random spots, naming stars wrong on purpose, all just to make you correct him.

“that’s orion’s belt,” you say for the third time, clipped, patient and amused.

“nope,” he hums. “that’s meguru’s belt. limited edition.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “you are so silly.”

your amusement halts once a breeze picks up, prompting goosebumps all over both you and your husband's skin like frost, thus you huddling closer against him, head on his shoulder. the fabric of his shirt smells like detergent and grass. he moves just enough to make space for you, resting his chin in your hair.

you don’t notice the first drop until it lands on the bridge of your nose.

then another.

then a scatter of them—tiny, hesitant, and almost shy.

“oh,” you say softly.

he glances up. “huh.” and then—because he’s him—he smiles. “guess the stars are jealous.”

you snort. “of what?”

“of how good we look together right now.”

before you can even think of a comeback, the drizzle turns into real rain—heavy and unstoppable. you flinch instinctively, pulling your hands over your head, but bachira just hops off the hood, letting it drench him. he turns to you, arms wide, grin stretching stupidly bright.

“come on!”

“meguru, are you insane?”

“yeah,” he calls absent-minded, spinning once, water splashing around his shoes.

you groan, but he’s already grabbing your hand, tugging you down into the downpour. the metal hood squeaks under your shoes as you stumble into him, both of you half-laughing, half-screaming from the cold shock of it.

“see?” he says, hair plastered to his face, droplets clinging to his lashes. “worth it.”

“y—” you try, but he kisses you before you can start, and suddenly the world goes soft around the edges. it’s wet and messy and tastes like happiness—like meguru. his slides up your cheek steadily and sure.

when you pull away, both of you breathless, he presses his forehead to yours. “we should do this more often,” he murmurs.

“what, ruin my clothes?”

“no,” he says, eyes half-lidded, voice low enough to almost be a secret, “forget the world a little.”

you close your eyes, the rain still coming down, washing the air clean. the stars are gone, hidden somewhere behind the clouds, but you don’t mind. he’s right there—warm, soaked, ridiculous—and you can feel his heartbeat thudding against yours like it’s trying to say something you already know.

he bumps his nose against yours, grinning again. “told you we look good right now.”

“..stupid…” you whisper, rubbing your nose against his and closing your eyes.

“and you’re stuck with me,” he says, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you, “so i’d say we’re even.”

and maybe it’s the rain, or maybe it’s just him—but everything feels easier then.

the sky could fall apart, the stars could burn out, and you’d still be standing there, barefoot in the mud, soaked through, his hands around you, both of you too in love to care about the weather.

#blue lock #reader insert #mreowriting #bllk #canon character x reader #blue lock manga #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bachira meguru #bllk bachira #meguru bachira #bachira meguru x reader #meguru bachira x reader #x reader fluff #fluff

This is so sick and twisted I js got into an accident and my legs r fucked up is the writer curse for real

#line: station notice

koaflower

sae itoshi !

as your sentient android (but you’re just a teenage girl) ⋆｡°✩

includes. fem!reader. STRICTLY platonic !! tags use x reader bc idk how else to categorize this. sae in a maid dress, gen z slang, cute little drabble to get me back on track.

word count. 967

"y/n, can i come in?"

sae's monotonous voice is followed by three steady knocks—rhythmic and precise, just as you'd instructed. there's a quiet click! of the doorknob before a figure clad in lace and a frilly maid dress enters your room.

with pink ribbons and a headdress adorning his hair, sae stares at you unblinkingly, a deep scowl set on his artificial features. he holds a sterling silver plate in his hands, placing it down on your wooden nightstand. “…your breakfast,” he says.

it was almost ridiculous—a highly advanced android being used as a dress up doll. he could tolerate cleaning your messes, cooking your food, and doing your schoolwork, but this? nothing in his manual mentioned being the nanny of a little human girl.

"you look so cute! oh my god, can you spin around? my friend wants to see." he's momentarily blinded by your camera, optics readjusting as you giggle. your coos only increase in pitch when he actually listens, dress swaying in the air as he twirls.

he wishes you'd deactivate him already.

do it yourself.

—is what he would say if he wasn't utterly afraid of you.

although he was programmed to withstand the human concept of fear, the wrath of a teenage girl was a horror he didn’t consider until he’d experienced it firsthand. you seemed to override all his training and instill a strange sense of dread in his system that made the metallic whirring in his brain go haywire.

sae sifts through the pile of papers on your desk, scanning the messily scribbled algebraic equations and doodles. he blinks.

"you got a 61."

"yeah, i see that." you roll your eyes, peering over his shoulder at the red ink marks left by your teacher. "that's why i need your help."

"she was being generous. you got this one wrong too," he says, pointing to the last question that you left blank. sometimes, he questions if you're actually a 5th grader in a teenager's body. sae doesn't even need to turn around to know you've flopped back onto the bed. so dramatic.

"sae, pleaseeee? can't you just do this for me? c'monn, it'll take you two seconds—no, less! i won't even tell my dad you're secretly in love with me."

"it's directly against my orders to do your work for you. and as an ai model, i'm incapable of—”

"falling in love, i know! it's a joke. please, sae, i won't ask you for anything ever again. just this once?"

"you said that last time."

you huff, "i mean it now!"

sae picks up the pen with a resigned sigh, but there's a soft smile curling on his lips when your eyes light up in relief.

"don't make this a habit."

it was in fact, not the last time.

sae stares into his reflection with a blank gaze, touching his fingertip to the white powder on his artificial skin. his hand is immediately swatted away.

"stop! you're ruining it," you chide, dusting another fine layer of setting powder to cover the track print on his cheek. it tickles and makes his nose wrinkle.

"i don't need a "makeover". my skin is made from—"

"don't care, didn't ask. stop moving." you turn his head to the side, blending light eyeshadow onto his eyelids with the stern professionalism of a middle-aged cosmetologist. he sits perfectly still across from you, analyzing the beauty products you pick up and the disorderly mess it leaves on your vanity. he wants to clean it.

you pause, leaning back to survey your work with a proud smile. "it's unfair how pretty you are. what do androids even need long lashes for?" he closes his eyes at the tingly feeling of the mascara running over his already dark lashes.

"75% of customers preferred this model as opposed to the other one," he explains, unflinching even when the mascara tip accidentally brushes against his scelera.

"really? was the other one that bad?" you set the tube down, grimacing as you wipe the black ink off his eyeball. human empathy is such a peculiar thing.

"it's a replica of the creator."

"that bald, ugly guy in his 70's?" your face scrunches in disdain. "thank god for 75% of voters."

you don't let him see the result until the very end, claiming suspense before swiveling the chair towards the mirror. it was impressive. he wouldn't have recognized himself if his retinas didn't come with a built-in facial detection feature.

"sooo? what do you think? pretty right?"

"you wasted your time," he replies, storing the look to his memory when you're too busy sulking. just for future reference. (he loves it.)

"what does ‘sybau’ mean?"

you're laying on your stomach next to a stiff, uncomfortable looking sae on your bed, scrolling through tiktok together. he looks completely out of his element, a grown ass man surrounded by plushies and pink pillow sheets.

"shut your bitch ass up," you reply, not even bothering to look up before swiping to the next video. you were used to his questions about gen z terminology by now, seeing as most of the words weren't part of his vocabulary. he falls silent.

"oh. i apologize. did i offend you?"

you raise a brow at his genuinely confused expression before bursting into laughter.

"no, sae. it literally means shut your bitch ass up."

"oh." his brows furrow, eyes darting back to the comment section. some of the replies didn't even relate to the video. how is this funny? "what's the context?"

"there isn't one. it's like a vocal stim."

his confusion only deepens. you grin.

"you're not going to start saying that, are you?"

"no, i was simply curious. it seems popular with the youth these days."

"okay, unc."

"sybau."

#this reminds me of #detroit become human #i love this #brings back good memories #makin my insides feel soft and mush

suksatoru

rabid royals

{prince!itoshi rin x princess f!reader}

summary: despite being arranged to marry his older brother itoshi sae, rin can't keep ignoring the way he feels about you forever. your reciprocation of his affections only makes the tension thicken and fold in a way that couldn't be ignored, and chaos was only inevitable by the time sae realized what was going on between you and his little brother.

warnings: arranged marriage, angst (but we THUG IT OUTT), fem!reader, brief sae x reader, rin is basically a lovesick puppy no one make fun of him, infidelity, cursing, & if you've read the prologue for this, it appears again as a flashback! header art is by @/AnoNiku___ on X <3

word count: 11.2k (asjadkj this took me wayy longer than expected !!)

mreowsu

Holy. This is so beautiful. Heartwrenching. My god

#i am a male #why did i finish this from top to bottom

thank you for one hundred SIXTY-NINE followers!!! as a thank you, here’s my first fully fledged, written smut featuring our fav midfielder

it might not be the best of the best, but it’s my ode to you all—i hope you can feel the gratitude dripping between the words

before you proceed, if your account doesn’t have a specified age or under 18, you will be blocked immediately. please refrain from interacting if you fall into these categories. thanks for understanding and for keeping the space safe!

#line: station notice

•18+ Adults Only

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I’m sorry but the similes you use in your writing are…very misplaced. They never fit the tone you have for that part of the story, you also use one every other paragraph. And half the time they don’t make sense. “The grocery bags rustled like quiet applause” What? Sae moved the character like a chess piece…all he was doing was leading the character to the couch.

Most parts of writing don’t need to have metaphors or analogies to get your point across, nor a deeper meaning. If you have too many it ruins the pacing of the story. Like I said before, you use them almost every other paragraph.

It also reads like you use AI to write for you, AI is obsessed with putting together metaphors/ smiles that don’t make sense. And also ones that often time overexaggerate many scenes. AI writing adds a lot of depth to the most basic sequences which is how I’d rate your writing. I can’t say 100% that you use AI but if you do, it’s extremely obvious.

(complete yap ahead so so sorry)

Hi anon, thank you for taking the time to share this. I completely understand how you can say that and I deeply apologize if my writing came across the way you described.

I really appreciate this message because although I’ve posted a multitude of fics and oneshots, I’ve never been fully confident in my writing. I’ve always struggled with not inherently knowing exactly where and how to improve myself, and most of the time I based it on the notes or how my works are received.

My original style leaned toward lyrical prose (that’s how I was trained to write back in my uni days), but I realized it wasn’t being received as well as some of my simpler works. Then, when I wrote in a simpler style, I noticed those weren’t being received as much either. So I tried weaving in a little of poetic prose (metaphors and imagery) in hopes of maintaning a balance and engaging readers more. That’s how I ended up where I am now.

I think I've mentioned it here somewhere before how I sometimes feel it comes out bland/unfulfilling and whatnot, which is why I experiment a lot with different styles. I wanted to push myself creatively, and part of that meant trying out said metaphors and analogies. I also noticed that many other writers use them in their works, which is where I got the decision to incorporate them more often.

Somewhere along the way, I realized my writing has strayed from where it used to be, and I’ve been struggling to find that balance again. It’s not just here on this writing account—it’s something my prof pointed in my school publishing works too.

With the “chess piece” part in particular, I already debated whether to include it because as you said it did feel a bit misplaced, rven to me, but my intention was to portray sae in a more dominant light—placing the reader exactly where he wanted, rather than just depicting a neutral action.

And to clarify: I’ve never used AI for my writing, nor do I ever plan to. Writing has always been something I’m genuinely passionate about. To be honest, I’m actually quite scared of using it—my prof in uni always drilled into us that AI or any form of cheating was pure cowardice, and that has been instilled within me ever since. English isn’t my first language, never quite understood how to use it sometimes, so I know my similes or phrasing might not always land the way I hope, and for that I apologize too.

I really do appreciate this message—it’s definitely something I’ll be keeping with me in and for the future. Thank you for being honest with me; even if it’s quite hard to hear (or read haha), it gave me the guidance I needed.

#love anon #peter lee talks

massage — married life w/ itoshi sae

The door clicked shut behind you, grocery bags rustling against your legs as you kicked off your shoes. Your back screamed in protest all the way down your spine—thank the perpetually “out of service” elevator for that.

You were seconds away from face-planting onto the couch when you caught sight of him—your husband, already home. Sae pressed the towel to the back of his neck, patting absently, damp hair spilling over his temples in a way that betrayed the heat of the shower he’d just stepped out of. His face held that flat, unimpressed cast—halfway between exhaustion and irritation—but when his gaze caught you, teals flickerered steady and unhurried, the edges of it gave way, softening.

“Oh, perfect. You’re alive,” you muttered, dropping the bags onto the counter with all the grace of a martyr. “Thought practice and five press meetings would've finished you off by now.”

“You look like a grandma.”

You frowned. “That's your entry?”

“You’re walking funny.” he replied, already striding to the fridge like he hadn’t just commit assassination.

You rolled your eyes and sighed loud enough to be heard from orbit, unpacking vegetables. “Well, someone had to bring these up while you were out being… famous.”

No retort. Just the soft hiss of a bottle opening, glass clinking against glass, and then—casually, too casually, “Lie down.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Your back. Lie down.”

“Oh, no way,” you protested, waving him off. “You’ve been through hell today. Media, training, whatever else. If anyone deserves a massage, it’s you.”

But Sae was already moving, hand finding your shoulder with that quiet insistence that brooked no refusal. He guided you toward the couch like he was setting a chess piece exactly where it belonged. “I don’t care. Lie down.”

There wasn’t room for argument in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, inevitable, like announcing the weather. And with him, resistance was laughable anyway; an athlete’s strength made sure of that. So you went, corralled by his grip, flopping onto your stomach with all the sulk of someone who’d already lost.

The first press of his hands tore a sound out of you you’d be embarrassed to admit—an embarrassing loud sound that had him exhaling through his nose, akin to a kind of almost-laugh. His fingers press deeper, mapping the terrain of your spine and cataloging every knot.

“God,” you muttered into the pillow. “That feels… unfairly good.”

“Unfairly?”

“You’re not supposed to be good at everything, Sae.”

“Not everything.” he said evenly.

His hands wander lower, dragging slow pressure down the slope of your spine. Kneading carefully—until suddenly, unmistakably, he was massaging a little too low.

Your head snapped up instantly. “Saeeeee.”

He couldn't even be bothered to act guilty. “What?”

“That’s not my back.”

A pause. Then, calmly, as if lecturing you in anatomy: “It’s connected.”

“Excuse me?”

“Muscles overlap,” he continued smoothly, like he’d prepared this defense long before. “I’m being thorough.”

You twisted enough to glare at him, incredulous. He looked perfectly unbothered, thumbs still firmly kneading at your ass with precision that was anything but innocent.

“Thorough, my ass.”

“Exactly.” His mouth curved, smug as hell.

You groaned, burying your face back into the pillow, laughter muffled but traitorous.

“Don't brat to me." He replied softly, fingers squeezing pointedly before sliding back up to your actual lower back.

The massage continued—though, with the way his palms lingered, and with how his thumbs pressed a little too reverently everytime he passed over the place he favored the most, you knew this wasn’t going to stay innocent for very long.

#blue lock #reader insert #mreowriting #itoshi sae #blue lock manga #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #sae x reader #sae x you #itoshi sae x you

dreamerdeity

Quick Kaiser sketch. If you look closely you’ll see that i gave him dimples because i have a headcanon that he has them…

mreowsu

midfield — jersey #10 giving up being the greatest striker.

he waits by the half-lit gym. the walls wear fluorescent hums like fear. your shoelaces fray into that ache, too much—each pull a heartbeat stretched thin.

“pretty warm tonight,” you breathe, voice low enough to blend with the rigged hum of the concrete. sweat bears down the side of your temple.

“it’s always warm.” his words land on static—trying to keep the hollow out of their shape.

you glance at him, searching. “no, i mean, back home… it wasn’t like this, right?”

the question dangles, brittle, between two rooms whose doors he has already closed.

he doesn’t answer. he stands. because moving is safer than not.

night folds in. he thinks of scraped knees and low tides, the smell of late summer cicadas. he replays your hand on his wrist, sand brushing into something warm he thought he left here too. how far that feels now—

if he lets himself want, for a heartbeat, he knows he'll shatter.

so he trains. steps harder on drills. lets fatigue dull the world. sleeps when he can.

madrid swallows its stars whole, hangs them back up in his chest when he sleeps.

days bleed.

the pitch is a mirror. it reflects only the hours he has given up, the ones he’ll never get back. green that isn’t green, life that doesn’t breathe. stretched past its edge, devoid of color.

every pass, every shot, another piece that costs him.

wanting is a useless language here. it does not translate. it catches in the throat, in the cotton of dorm sheets, in the hiss of the air conditioning that never quite comforts.

he tries sometimes—half-thoughts on the walk back from training, words that start as your name and end as static.

you linger anyway, like the phantom weight. he thinks of your hands, the clumsy knot you’d make at his collar. how you’d laugh at the cold, call it soft, call it nothing. there is nothing soft here. only sweltering heat and the taste of iron behind his teeth.

at night, the ceiling presses lower. the bed feels too narrow for what he’s lost.

he doesn’t clasp his hands together and pray, beg. he doesn’t ask. he runs laps until the world smears. stares at the stadium lights until they bloom red. he tells himself this is what growing looks like—something that splinters, and not something that heals.

morning comes gray, as if the sun couldn’t be bothered to rise all the way. the train windows sweat cold, each breath clouding the glass. you sit across the aisle, one knee drawn up, chin resting on it. the city outside slides past in dull streaks of concrete and steel.

he watches your reflection more than your face. it’s easier that way—less like looking, more like tracing something. your mouth moves, some offhand remark about the way madrid always smells faintly of diesel and oranges. he hums, doesn’t answer.

the train rocks. you move with it and almost bump your head by the window. his fingers twitch where they rest on his knee.

you then offer a piece of bread wrapped in tissue. “breakfast,” you say, unaware of the brewing in his mind, his being.

he takes it. it tastes like nothing. or maybe it tastes like the morning before the world turned foreign, when bread was just bread.

for a moment—just one—you lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes. he almost does the same. almost lets the weight of the motion carry him somewhere softer, somewhere closer to the shore where your scarf once brushed his arm, where the sea never asked him to be more than what he already was.

but the station arrives. the moment doesn’t.

he stands before you open your eyes.

practice is the same as yesterday. the same as every day. cold breath. sharp lungs. the field swallowing his name like it has to known it.

you walk ahead on the way back, bag slung over one shoulder, your silhouette framed by streetlight halos that flicker.

this city does not deserve you.

neither do i.

he thinks too much, and still never says a word.

at night, the sheets hold no warmth.

at night, he traces the silence you leave behind like it’s a map back home.

if wanting had a place here, it would sound like your voice saying nothing at all.

the days bleed without edges. sun up, sun down—just a smear of light over concrete. sometimes, he counts the hours by the sound of cleats on pavement, the whistle's shrill bite, the taste of salt that isn’t sea.

your voice floats somewhere behind him, always a step late. it’s softer here than it used to be, like it’s been sanded down by all the things you don’t, couldn't say.

“coach said the next match is three towns over,” you murmur one evening, fingers knotting the strap of your bag mindlessly.

he nods.

home feels like a myth—something veteran players talk about when they want to sound human, something to pretend they haven't been swallowed by bright light. he used to think distance was just geography, something a flight could undo. now he knows better. distance is a language too, and he’s losing fluency.

you laugh at something on your phone. the sound ricochets in the hallway—bright, clumsy, almost cruel in how alive it is. he bites the inside of his cheek until the copper floods his tongue. because for a second, he wants to ask what’s funny. for a second, he wants to step into that sound and stay there.

but his shoes are already facing the other way. his hands are cold even when they shouldn’t be.

at this point in your journey in madrid, you’re supposed to want everything—fields to run, streets to own, futures with too many doors. but here, wanting is a luxury. here, wanting is a bruise you press just to make sure you can still feel it.

he wanders if you press yours too.

the dorms reflect the city outside and drag its night across the asphalt. it all sounds the same: foreign, endless.

his phone screen lights up. a message from his brother.

— rin (9:39 PM):

how’s training, nii-chan?

he stares at it until the screen dies. the words rot there, unsent. what can he say? that he hasn’t seen himself in days, weeks, years? that his chest feels like a goalpost someone had forgotten to score?

that you’re the only familiar shape left in this place, and even you are slipping?

he rolls over. counts the cracks in the ceiling. the bed frame creaks like it wants to say something.

yet he never said anything.

rin’s message remain unopened.

morning again. his knees ache before his feet hit the ground. he pulls the laces tight—too tight, maybe. it doesn’t matter. nothing here breathes unless you force it to.

on the walk to practice, your sleeve brushes his. once. accidental. enough to remind him of what it used to mean.

he doesn’t look. he can’t.

once, there was a time he wanted the world to see him.

to score. to stand at the mouth of the goal and feel the crowd swallow his name whole. you and rin at the fence, cheering until your throats ached, the late summer air tasting like tangerines and lakewater. back then, it felt simple: aim, shoot, become.

but madrid is not built for dreamers. it is built for survivors. and strikers—they burn too fast here. they want too much. they ask to be remembered, and in return, the city asks for everything.

midfield is quieter. a position that only demands the rhythm. it is the kind of place you go when you still want to be on the field but not in the crosshairs.

one night, after another practice that leaves his throat tasting like iron, he lies awake and traces the lines on the ceiling like they’re passing lanes. if he can’t be the one to finish it, maybe he can be the one who starts it. maybe control is safer than glory. maybe building the play hurts less than watching it fall apart.

“you always wanted to be up front,” you say once, during a lull between drills. your voice is half-remark, half-memory.

“things change.” it comes out flatter than he means it to.

you squint at him like you’re trying to find the boy who used to shout about hat-tricks with dirt on his cheeks. maybe you see him. maybe you don’t.

“midfielders run more,” you tease, a thin smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

he doesn’t tell you that’s the point. to run. to move. to stay busy enough that the wanting can’t catch up.

the coach starts noticing—how his passes thread tighter, how his vision stretches wider than the box. you think before you shoot, the man says one cold morning. that’s rare here.

he remains silent. it’s not thinking. it’s surviving.

the dream he had with rin—of goals, of the kind of glory that earns posters on bedroom walls—sits somewhere behind his ribs, brittle now. he wonders if rin still imagines it that way, if the little brother still believes in the big brother who promised to score enough for them both.

he almost texts him that night.

i’m trying something new.

but the phone stays dark.

you fall asleep in his dorm. the city hums below like it’s chewing its own tongue. and he lies there, feeling the field shift beneath his feet—one step further from the boy he was, one step closer to someone he doesn’t yet know how to name.

midfielders don’t dream of goals. they dream of control.

they dream, similar to how a boy who once wanted to score now only wants to survive the game.

#trying a new writing style #itoshi sae #itoshi rin #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #mreowriting

where we used to build castles — the sea may hold his secrets, but the water never forgets.

— itoshi sae, itoshi rin

violence, angst, near-panic attacks, death-adjacent content, strangulation, asphyxiation, blood, graphic detail of injury (broken bones)

※ just a heads up, this fic starts off sweet w/ sae and get really sick and twisted with rin. i advise for you to please read the cw and proceed at your own jurisdiction. thank you! ※ this is gonna sound cliché, but english is not my first language. so i ask of you to bear any errors which i know there are, thank you!

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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What's your fav kph song ? 🫣

I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS TUUUURN IIITTT UUUUUUUUPPPPPP ‼️‼️‼️

#anon love #line: station notice

MIDTRms ARE FINANLLY FDONE AND I CAN RETURN TO MY CAVE AND WROITE FANFICS LIKE A TEENAGE FIRL

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