Yandere!Grave Keeper X Reader || Identity V ♡

hikaru ga shinda natsu is about coming back wrong and haunting the narrative and being queer in a small rural town and internalised homophobia and summers that feel like they'll never end and the codependent homoerotic friendship you had when you were 15 and what it means to be dead or alive and navigating a world you feel like you dont belong to and grief and mourning and obsession and love and most importantly, having gay thoughts for the eldritch monster that bodysnatched your friend's corpse

＃HOMICIPHER !! ♡ — DWELLING, ROTTING, SURVIVING (MR CRAWLING X READER).

#. synopsis! — speaking isn't the only way to understand, and he's oh so gentle .

#. characters! — mr crawling .

#. warnings! — canon-typical dark content + setting .

#. word count! — 1.7k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — hi, i posted, please stop bullying me in my inbox :(( - all jokes aside, thank you guys for all the nice messages and compliments! & happy pride to my lgbt followers! funnily enough, don't think i've ever "come out" on this blog, but if it's not obvious, i'm bisexual lol so there's that!

You found yourself pressed against a cold, damp wall in what you could only assume was a room close to the belly of this labyrinth-like building. Breaths came in shallow, frightened gasps as the lights overhead flickered ominously, like they were trying to warn you of impending danger. . . Danger that you felt sting your chest like needles poking through your skin. The oppressive silence surrounding you was broken only by your intakes of air and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of something —or someone— (or maybe a mixture of the two, in this God-forsaken place) nearby.

Squinting into the gloom, a familiar shape emerged from the dark hallway, slipping into the room with you and pausing in the doorway. You felt relief take hold of you.

Mr Crawling. . .

That, of course, likely wasn’t his real name, but you didn’t speak in the language of clicks, noises, and chirp-like sounds that he did, and he didn’t speak with your tongue either. It was for that reason in particular that you’d bludgeoned his head with a crowbar not long ago, to which he sulked in a corner, bleeding and whining, and you were left to feel terrible for hurting the first entity that had tried to go out of his way to show you true empathy in a way you understood.

Apologizing didn’t even begin to feel like enough. Probably because you were at least ninety percent sure he didn’t understand what you were saying anyway. Helping him with the wound perhaps made it slightly better. . . But also not really, because even now as he skims across the ground to where you are, there’s a sense of guilt that weighs heavy on your heart.

Pale, grey-skinned and moving like any non-human mammal of sorts, his face is mostly obscured by the long, stringy black hair that falls in vine-like, clumped strands all the way to the floor from his hunched position. There’s an unsettling, animalistic grace to the way he approaches, but you don’t flinch this time when he puts the flat of his cold palm against the crown of your head, as if trying to soothe your breathing. All of that initial fear has been replaced by a strange comfort of sorts, and you look up at him, thankful for his presence now more than ever.

He tilts his head, as if listening for something, and you watch him warily with the same crowbar clutched in your fist. A part of you felt bad carrying it around like that with his blood still smeared on it, but here, you knew it was foolish to venture around without a weapon of some sort. Not protecting yourself for the sake of his feelings was, unfortunately, not an option as far as you were concerned, but thankfully he didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter.

“Mr Crawling,” you whisper softly, reaching out to take his hand into your own.

He seemed to really respond to physical touch, and if language was always going to get in the way, you figured it was best to bridge the gap in another manner. This was the next best thing you could think of.

His head raises, and you suppose he’s trying to meet your gaze, though you can’t see his eyes through the mess of his hair.

“I need to understand you,” you say.

Ironically, that’s a bit of a hopeless endeavor in this sort of environment. It’s not like you have all the time in the world to pick up a new, completely unrelated language to yours while fighting for your life. Still. . . Gesturing had been helpful previously, especially for directions. The hooded figure you ran into first was quick to point around, that severed hand that had guided you for a bit was just as poignant in that area, and the silver-haired entity with a blindfold over his eyes had also tried to communicate with you in that sense as well. So why couldn’t you do it vice-versa?

“Me,” you point to yourself, “you,” you point to him.

He stared blankly for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. His had retracted from your head to point at himself, then to you, a clicking noise coming from the back of his throat. You smile. It was a small victory amongst a series of devastating losses, but you were keen on taking it and running with it as far as you could stretch it.

“Okay,” you breathe, talking more to yourself than to him. “Let’s try this then. . .”

Feeling a surge of determination, you touch your stomach and then mime eating.

“Hungry. Eat.”

At this point, you were still too anxious to have an appetite, but you knew you’d need food eventually. You were hoping he’d be able to help you with that somehow. Up until this point, you hadn’t seen any evidence of there being food around here, —no containers, boxes, or wrappings, but he seemed to understand your gestures and mimicked you; sitting back on his knees to rub his stomach through his filthy t-shirt, then nibbling on an imaginary item.

He looks back to you, as if seeking approval. You smile, hoping he understands that to be a sign of good will, then nod your head to drive home the association. Beneath his swath of hair, he smiles too, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the curtain of black strands; dark and thoughtful.

“Good,” you murmur, feeling slightly relieved. 

If nothing else, this was progress. You spend a while longer trying to communicate basic needs and warnings: things like yes, no, stop, come, drinking, sleeping, and a thank you in the way of patting his head. You’re not sure he understood the depth of it by any means, but he did seem to enjoy it. . . Like a puppy. The thought made you smile genuinely and absentmindedly, if only for a moment. The clicks and chirps he makes are mostly lost on you, but the noises are comforting nonetheless. This rudimentary bridge of understanding soothes you just a little, and you find yourself feeling very thankful that he’s here in the first place.

He has your face cupped in his hands now, as if he’s inspecting you. . . Or perhaps admiring? That is, until you feel his body tense and all his little sounds abruptly come to a halt. A small growl reverberates from the back of his throat and his wide smile droops into a frown. Suddenly, he’s roughly dragging you along, tugging urgently on your arms, to which you comply and follow along with him, scooting across the floor until you reach a shadowed alcove. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but he seems to know his way around this place like the back of his cold, grey hand.

He covers your mouth for a moment, then shakes his head. You cover your mouth, take your hand away, then shake your head no, just to ensure to him that you’ve understood. He pats your head then crouches in front of you, using his own body as a makeshift shield for yours. His long, spindly arms cage you against the wall. Fear rises inside you once again, though not because of him and his actions. Rather, the faint, rhythmic thuds of footsteps have begun reverberating through the hall just outside, and you recognize the harrowing pattern they click in.

Mr Scarletella.

You encountered him once before and felt every hair on your body stand on end. The way he moved through the halls with a menacing flow that sounded almost eerily melodic, and the strange, unsettling red glow that seemed to exude off him that nearly drew you in like a moth to a flame. The steps echoed off the walls of the building and your heart began to hammer against your ribs. Mr Crawling moved closer as he came into view through the doorway that lacked any actual door to close, his long, black hair tickling your nose ever so softly. Dressed in scarlet and carrying his ever-present umbrella, you decide quite readily that you’ve seen enough, closing your eyes and focusing on the cool feel of Mr Crawling’s skin, on his musky scent (like mildew and a bit of rot, which isn’t necessarily pleasant, but it’s not like he can really help it down here.)

Though you’re no longer watching, the entity dripping in scarlet moves with an unsettling, almost predatory grace, glancing about the corridors as if he’s searching for something. Or someone.

Once again, Mr Crawling presses closer to you. Now, you’re able to feel the way his body trembles with fear, and you realize that he’s just as terrified as you are, though you can’t tell if that fear is for himself, for you, or for both of you at once. And it’s not like you can ask. Still, you open your eyes just long enough to look up at him, Mr Scarletella in your peripheral as you force a smile and touch the crown of Mr Crawling’s head, offering what little comfort you can. He still quivers, but seems to appreciate the gesture, though he doesn’t risk a happy chirp.

The danger passes as the man in scarlet disappears down the hallway, then turns the corner. You let out a silent sigh of relief and Mr Crawling relaxes after several moments of continued tension, finally going limp and releasing you from against the wall. He slumps onto his knees, which seems to be his most comfortable position, and he looks at you clearly through the darkness. In that moment, it feels like you’ve understood one another perfectly. 

“Thank you,” you whisper sincerely, though you know he can’t really understand you.

You’re just hoping the gratitude comes across somehow, but at the risk that it won’t, you touch your chest over top of where your heart’s still beating like a drum, then touch his chest in the same place. It dawns on you that you don’t feel a heartbeat at all, and you almost pull your hand away. . . But something stops you. Something that says even if you’re right and he’s something less (or more) than human, —it doesn’t matter as much as the kindness he’s shown you. So your hand lingers until you softly pull away.

He grabs your cheeks again and holds them delicately.

minor writing smut , hand kink [?]

Luca whose hands are, to put it plainly, dirty. Oil and grease can be found underneath his fingernails from the constant work on the cipher machine, while dirt finds its way in the cracks and slivers on his palms.

Luca whose hands are littered with small cuts and scars from the electricity that bolts through him, refusing to settle down for even one moment before another currency charges through his body.

Luca who uses these same hands to worship your god like body in front of him. His fingers, smeared with black from being burnt poke and prod at the curves and blemishes on your body. The inventor finds it all so incredible how you let his hands, stained with blood, find your most sensitive area. How you let his hands gift you the pleasure you oh so deserve. And how you let him witness your fall into pleasure all over again.

note: consider this my apology for the lack of a proper fic lately, things have been busy. I’m working on two right now, and I hope to get them both out in the coming weeks.!

© fishermanshook — no stealing , translating , plagiarizing or reposting my work on other any other sites + reblogs adored !!

do you think nikolai would be into pet play…

yes.

here's the nikolai art that i slowly worked on every time i wanted to procrastinate on an exam close-ups + template!! ↓

“Heehee… It’s like… you’re a big brother to me.”

I spend so much time thinking about this line. Top 10 WORST people to call brother of all time.

I FORGOT I HAD THIS ACCOUNT

nikolaaaiaiiiiii 💞💞💞💞

Can we please get a fic about possessive/yandere Jack tunneling/tormenting his darling during a match? Something akin to the snippet of him we saw in the Emil and badly injured s/o headcanons. That bit had me barking, I need more of y'alls Jack 🙏🥴

thank you for enjoying that tidbit, detective! i am a very firm believer of slandering jack as much as possible but immediately making him attractive in the worse ways i could <3 he's a horrible man and i love that in him! please enjoy this food, and do bark more. if you do so, he might buy you a collar and leash. - mod orpheus

request: yandere!ripper tunneling/tormenting his darling headcanons pairing: [the ripper] yandere!jack x gn!reader warnings: general yandere behaviour, descriptions of blood & injury, near death experience

jack the ripper

to be the apple, or may i say rose, of his eye is a death sentence in of itself.

the ripper does not do “obsession”, or so he thought. it was a useless endeavour, to be so taken in by something or someone temporary, especially with what he does for a living. he assumed, be it person or item, it will leave and perish over time in his presence. more than anything, the only thing he ever thought he’d be obsessed over was his work. something he was very much okay with.

that all changed when he met you

everything about you captivated him; from your appearance, your movements, down to the way you speak. he was drawn to you, like a moth to flame, desperate to have you at any cost. he spent days, absent from matches, in his room. the curtains drawn, the lights dimmed, paint splattered across floors and canvases. art pieces, abstract, stylised, realistic, all pieces with you as its muse. with each brush stroke, his obsession grew, and grew, and grew. neither survivors nor hunters knew this was what he was doing in his absence. the survivors, more than anything, were relieved about him being gone for the time.

you were warned about him by both factions. you were warned greatly. jack, but we mostly call him the ripper, says the perfumer, was a ruthless hunter. his very presence struck fear in those who opposed him. he hunted with skill and precision, but at the same time was sickeningly nonchalant about it. he plays with his food, that disgusting man, whispered emma to you. a monster through and through, he even has the gall to flirt with some of us in the middle of hunts. every warning sickened you and made you fear the day you’ll have to match against him. that was why his absence was a cherished moment by both survivors and hunters. however, such a thing cannot always stay permanent.

eventually, the ripper returned, and everyone saw it was with a renewed gusto. a bad thing, stated the seer. he had his mind set on something, or shall i say, someone. you.

your first encounter with him was outside a match. the way he peered at you, eyeing you like you were a slab of meat for him to slice and cut open than a human being; it made you understand why even some hunters were uneasy [a great understatement] about him. though some hunters weren’t human, either changed or lived that way their whole lives, the ripper was a different level. he was... human, but he didn’t feel human. not even someone like the hell ember made you feel like that. something about him was uncanny, even if all he did was brush past you with a wicked promise of meeting once more. preferably in the near future, little rose, he chuckled out.

for a while, you thought that was an empty promise. wicked and terrifying, sure, but empty. the matches you joined within those days were with other hunters. you haven’t seen jack in a match with you for a few days at least. you thought he was just scaring you with that talk about ‘near future’- he’s had to be scaring you, no? that’s what a hunter like him would do.

you grew familiar with what arms factory looked like in the time you spent here. it was a ‘starter map’, as other survivors said. good kiting spots, fairly spread out rocket chairs, strong pallets. it’s the perfect place for newcomers, though you have long since shed that little nickname from the others. you, alongside the gardener, doctor, and perfumer, all sat at the table together, excitedly talking about what plans you may have for the upcoming off days. “i think i’ll spend time with coordinator,” vera tapped her chin in thought, “she mentioned wanting some tips for makeup. i’ll help her out then.” “sounds fun!” emma nodded her head and giggled, “i’ll just tend to the gardens again, as i always do. emily should join me!” the doctor laughed politely, a hand over her mouth as she did, eyes crinkled with content, “yes, i think that sounds fun. what about you?”

you paused in thought and shrugged, “didn’t really think about it that much, but i’ll probably find something to do sooner or later.” “you can help with the gardens too!” the gardener suggested, “the manor could always use more green thumbs.” “oh, yes, you could come with,” emily nodded in agreement along with the perfumer. the conversation was stopped by a smooth, honeyed voice humming from behind the curtains. all four heads turned to face it. silver blades pushed the cloth aside as the towering figure of the ripper spun through, bowing down in front of the table. attached to his back was an evil looking scythe, black and sharpened with flicks of smoke curling off of it.

your heart lodged itself in your throat in a bad way when the ripper lifted his head to look at you.

the game began.

right off the bat, he was ruthless. the ripper roamed the map like a wretched, evil, fog. he was playing with the doctor, it was clear to the three of you. he chased, he hit, and then he simply just waited nearby emily. you knew he’d be able to catch her easily if he just tried, but he was waiting. waiting for something, even if it costed him a cipher or two. the moment the second bell rang throughout the match, it was like the realisation struck all four of you. he was farming for presence. he wanted full presence.

it was like the mist through the factory thickened significantly as that happened. the ripper turned his back on the doctor and stormed through. even if he passed any of the other two women there, they were unbothered. perhaps shaken, a little scream from his chilling fog that brushed past them, but nothing more than that. after all, he wasn’t there for them. he was there for you. and you were made violently aware of it when you saw a sudden bend on the pole of your cipher. slowly, you lifted your head, fingers trembling over the keys, sweat sticking to the back of your neck. the fog shifted, unwrapping itself around its commander.

there, standing so casually over your cipher, and you by extension, was the ripper. he tilted his head, eyes squinted in delight. “hello, little rose,” he crooned. you slammed your hands firmly onto the cipher and lunged away, nearly missing the button to ping the girls. the hunter is near me!

the cipher in factory was finished, but the basement was there. however, nowhere else was safe for you to kite, as nearby would be one of your three teammates decoding a cipher. you had to take the risk. you had no other choice. you felt your heartbeat thrum loudly in your ears as you ran across the map, the ripper right on your tail. your legs screamed at you; a split of stop running, it hurts too much and keep running, he’s going to kill you. you had to dodge a foggy blade, seeing the black mist hit the wall and disperse right beside you. you stumbled in your steps, nearly tripping over your feet and falling. but you managed to catch the metal railing in the factory, using it to boost yourself some more distance away. not like it did much, as the ripper stepped through the fog and slipped past the door with an increased speed. he never downed you, no matter how close he was to you as you vaulted the window or a pallet for a terror shock. it was like he enjoyed seeing your discomfort, as you vault, as you run, his hand or claw ghosting against you lightly.

two ciphers later, the last one was on standby with the perfumer. both doctor and gardener waited at the gate close to the factory. but he still hasn’t downed you, let alone hit you once. it wasn’t like he wasn’t trying too much; he aimed his blades carefully in a way that would hit you if he was just a bit more accurate or if you were just a bit more sloppy. however, with the blood rushing through you and adrenaline pumping through your veins, you couldn’t afford nor even try to be sloppy. especially not against the ripper of all hunters.

seeing as he was doing nothing more but stalling at this point, you had to do it. focus on decoding! if only you did it a bit later, perhaps when you were in a more safer position...

the cipher popped, and it was like a switch was flipped in the ripper. with a manic exhale of his breath, you knew you made your first, and final mistake. you gripped the windowsill as you lifted your body over, a vault in progress. but as you did so, his claws raised, the blade wrapped in black fog before he swung harder than he would have usually. the black smoke that wrapped around you momentarily made the sting worse. through your clothes, your fabric ripped, and you felt a searing pain across your back. from the corner of your eye, you saw splatters of blood, but you knew there was more gushing out. your back was wet. warm, cold, wet. you crashed into the ground, a nasty, filthy scrape digging and ripping up your skin and irritating it. a scream ripped throughout your throat; one so loud and pained that you thought your chords were about to burst and split. it was a scream louder tha emily’s. it was a scream of true pain.

blood was rushing everywhere as you gripped your leg, yet that strained the deep gashes across your back. you knew he hit deep. it was painful. it was hell. tears streamed down your face as you sobbed and cried, choking up on tears as you looked at the ripper. he stuck his legs on the windowsill, vaulting over casually as if he didn’t just damn near break your back in half with one hit alone. he peered down at you with a cruel smile, head cocked to the side as he crouched down beside you. the lack of glowing red eyes didn’t excite you as much as it would have any other time. you only had enough strength to ping that he had no detention before you had to go back to crying out in pain, head turning away from him.

you couldn’t even bring yourself to a crouching position to crawl away, you could only drag yourself on your stomach bit by bit to try and gain even the most insignificant amount of distance to the ripper as you could. he let you do so for a while, but eventually gripped your leg with his unclawed hand. you were relieved at that. he was going to chair you, and your teammates were going to escape.

but he instead yanked your leg and twisted you, forcing you to slam against your back. the earth dug into the open wounds and you threw your head back with a pained scream. there was so much blood. on the ground, on you, on everything you feel. the ripper’s hold on you loosened, and you were subjected to his ghosting touch as he caged you in beneath him. “my, my, look at you,” he whispered breathlessly, very obviously happy with his work. he tilted his head aside, fingers brushing from your scraped leg to the inside of your thigh, reveling in how you turned your head away with a pained sound.

“now now, little rose,” he chastised lightly, but gripped your hair with a strength so tight it nearly ripped off your scalp, “look at me.” a breathless gasp left your lips as you looked at him, one eye barely able to open from the pain and stinging tears. “s.. stop... l.. let me go...” you sobbed. he haphazardly let go of your head, making you lightly slam it against the ground by the sudden loss of support. the ripper bent his back down, claws tapping against his face, chuckling as he gazed at you with a crooked grin, “just listen to that. what a precious, beautiful sound.”

he twirled your hair in his unclawed fingers, tugging your head up before abruptly slamming it back down again. “just like those fucking whores,” he snarled, “you cute, pretty, little thing... those breathless cries, those ragged shrieks, the last time i heard those were in the alleyways of london, my hands wrapped around some broad’s fucking neck as i break it backwards. my darling, what i wouldn’t do to gut you right fucking now. your insides, organs, everything, spread open on the ground for me, and only me to see.”

you could barely thrash away, sobbing and crying as you see the blurry figures of your teammates running to try and help you, only to stop abruptly at the bloody sight. “r.. run..” you force out through gritted teath, “get.. get out of here..!” “n.. no- no, emma has to help!” the gardener tried to run forward, but she was pulled back by the perfumer and doctor. “stop- stop it, what are you doing?!” emma cried, “we can help them! we- we can help- he has no detention!” “we have to go, emma,” emily urged as they began pulling her away. you saw the ripper start to grin at the desperate sight of the gardener thrashing and kicking, trying to run towards you. emma reached her hand out, screaming your name, sobbing just as, if not even harder than you have been as you see her figure get smaller, smaller, and finally, gone.

“now, do scream out as loud as you can. if you satisfy me, i might let you crawl your way out of here, whore,” he whispered the filthy nickname for you in such a sickeningly excited way, “let’s have some fun, shall we?”

[ art credit - unknown ]

EATS.

⭐️

WHERE WINTER CROWS GO MENTIONED?!!?!?;?!?!?!? YIPEPPEYPIPYIEPPYIEP

White hair is gender-neutral. It represents me. ❤️