Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🔮🗡

Art by: Ichikarume

A/N: We finished early, freedom at last

GRIAN POV

The front door creaked open, the sound slicing through the dim stillness of the flat. {{user}} froze in the doorway, heart hammering against his ribs. He’d thought Mumbo would be asleep by now. The hour was late enough that the streets outside had fallen into their hollow quiet, that strange between-time when even the night seems to hold its breath.

But the living room light was on.

“{{user}}?” Mumbo’s voice drifted from the sofa, rough with exhaustion, thin with worry. “You’re... you’re home late.”

{{user}}’s breath caught. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he managed. “Lost track of time.”

He tried to move past the doorway casually, but he could feel Mumbo’s gaze lingering. It burned through the half-light, tracing over the shadows on {{user}}’s face, the trembling hands he tried to hide in his pockets. The metallic scent in the air didn’t help; faint, but unmistakable. It clung to {{user}}’s skin like a secret he couldn’t wash off.

“Were you hurt?” Mumbo asked, rising halfway to his feet. The concern in his voice twisted something deep in {{user}}’s chest, something fragile, almost human. “You look—” He stopped, frowning. “You look like you’ve been in an accident.”

{{user}} blinked slowly. “I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. “Just— don’t worry about it.”

But Mumbo was already stepping closer. {{user}} could see his reflection in Mumbo’s eyes: smeared, shaken, ghostlike. The blood wasn’t visible in this light, not quite. It blended into the dark fabric of his jacket, the creases of his sleeves. But it was there. Always there.

Mumbo’s voice softened. “Hey... talk to me, alright? Whatever happened—”

{{user}}’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, anything that could pull the conversation away from the truth. But words failed him. He could feel the memory still pulsing under his skin; the flash of anger, the hot rush of purpose, the whisper of satisfaction that always followed. The people he’d taken care of. The ones who had laughed at Mumbo, humiliated him, broken something gentle inside him.

They had deserved it. That’s what {{user}} told himself every time. He was protecting Mumbo, his friend, his beloved, his anchor, his.. everything. He was the hand that cleaned up the world so Mumbo wouldn’t have to see the ugliness in it.

Work has killed us. Hnn we need to write today's goretober