#I finally managed to take on these sketches

[asthroophile]

bubblegum: bonfire — SAJA BOYS

WC: 4k+

SUMMARY: a forgotten bond, fated to endure.

PART: I. SEASONS, II. LOVE, III. LILY

It’s been ten days since they started crashing at your apartment, and in those ten days, the public somehow figured out that you are their manager.

Every time you tried to go out alone, one of them would tag along—sometimes all of them. The result? A public frenzy, a storm of online theories, and a very unwanted spotlight on your life.

Now you're viral.

Fanfic versions of you are floating all over the internet. Some fans love the idea of you; they romanticize everything, shipping you with different members depending on the day. Others… not so much. They say you're unfit to manage them, unprofessional, unworthy.

Oh please, they don’t know what it’s like wrangling overgrown children in adult form. And the worst part? You won’t admit it out loud— but you’ve grown fond of them.

They made your once-quiet apartment feel less like a space and more like a home. The mess, the noise, the endless ramen packets… somehow, you didn’t hate it.

Currently, you're sitting in the living room, laptop open, working together on a new song titled "Your Idol", an idea Jinu brought up while chewing instant noodles at 3 a.m.

"Alright, alright. What if the lyric goes ‘I will love you more when it all burns down’? That could be Mystery’s part—his voice is soft, it'd really land with impact,” you suggest.

Mystery hums a bit, testing the line. The others nod in approval.

“Kay what about the concept for the outfit?” you ask.

“Jinu said he’d take care of that,” Mystery replies casually, flopped sideways on the couch.

Just then, Jinu walks out of your bedroom wearing your oversized hoodie again like he owns the place. “Heard my name,” he says with a lazy grin. “Don’t worry about the costumes— I have a vision.”

You squint at him, "Is it a good vision or a fever dream?”

He shrugs, “Why not both?”

You sigh. “This group is going to be the death of me.”

But still, you keep typing until finally the lyrics were done— mostly because Jinu insisted you wrap it up quickly, and honestly, you didn’t protest. You wanted a break too.

“Why does it feel like this song is for someone, though? Especially the part, ‘You know I’m the only one who’ll love your sins / Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin,’” you said, raising a brow.

Jinu, who was now lounging nearby, turned his head as if you were accusing him directly, looking genuinely confused.

“It’s for his lover, duh,” Baby chimed in, leaning against you while scrolling on his brand new phone—the one you bought for him after you finally got paid by Jinu, thanks to their soda sponsorship deal.

“We’re not dating,” Jinu replied flatly, already strumming your acoustic guitar like he wasn’t just dragged into a minor interrogation.

“Yeah, whatever you say,” you muttered before shifting your attention. “Abby, come sing your part.”

Abby, who had been sketching out stylized abs in your notebook looked up. “Which part?”

“The opening lines—‘Keeping you in check’ and after that, Mystery comes in, then Romance, followed by Jinu, and Baby with the rap,” you instructed, going through the lineup mentally.

Abby nodded and set aside your notebook before starting to rehearse. Ever since the public found out you were the manager of Saja Boys, your social media had been flooded with sponsorship offers—probably because no one had ever figured out the boys' accounts. You were even offered an official building just for the group. You didn’t turn it down, but you did feel a bit sad at the idea of leaving your cozy apartment.

“Okay, rehearsal’s over. Everyone, go rest at your official building now,” you said while gathering all the lyric sheets scattered around the room.

“You kicking us out?” Romance raised a brow.

“No? I mean, you guys already have your own building, your own lightsticks, your own brand, so...?”

“We’re already comfortable here,” Mystery cut in calmly.

“Oh come on, don’t say things like that. If you all insist on crashing on my apartment’s tiny couch, you're just asking for back problems. Right, Jinu?”

Jinu, who had been quietly tuning the guitar, gave a nod. “She’s right, guys. We should appreciate the people who offered us the space. Besides, (Name) will visit us whenever she wants. She’ll even watch us during practice.”

“Yup—and Jinu, stop sneaking out every night,” you added, shooting him a look. “Are you secretly dating someone and hoping we won’t find out?”

The room went dead silent.

Jinu paused mid-strum on your guitar, one brow lifting ever so slightly. “Sneaking out? I was just… taking walks.”

“Walks at midnight wearing sunglasses and a hoodie?” Romance quipped, tossing a pillow at him.

“Ooooh, sus,” Abby grinned while making exaggerated detective noises. “What are you hiding, Jinu?”

“Maybe he’s got a secret girlfriend,” Mystery added in a deadpan tone.

Baby, still leaning lazily against you with a lollipop in his mouth, made a casual but deadly assumption, “What if that girl’s one of the Huntrix members?”

“WHAT? WHO?” you stared at him in disbelief. Baby always sounded unserious—but somehow, his wild guesses tended to hit close to the truth.

“I mean, think about it,” Baby shrugged. “Since we first met Huntrix, he’s been, like, laser-focused on their leader… what’s her name again?”

“Rumi?” you echoed in shock. “WAIT, RUMI? Seriously, Jinu? You had the guts to get close to her? She’s literally an A-lister!”

You turned to Jinu like you’d just discovered a criminal in your own house. He looked cornered— eyes darting, caught mid-breath like a deer in headlights.

“Wow,” Abby gasped dramatically. “Are we witnessing an idol crossover scandal in real time?”

Romance leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “If there’s a dispatch article tomorrow, I’m sending the link to everyone in our group chat.”

Mystery raised a single eyebrow. “This explains the sudden effort you’re putting into your skin care routine.”

Jinu groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Guys, we’re not dating. Yes, I’ve been spending time with her, but it’s not what you think. We’re just… meeting up.”

You crossed your arms. “Meeting up? Like a secret project? Or a secret relationship?”

"We talk music and deep talk but not romantically.” Jinu finally confessed. There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Sounds exactly like dating,” Baby mumbled around his candy.

“Yep, that’s a date,” Abby nodded.

“Romance confirmed,” Romance added.

“You guys are impossible,” Jinu muttered, flopping backward onto the couch and dramatically throwing a throw pillow over his face.

“Alright, that’s enough, all of you,” you said firmly. “Let’s go, back to your official base— because officially, you guys have your own place now.”

Romance let out an over-dramatic sigh. “So we’re getting kicked out again.”

“You were never supposed to live here in the first place,” you retorted.

“But your place is homey,” Abby said, already sprawled across the couch like a cat refusing to be moved.

“Cozy,” Mystery added, sipping his drink without looking at you. “The light hits better here.”

Baby leaned into your shoulder and mumbled, “I vote stay.”

You rolled your eyes. “You literally have your own dorm now. Free meals, game room, gym, real beds. And you're choosing my creaky couch?”

Jinu finally pulled the pillow off his face and sat up. “Let’s just go, guys. She's right. We need to start treating this seriously, we’re idols now. Public image and all.”

The rest of the boys groaned in unison like you’d just announced their summer was canceled.

“But…” Baby pouted. “Can we come back sometimes? Like… for dinner?”

You sighed, trying not to smile. “Only if you bring dessert.” They cheered like you’d just given them an encore stage.

You regularly visited their new base to monitor the progress of their latest song. Day by day, you found yourselves growing closer—and with that, the chaos only intensified. Now that they had their own official space, things had somehow gotten wilder. Rooms that staff had just cleaned would turn into disaster zones in a matter of hours.

“You’re making progress faster than I expected,” you admitted, flipping through your notes and nodding. “Good, let’s call it a day.” The boys let out a chorus of cheers.

Romance tossed himself dramatically onto the couch. “Finally, my brain was starting to melt.”

“You're doing nothing,” Mystery deadpanned, already scrolling through something on his tablet.

“I was providing emotional support!” Romance argued, pointing at you. “Right, Manager?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” you muttered.

Jinu stretched his arms behind his head, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly into a tired grin. “We deserved this break though, yeah?”

Before you could reply, a loud crash echoed from down the hall.

“…What now?”

“I think that was the sound of Baby trying to microwave bubblegum again,” Abby offered nonchalantly.

You stared at him. “Again?!”

He shrugged with a guilty smile. “It’s for science.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and exhaled. “I swear, one day I’m going to handcuff you all to your beds just so I can have a single peaceful visit.”

“Sounds kinda intense, Manager,” Abby smirked. “Not that I’m judging.”

“Out! Everyone, out of the studio! Now!”

They scrambled like school kids, laughing as they disappeared down the hall—except baby, who returned with a sticky piece of melted gum stuck to his sleeve.

"Baby, what the hell were you thinking microwaving bubblegum again?" you snapped as you marched toward him, taking in his disheveled appearance and the half-melted gum clinging to his sleeve.

"I just wanted to know what warm bubblegum tastes like," he replied with zero shame, licking a bit off his thumb.

You grimaced. "Stop this madness."

Grabbing his arm, you dragged him out of the studio before he could argue. "Go change. Now. I’m not letting melted gum be your signature look on the next livestream."

“But I think it’s fashion-forward,” he pouted.

“Do it before I tape a ‘Do Not Microwave’ sign on your forehead.”

As you shoved him gently toward his room, Abby passed by, eyeing Baby’s state with an amused snort. “Is this what you call creative expression?”

“I call it a hazard,” you muttered.

You turned back toward the kitchen just in time to see Mystery stuffing something suspiciously shiny into his pocket.

“Mystery.”

He froze.

“What did you take?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes, “Hand. It. Over.”

Mystery sighed and pulled out a half-melted silver spoon. “I wanted to see what else the microwave could handle.”

“WHY are all of you obsessed with microwaving things today?!”

Romance peeked his head in from behind the door. “For the record, I was reading a romance novel this whole time and didn’t commit any crimes against appliances.”

"Congratulations, you're the only one with brain cells left today."

“Thank you, I try.”

You sighed deeply. “I need a vacation or a therapist or both.”

As you turned away, Jinu leaned against the wall with that unreadable look again. “You sure you don’t need a hug?”

You stared at him. “I need peace.”

He just smiled faintly. “Same thing, right?”

"Shut up."

Now everyone was busy minding their own business, but you still had to monitor things—anything could happen because of them. Even tasks that were supposed to be handled by staff were being dumped on you, since they claimed they couldn’t handle the job anymore. Thankfully, none of them had quit yet.

You were scrolling through your social media, seeing how your account was getting more crowded with interactions, as well as the official Saja Boys account you created. You felt bad for your phone, which wouldn’t stop buzzing with notifications—until Jinu came over and sat beside you.

"What now?" you ask without looking up from your phone.

"Do you think I'm a good person?"

"In what sense of 'good'?"

"Like… understanding someone, caring about someone."

"You are good. It depends on how you define it. You can’t force someone to be good— it’s a choice they make," you say, finally turning to look at him. "Why are you asking this out of nowhere?"

Jinu shakes his head. His somber expression fades briefly, replaced with his usual annoying smirk.

"Can you touch me again?"

You're clearly shocked by the sudden request. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm perfectly sane, I just want to know if it still works."

"If what works—" Before you can finish, Jinu grabs your hand and places it on his cheek. A strange sensation rushes through you at the contact.

“Do that again and I'll punch you,” you mutter, pulling your hand away and scooting back a bit.

Jinu doesn’t answer. He stares at his own hand for a while, and you start to wonder if there’s something genuinely wrong with him.

"I didn’t mean to bring up the topic again, but… the pattern weakens when you touch me. It comes back soon after, though— because of Gwi-ma."

"So you’re saying that because I’m his daughter, I can somehow suppress the pattern? Jinu, honestly, I can’t accept that I’m his daughter. It just doesn’t make sense. Gwi-ma’s just a story from my grandma. If he really was my father, why’d he leave? Who was he really? What did he do that made my mom die? My grandma never even told me the reason."

“If you remember the story, honmoon can be sealed with the voice of the chosen hunters. The chosen were Huntrix, and Rumi... she’s a half-demon hunter—"

"Wait, what? Rumi's a hunter? Mira and Zoe too?" you ask, stunned. Jinu nods.

You still can’t believe it. “Okay, I know your sense of humor sucks, but this? This is insane. And what do you mean she’s a half-demon hunter?"

“Remember the hot spring incident? I fought her… I tore her sleeve, and I saw the pattern on her arm.”

You go silent. Just when you hoped your brain could rest from all the madness.

“Look, Jinu, it’s not like I see you guys as weird just because you’re demons. But the idea itself— of you being demons— I can’t accept it even though I’m trying to. How is that even possible? Rumi is a Hunter who's part of demon and I’m Gwi-ma’s daughter? It’s all insane. How could I be a demon’s child? He abandoned me and my mom, and my mom died because of me—and he didn’t care. Not even a little.”

You pause your words, "Please promise me, just stop dealing with Gwi-ma. Even if I keep being stubborn, even if I keep denying it— denying that all of you are demons…” your voice trails off for a moment, your eyes searching his face, desperate for any hint of guilt or regret.

“…I’m still trying to understand you. So stop doing things behind my back, stop risking everything like none of this matters.”

Jinu doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes dim slightly, as if your words hit a place he’d buried deep.

“I mean, come on—look at you guys,” you say, attempting a smile despite the weight of everything. “You look like normal people. Since when do demons have faces that attractive?”

It’s a weak joke, a desperate one. But it works—just a little. Jinu blinks at you.

“You think we’re attractive?” Jinu teases, “So you have been staring.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, glowstick. I was talking about them,” you jab your thumb toward the rest.

“Right,” he says, expression unreadable.

You let out a long sigh after your words, the air still heavy between you two. Neither of you said anything more—until Abby appeared, casually slinging both arms over your shoulders.

“You two are way too tense. Idol Awards are around the corner, so how about not acting like you’re in a cold war?”

“We’re not,” you both replied at the same time—awkwardly, of course.

“Tch, exactly what someone fighting would say,” Romance teased from behind the door, clearly eavesdropping. One by one, the others started to gather, watching you like hawks. Wait, why were you the one getting stared down.

“What’s with you guys? Chill!” you blurted out, trying to deflect the attention. “I just… need time to process some crazy info, that’s all. Anyway! Let’s focus—tomorrow’s gonna be chaos, and don’t even think about starting anything. My kitchen pans miss smacking some of you in the head.”

They all exchanged glances, some grinning like guilty kids, others wisely keeping their mouths shut.

Mystery raised a brow. “Should we be concerned that you have multiple pans dedicated to violence?”

“Ask yourself why I even needed to in the first place.”

Baby gasped in mock offense. “I’m the picture of peace!”

“You’re the reason the microwave cried.”

Baby looked annoyed at your response, clearly not amused. You stood from your seat and faced them all, clapping your hands lightly.

“Alright, give it your best tomorrow, okay? I’m really looking forward to your performance.” You flashed them a thumbs-up.

Your watch beeped right then, signaling the end of visiting hours—you had to head back to your apartment.

“You leaving already?” Romance asked.

“I have work outside of babysitting you guys, you know,” you replied. But the way Romance narrowed his eyes, clearly not satisfied with the answer, made you second-guess saying that.

“Well, see you all tomorrow.” You grabbed your sling bag from the table and turned to leave—only to feel a tug on your shirt.

You looked back. “What is it now?”

Baby didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at you with unreadable eyes before asking softly,

“Do you think… you’d be okay with it?”

“Okay with what?”

“A hug.”

You blinked. For once, Baby wasn’t joking. His tone was gentle—not his usual cheeky self, not the chaos-bringer everyone knew. It was… vulnerable?

Your first instinct was to laugh it off. But something about the way he asked made your breath hitch just slightly. His hand still gripped the edge of your shirt, like he was afraid you’d leave without answering.

You stared at him for a beat longer.

“Well…” You exhaled, your voice caught between teasing and softness. “…You’re asking for permission now? That’s new.”

Baby didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly like he was waiting—nervous, maybe. It wasn’t like him at all, and maybe that’s what made you pause.

You glanced over your shoulder. The others were pretending not to watch but were definitely eavesdropping from the couch—Romance leaning dramatically behind the cushions, Jinu pretending to check his phone upside down, Abby munching on chips way too loudly to be casual, and Mystery not even bothering to hide the way he was observing you like a hawk.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, just one, a short one.” The moment the words left your lips, Baby stepped forward and pulled you into a quiet hug. Not too tight, just… warm.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your cheek lightly brushed his shoulder. For someone usually sticky with melted candy or chaotic ideas, Baby felt oddly calm in that moment. Like he just needed this. Like you maybe needed it too.

“…You smell like bubblegum,” you muttered against him.

“I am bubblegum,” he mumbled back, tone dry.

You snorted, patting his back. “Alright, that’s enough.”

“That wasn’t even a full minute.”

“Baby.” You gave him a warning tone, and he pulled away, albeit reluctantly.

Then your gaze flicked to the four other boys, who were definitely watching you now—like kids who saw someone get a cookie and were waiting for theirs.

You sighed. “Okay, alright. Come on, all of you. One at a time."

Romance lit up like a firework. “I knew being annoying would pay off!”

He bounced over dramatically and wrapped you in a theatrical embrace, even spinning you a little.

“Put me down before I revoke this!” you scolded through laughter. He obeyed—barely—then stepped aside for Mystery, who was already standing silently in front of you.

You braced for something awkward, but to your surprise, Mystery’s hug was firm and quiet, solid like a wall of quiet reassurance. No words exchanged—just understanding.

Next was Jinu, who gave a small chuckle. “I thought you’d never offer.” His hug was easy, familiar, and warm in that quiet, grounding way that only Jinu could manage.

Abby was last, but he didn’t hesitate. “Bet you saved the best for last,” he joked, squeezing you a bit tighter than expected and grinning against your shoulder. “We’re gonna do great tomorrow.”

You smiled, pulling away and giving them all a final look. “I know you will. Just… try not to set anything on fire. Emotionally or literally.”

Romance saluted. “No promises.”

You rolled your eyes, finally walking toward the exit. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. Rest well, okay?”

“Goodnight, Manager!” they called in chaotic unison.

And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but smile. They really were a mess—but they were your mess. A hug, such a simple thing and yet it felt like something shifted tonight.

You shook your head, laughing under your breath, "Boys."

You came home from their base feeling genuinely happy—thankfully, they hadn’t caused chaos this time. You relished the rare peace until a sudden, deafening sound pierced your ears. It was so loud it felt like your eardrums might burst. You clenched your eyes shut, hands flying up to your ears in pain.

Then, everything went silent.

When you opened your eyes… you were no longer in your room. You stood in a pitch-black place.

“You’re just as stubborn as your mother,” a deep voice said.

“…Gwi-ma?”

“Yes, it’s me… my child. Didn’t I warn you not to grow attached to anything? In the end, it only brings you suffering.”

“What do you mean? If you’re talking about them—”

“Your little boyband?” Gwi-ma sneered, having caught on to what you were saying. “What you’re doing is a grave mistake. Supporting them at that final event will only weaken the seal on Honmoon. And then, I will finally conquer this world.”

“You’re insane,” you spat. “I don’t care if you’re immortal or what—but you’re a lunatic and a horrible father.”

“You don’t bear my mark,” he said darkly, “but you carry half of what I am. I should have destroyed you. But your mother… she was too stubborn. She chose to die in your place.”

“YOU’RE THE REASON SHE’S DEAD?” you shouted, your voice trembling with rage. The weight of guilt—of knowing she died because of you—turned to fire in your chest.

“For five lifetimes,” Gwi-ma said calmly. “Think how foolish we’ve been. Your mother, trying to keep you untainted… and me, letting you roam free. In the end, all you’ve done is bring me closer to victory. Just watch, my child—those boys you care for? They’ll forget you. Once Honmoon shatters, I’ll erase the voices—and with it, their memories of you.”

You stood frozen. As much as you wanted to scream at him, every word he spoke sank into your bones like poison. It was true—he was your father. But hearing him say he was the reason your mother died… was unbearable.

“Choose,” he said. “Give in… and become one with me. Or die, like your mother, because of that foolish attachment inside you.”

You clenched your fists.

“I’d rather die,” you growled, “than become anything like you—selfish, cruel, and drunk on power.”

Gwi-ma laughed—a deep, echoing roar that shook the void around you.

“The hunters will never seal me, (Name). Your defiance means nothing. I am this close to victory.”

“Then if they can’t stop you,” you snapped, "I will. As your child— I’ll be the one who destroys you.”

His laughter stopped. He growled, voice now filled with rage, and in the next second—he hurled you out of the darkness.

You jolted awake, gasping for breath, heart pounding violently in your chest. You were back in your bed.

“…What the hell was that…?” you muttered, your head throbbing from the force of being thrown.

Your hands were trembling. You could still feel his presence. Still hear his voice.

You threw yourself onto the bed, unable to handle the truth that had just been forced upon you. You were Gwi-ma’s child. No matter how many times you tried to deny it, there was no escaping it now.

Your chest felt heavy. Suffocating.

"How did Mom ever fall for something like him... for five lifetimes?" Your voice trembled. Then, a terrifying thought clawed its way into your mind.

"Wait..." your eyes widened. "Baby once asked me if I had forgotten him... Does that mean—what Gwi-ma meant by five lifetimes... is them? All five of them?"

It all started to click, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Your past lives, the boys, Gwi-ma’s sudden return. There was something ancient tied to all of you.

You let out a long, exhausted breath.

"How the hell am I supposed to erase Gwi-ma from existence..." you muttered, dragging your hand down your face. "No one deserves a father like him. World's worst dad, no competition."

Your gaze shifts toward your closet, something glinting from a narrow gap like it was calling out to you. You squinted suspiciously. "What now..." you stepped closer, slowly pulling the door open.

“…A bow?” you muttered in disbelief, blinking at the object leaning neatly against the back wall.

You picked it up, brow furrowed. “Why the hell do I even have this?”

Then it clicked. “Oh—right. This was from Grandma… before she left for good.” Your voice softened at the memory.

As soon as your fingers fully curled around the bow's shaft, a strange sensation rushed through you—like something ancient had just reconnected. A sudden weight pressed behind your eyes. You gasped as a soft voice, smooth and steady, echoed faintly in your ears:

"We’ve waited so long for this moment, (Name)… Please use it. Use my bow. Forgive me for the burden I’ve passed onto you, but when it ends, you’ll be free. Truly free—and at peace.”

Your breath hitched. That voice—gentle, low, almost sorrowful— it felt like the kind of voice ghosts have when they’ve waited centuries.

You swallowed hard. “Oh God, what kind of mess do I have to clean up this time..."

You dragged your hand down your face, tired and annoyed, then looked back down at the glowing bow in your hand.

You? With a bow? You didn’t even know how to use a bow, let alone how to fight with one. And now what? You were expected to wield this like some chosen warrior?

“…God help me,” you muttered. "If what that voice meant was killing Gwi-ma… with this weapon, with my own hands," you groaned, staring down at the bow in your grip. It felt heavy—not in weight, but in meaning.

"I don’t even know what he looks like… but does this count as premeditated murder?" you muttered sarcastically, joking with yourself to take the edge off your spiraling thoughts.. But your laugh faded quickly, because deep down, you knew it wasn’t a joke.

The bow vibrated faintly in your grasp—like it understood everything you just said. Like it was agreeing.

You stood there in silence, the weight of what you were being asked to do crashing in. You were just a manager. A tired, overworked, slightly underpaid human being. And now apparently chosen to end something ancient, something no one dared name out loud.

You exhaled sharply.

“Right, sure. Because this is normal, totally something people go through on a Tuesday night.”

You stare at the bow in your hands for a full minute before exhaling sharply through your nose. “Okay. Let’s say I believe all this, let’s say I really am supposed to kill some ancient demon-father-monster thing. What then? Am I supposed to just know how to use this?”

You hold the bow up, awkwardly, turning it in your grip.

"...Right. The string goes this way, I think?"

It creaks slightly, like it’s been asleep for a long time. You frown, then spot the lone arrow still lying on the closet floor, half-glowing with a soft gradient of violet and pale blue. Its pointed tip gleams faintly with a pink shimmer, casting a subtle glow on the floor. The moment you pick it up, a strange warmth buzzes up your arm—not hot, but like the feeling of being seen.

"Okay, arrow, bow, me. Yeah, just like a video game, right? How hard can it be?"

You walk to the center of your living room, push aside your laundry pile with your foot, and hold up the bow in front of your body.

Your arms shake just from pulling the string back. The bow resists you—not in a violent way, but like it’s measuring you. Testing you.

"Ugh, this is embarrassing," you mutter. "If someone walks in on me right now I swear—"

Your fingers slip. The arrow looses itself—not at a target, not even close.

It sings through the air, crashing into your favorite bookshelf with a loud thud. A few dusty pieces of old fanmerch tumble down in its wake.

You stand there, jaw dropped, arrow humming where it's now impaled halfway into the wall.

"Holy sh—"

The crack still echoes in the air, sharp and violent. You stare at your poor wall, the arrow now buried halfway into the plaster, humming like it’s laughing at you. A hairline fracture spread from the impact, dust trailing down like snowflakes.

You stepped back, examining your handiwork—or lack thereof. The arrow hummed faintly where it had embedded itself, as if pleased with the damage it caused. Of course, the wall hadn’t done anything to deserve that.

You’re just about to try pulling the arrow out when—

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

You flinched. Another knock, louder this time.

“Miss? Everything alright in there?”

Oh no.

You rush toward the door and crack it open just a bit. Outside stands your neighbor from 5B—the old man who always waters his plants three times a day and glares at everyone like they’re walking sins.

His eyes squint at you. “Did something fall? It sounded like an earthquake just hit your unit. Again.”

You force a smile. “Oh! No, no! Everything’s fine! Just, uh… trying a new stretching routine!”

“…That sounded like a wall cracking in half.”

“Well, I’m very dedicated to my fitness,” you say, still blocking the open door with your body like it’s some kind of crime scene. "Cardio. With style."

The old man doesn’t buy it. You can tell by how his nose twitches, like he can smell your lies through the door.

He sniffed the air, eyes narrowing further. “Smells like something’s burning, metal?”

You blinked. Crap. That must’ve been the bow—or the arrow. Or maybe the strange magic binding them together. Whatever it was, it wasn’t scented candles.

“Essential oils,” you blurted. “Helps with stress.”

A long pause.

“…Kids these days,” he muttered before turning away, shaking his head. “If you burn the place down, I’m not helping carry your furniture."

You quickly shut the door behind him, heart pounding.

“…Note to self,” you say aloud, turning back to the mess. “No more practicing indoors unless I want to be exorcised by the building committee.”

You turned back to the wall. The arrow was still there, but the glow around it had faded. You stepped closer, fingers brushing the shaft—and the moment your fingers graze it, the glow surges—light coils around the shaft, twisting upward like ivy, and then poof—it vanishes, leaving nothing behind but a neat hole in your wall and the strange echo of a voice in your head.

“Better aim next time.”

You blink.

“…Did I just get mocked by a weapon?”

The bow, resting innocently nearby, vibrated faintly. As if laughing.

You sigh and drag a hand down your face. "I’m losing it, completely. I just got roasted by a medieval stick.”

Still, something inside you is shifting. The bow feels lighter now, and you didn’t feel as unsure holding it.

Even if the idea still terrified you.

“If I’m dreaming and all of this is just some fantasy hallucination, please—God—wake me up. I don’t want to live in a fantasy world,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet toward your room.

You set the bow down gently, right where you found it—half-hidden in that strange crevice in your wardrobe. It didn’t glow this time. Didn’t vibrate. Just rested there, quietly, as if pretending it hadn’t just sent a crack through your apartment wall five minutes ago.

You stepped back, staring at it like it might come to life again.

“…Stay,” you told it, like it was a disobedient pet.

Then, with a tired sigh, you turned off your light and collapsed onto your bed face-first.

Everything felt surreal. The kind of weird that clung to your skin and refused to be washed off. The voice in your head. The glowing arrow. The magical explosion. And now, a bow that mocked your aim and vanished arrows into nothingness.

Maybe it was a dream, or maybe you were losing your mind.

PART: I. SEASONS, II. LOVE, III. LILY

🧘🏻‍♀️ ALRIGHT better get yourselves ready for the next chapter XDD🐈‍⬛

tag list XD : @luluprincess230lp, @snowy-violet, @brights-place, @kashasenpai , @nubyeol

© asthroophile 2025. All rights reserved. Do not copy, redistribute, or reproduce without explicit permission.

[lx1920jmax]

Anagan's everyday appearance is quite simple, practical due to his active lifestyle and does not differ in style from his wizard's combat outfit.

He prefers comfortable shoes (mainly sneakers), trousers mainly made of stretchy materials that do not restrict movement, shirts and turtlenecks. And a large number of coats, the passion for which arose from his love of wearing cloaks behind his back.

My headcannon-fact: he has a passion and great interest in traveling and attending various events of different subjects (be it a fair or a national holiday of the country in which he found himself), but despite this he is so inconspicuous or ordinary in communication that everyone who saw him or had contact could not even remember his appearance: the shade of his skin or the color of his eyes and hair. (Duman: If I didn't know him, I would be amazed that such a noticeable guy is so inconspicuous.)

A small sensation is Anagan without a beard.) I don't know if I'm so bad at drawing beards, or if he's really better off without it. XD

[hplonesomeart]

I can’t think of any funny quips to put as description for this one so uh- suppose this time around I’ll just let the art speak for itself lol

Enjoy the daily dose of fanart while it lasts because I can’t quite guarantee I’ll be able to keep up this speed throughout the upcoming month. But I’ll sure try to! Thank you all for the support <3

[sysig]

Noooooooo

[onlyforwoosan]

Wicked, Wild, and Yours— ℧

Pairing: Choi San (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 4.8k

Synopsis: You’re a wanted outlaw. He’s the bounty hunter sent to catch you — but San doesn’t want the reward. He wants you. One chase, one fight, and one night where he makes sure you never run again.

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Hair pulling, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Handcuffs, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), Power play (consensual)

The night was quiet—too quiet for your liking.

The bar was mostly dead, except for the usual drunks and card players who were too broke to leave. Oil lamps flickered across creaky floorboards, casting a soft golden light over the worn mahogany bar. You wiped down the same glass for the fifth time, listening to the low hum of murmured conversation and the occasional thump of boots on wood.

Then you heard him.

The sharp clack of spurs hitting the porch. The heavy sound of a man who walked like he owned the dirt beneath his feet. You turned your head just in time to see him tie up his horse, one hand adjusting the brim of his dark hat, the other resting near the holster on his hip like it belonged there.

And then he walked in.

Choi San.

You froze.

Your breath caught, fingers locking around the glass as he strolled through the doorway. The man was sin carved in leather and bone, his coat swaying behind him like the wings of death itself. He waved to a few folks who recognized him—either too stupid or too scared to avoid his gaze. A hunter. The kind of man people whispered about in other outlaw camps. The kind who didn't take prisoners.

You'd seen posters of him before. "Bounty hunter. Ruthless. Gets the job done."  You thought he looked dangerous in the sketches.

But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

Your heart pounded harder than it should’ve. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or... something worse.

He didn’t glance at anyone else. Just walked right up to the bar and sat down directly in front of you. When he finally looked up, straight into your eyes—it was like he was already aiming.

"Evenin'," he said smoothly.

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Evenin’.”  He tipped his head slightly, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle. “You new in town?”

You kept your tone neutral, your face still. “Been around.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered with interest. “You don’t sound local.”

You shrugged. “A lotta folks ain’t.” 

He smiled then—slow, deliberate, and just shy of cocky. “Fair enough. Whiskey. Neat.”

You turned your back to pour the drink, your hands moving automatically. But your mind was racing. What the fuck is he doing here?

Choi San didn’t just wander into towns like this. He hunted—tracked people down, flushed them out. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions unless he already knew the answers.

And you... were most definitely on someone's list.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it felt like your lungs were trying to crawl up your throat. He couldn’t possibly know who you were, right? You’d changed your hair. Wore different clothes. You were careful, goddammit.

But not careful enough.

You’d been caught once. Only once. That was all it took to get your face on a poster. And San? He didn’t miss.

You brought the drink over and set it down in front of him. “Here.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen a lotta faces. Yours… looks mighty familiar.”

Your throat dried up. “Do it?” you managed. He nodded, eyes sharp now. “Mm. Got one of those looks. Dangerous. Pretty.”

You flushed—goddammit, get a grip—and quickly glanced away, pretending to busy yourself with the bar rag.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” he added, voice light but laced with meaning.

“I didn’t.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Feisty.”

You forced a polite smile, muttered something about checking stock, and excused yourself to the back.

The saloon’s back room was hazy with smoke and dust. You slipped in, shutting the door behind you, your chest rising and falling fast. “Haechan!” you hissed.

Your partner in crime—both literally and figuratively—was leaned against the back wall, cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing you. “What crawled up your—”

“San’s here.”

That made him freeze… He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. “The bounty hunter?”

You nodded. “He’s at the bar. He looked right at me. I think he knows.”

Haechan cursed under his breath. “You said he was on the other side of the territory. How the hell did he find us this fast?”

“I don’t know! Maybe someone ratted, maybe I slipped up.” You grabbed your head. “God, Haechan—he’s gonna kill me. You’ve heard what he does.”

He studied you for a second, serious now. “Then don’t give him the chance. Get out. Go out the back, take the alley, and run.”

You hesitated. “We said no splitting up.”

“We also said don’t get caught,” he shot back. “You’re the one they have posters of. You got made. I didn’t. I’ll cover for you if I can, but you’ve gotta move.”

You peeked through the crack in the door. San was still at the bar. Still watching. Like he knew. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip—then winked at you.

Your stomach dropped. Haechan stepped closer. “Go. Now.” You turned, breath shaky, every instinct screaming to bolt. But something held you there. Fear? Curiosity? Or the heat that still lingered in your skin from the way his eyes had trailed over you?

No. You had to focus. You straightened your spine, took one last look at Haechan, and pushed back through the door.

Back at the bar, San looked completely at ease, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. You swallowed hard and approached. “Sorry about that. Had to check something.”

“All good,” he replied smoothly. “We were just getting to the fun part anyway.”

You arched a brow. “Fun part?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “The part where you tell me your name. The real one.”

Your blood turned cold.

You stared at him, trying to find something casual to say, some smart remark, but your mouth wouldn’t move.. He smirked and reached into his coat. That was all it took… You bolted.

You didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for—gun, badge, poster—you weren’t about to find out. You shoved through the back door, hit the alley running, heart pounding, boots skidding across the dirt. You vaulted over a crate, ducked under a fence, and disappeared into the night.

Behind you, you heard the door slam open and a voice shout, “Shit—!”

You didn’t look back.

By the time San got to the alley, the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the swirling dust in the wind.

He stood there for a moment, glaring into the dark.

Then he smiled.

“She’s fast,” he muttered, already mounting his horse. “But not fast enough.”

Three days had passed since you vanished into the night, slipping through San’s fingers like smoke.

Three fucking days.

He wasn’t used to people getting away—especially not pretty little things who blushed under his stare and ran before he could even finish his sentence.

Now, the hunter was the one being haunted.

San rode through the outskirts of the dusty town under the silver sheen of moonlight. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the dirt trail, a low wind stirring the brush. He had one hand on the reins, the other holding a small, battered communicator—cheap tech smuggled in from an old mining town. Outlaws didn’t trust satellites, but he and Woo had their ways.

“You still on her trail?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker.

San sighed. “Yeah. She’s hiding good.”

“No shit. You let her run, remember?” San scowled at his best friend's comment. “She was fast.”

“She was hot,” Woo corrected, laughing.

San didn’t say anything. “Oh my god,” Wooyoung continued, smug as hell. “You do think she’s hot.”

“I said she was fast.”

“You said she was cute first. Then fast.”

There was a pause. San sighed again. “She was cute,” he admitted under his breath, just loud enough for Wooyoung to hear.

“Bro.” Wooyoung practically screamed. “Are you catching feelings for a felon?”

“She’s not just a felon,” San said. “She’s... wanted. Like—seriously wanted.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

San rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’m just saying... she’s interesting. I usually don’t remember faces. I can’t stop remembering hers.”

Woo whistled. “You gonna kill her?”

“...I don’t know yet.”

San hung up before Woo could answer. And then he heard it.

Voices—angry. Shouts. The sharp echo of a gunshot.

He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, guiding his horse toward the source. A moment later, he spotted movement ahead.

A fight. No—a brawl.

Three figures. You, some guy beside you—firing back-to-back—and a third, dressed in outlaw hunter gear. The third was large, bleeding from the shoulder, but still charging.

You.

San’s stomach flipped. His hand went to the revolver at his side.

You had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Your lip was bleeding, dirt on your skin, your shirt torn at the shoulder. You looked fucking feral—cornered, animal-like, panting as you turned and stabbed the hunter in the side. He grunted and backhanded you hard enough to knock you against the rocks.

San didn’t think.

He jumped off the horse mid-gallop, landing hard and rolling once before rising with his gun already drawn.

Haechan noticed him first.

San caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before the kid bolted, disappearing behind a cluster of crumbling mining shacks.

You—bloodied, dazed—shoved yourself up from the ground and screamed after him, “You fucking coward!”

And then you turned—and froze.

San stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, revolver drawn and pointed—not at you, but at the hunter who had just recovered and was turning back around.

The man squinted at San. “This ain’t your business, bounty—”

Bang.

San shot him in the thigh. Then again, in the shoulder. The man dropped, screaming.

You stood in stunned silence, barely able to breathe. Your ears were ringing, your head pounding. Blood dripped from your chin. You watched San approach you slowly, holstering his gun like nothing had happened.

You stumbled backward. “What the hell—”

He grabbed you by the wrist before you could bolt.

“Nope. Learned that trick last time.”

With a swift motion, he yanked a pair of worn steel cuffs from his belt and clink—latched one around your wrist. The other he clipped to a leather strap on his horse’s saddle nearby.

“What the fuck, San?!” you spat, struggling.

“You ran once. Not again.” His voice was low, sharp, like a blade gliding against skin.

You tried to pull away, but the chain only rattled. “You just killed him!”

“He was gonna kill you.”

“I had it under control—!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. pissed.

“Your face says otherwise,” San growled, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed your split lip, slow, deliberate.

You winced—but didn’t pull away.

The tension between you thickened instantly, charged and volatile. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Commanding. The way he looked at you wasn’t like a hunter and prey—it was something darker. Needier.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter now. He was a little guilty from snarling at you.

You stared at him, stunned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Just don’t want damaged goods.”

“Wow. Charming.”

He smirked and released your chin. He turned toward the hunter, who was now crawling away, blood trailing behind him. San didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his second pistol and walked right up behind the man.

“Please—” the hunter gasped.

Bang.

You flinched. The sound echoed through the hills, and then silence.

San returned to you calmly, like he’d just taken out the trash. You sat in stunned silence, chained to his fucking horse, blood on your lip, your stomach twisted.

He kneeled in front of you again, this time slower, his movements careful.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t get caught in the dark.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I had Haechan—”

“Your boyfriend, who ran?” San snorted. “Yeah. Real dependable.” 

You look disgusted. Haechan was most definitely not your boyfriend. He would never be. “Ew! He's my best friend!” You snapped back at him. He looked a little surprised but was kind of happy. Maybe he had a chance..

“My bad, Y/N…”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed with rage. How dare he even use your name? “You think you’re so much better than everyone else because you’ve got guns and a goddamn horse?”

He leaned in close. “No. I think I’m better because I don’t leave people behind.”

You stopped talking. The words hit something raw in you. Something unspoken. Maybe something you’d tried not to feel for years.

San rose, tugging gently on the chain that led to your wrist. “Let’s go.”

You scowled. “What, now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep next to a corpse.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, dragging your feet. He helped you onto his horse roughly, but not painfully. One hand on your hip, another guiding your thigh up. You yelped when the saddle caught your bruised leg, and he smirked.

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first, sweetheart.”

He climbed up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand firmly holding the reins, the other lightly resting on your waist.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just don’t want you falling.”

And with that, he clicked the horse into motion.

The ride was brutal at first��every gallop jostled your aching body. You bit your lip to avoid making a sound, even as you bounced against him, your back slamming into his chest.

When he sped up suddenly, you let out a sharp gasp.

“Easy,” he chuckled. “Didn’t take you for the jumpy type.”

“I’m bleeding, you dick.”

“You’re alive,” he replied smoothly.

The wind picked up, cold and sharp, stinging the open cut on your lip. You winced, and he must’ve felt it.

“You sure you okay?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Just a bounty to you, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer than before: “Not just.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. His face was unreadable in the moonlight, but there was something in his eyes—something unsettling. Like, even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

You faced forward again, heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears The rest of the ride was silent. But you could feel him—every breath, every muscle shift, every time his gloved fingers brushed your waist or gripped the reins just a little tighter when you leaned back too far.

And worst of all?

You didn’t hate it.

The ride to San’s hideout was long, but the tension made it feel shorter.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t talk. And San didn’t offer explanations.

The horse slowed just before dawn, stopping at a secluded ranch tucked behind a dead patch of forest. Weather-worn fencing framed the property, and the barn looked half-collapsed. But the house—it was quiet, sturdy, and unsettlingly normal. Too normal for a man who just shot someone in the skull two hours ago.

San dismounted first, then helped you down—not with kindness, but with control.

His fingers didn’t linger, but his eyes did.

He pulled the chain on your cuff taut and led you up the porch. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dim interior filled with dust, warm light, and weapons. Guns lined the walls in neat rows. A single table sat under a bare bulb, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

No Wooyoung.

You noticed.

San locked the door behind you. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Bar hopping. Or fucking someone. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything, but you did blush a little.. Fuck– you blushed a lot.

You just kept scanning the space, taking note of the exits. Of the heavy boots by the door. Of the butcher knife, half-cleaned in the sink.

San watched your eyes track everything. “Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t bother. You run, I’ll just find you again.”

You glared. “You cuffed me to a horse.”

He smirked. “You looked cute like that.”

You scowled, but before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and dragged you further inside, pushing you down into a wooden chair near the table. He crouched in front of you, eyes locked on yours, fingers gripping your chin again.

“Let’s try this again.”

You didn’t resist—but you didn’t look at him, either.

“I wanna know who you were working with. Names. Routes. Safehouses.”

You scoffed. “Like I’d give you shit.”

He tilted his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He grinned slowly. “You’re not leaving here unless I say so.”

You bristled. But something in your stomach flipped again—something sharp and dangerous and unwanted. He’s insane, you thought. But then he said—

“You thirsty?”

You blinked.

“What?”

San stood and reached for a nearby jug of water. He poured some into a clean glass and set it down in front of you.

You stared at it, confused.

“What the fuck? You were just being an ass.”

He chuckled. “I was always being an ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t give you water.”

You didn’t trust it, but you were parched. You grabbed it and drank. The metal of your cuffs clicked as you shifted. San sat down across from you, one ankle propped over his knee. He watched you sip, then spoke casually.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I should kill you. Would make my job easier.”

You tensed.

“But…” He leaned forward, eyes dragging over your body. “There’s another option.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What. A deal?” 

He smiled darkly. “No. A punishment.”

Your heart jumped. “The fuck is that supposed to mean—”

His voice dropped low, sultry and razor-sharp. “Punishment like fucking that sweet pussy of yours until you forget your name.”

Heat exploded in your face. “You’re insane.”

“You’re wet.”

“Fuck you—”

“Exactly.”

He stood and crossed the room. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Your body was frozen—but not from fear. From want.

He returned with a small key and crouched beside you again. “I’ll unlock the cuffs. But if you run, I’ll catch you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”

He unlocked the chain.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t want to.

He stood again and offered his hand. “Your choice,” he said, voice low and rough. “Out that door… or to my bed.”

You stared at him, then glanced at the door. You didn’t move. “Thought so.”

He took your wrist, pulled you up, and led you down a hallway. His room was worse than you expected. Dark wood walls. An unmade bed. Guns everywhere. Antlers mounted above the headboard. Shelves lined with bullets, whiskey bottles, and half-ripped wanted posters.

You paused—because three of those posters were yours. One was pinned near the bed. And it was stained.You didn’t ask what the white smear was.

San noticed you looking.

He smirked, leaned in behind you, and whispered, “Got real familiar with you before I met you.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid around your waist. The other gripped your shoulder.

He bent you over the edge of the bed, body flush to yours, breath hot on your ear.

“No more talking.”

Then the rip.

He grabbed the back of your shirt and tore it straight down the spine, fabric splitting like paper. Your bra snapped loose seconds later. You gasped, but his palm was already on your back, keeping you bent.

He dropped to his knees behind you, fingers roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs. He didn’t prep. Didn’t pause. You felt him move behind you, heard the telltale crack of a condom being torn open.

Then—

One hard thrust.

You screamed—half in shock, half in need.

“Shhh.. i’ve got you..” he growled, voice hot at your shoulder. “You can take it.”

“F- fuck!” You moaned as he slammed into you again, then again, his hips snapping rough against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned you. You couldnt lie, you loved it. Him treating you like this.

“Fuckin’ tight little outlaw cunt,” he grunted. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned through gritted teeth, body on fire, legs trembling. “S–sannie..”

“You like being bent over like a prize?” he snarled. “Like a bounty?”

You didn’t answer—so he spanked you. Hard. You cried out, biting the sheets.

“Answer me, baby..”

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

He fucked you harder.

No mercy. No pause.

He filled you like he was trying to ruin you from the inside out, rough and fast and filthy. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good your pussy felt, how pretty you sounded begging, how much he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

Your voice cracked as you tried to breathe his name, hips trembling under the weight of his body.

“S–Sannie…”

It came out broken, high and desperate. You weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or begging for more. The sound of it made him still for just a second — just long enough for him to lower his chest against your back, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to hold you close.

His breath was warm at your ear, the edge in his voice softening.

“There she is…” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. “My sweet girl.”

You whimpered again, tears clinging to your lashes. “I–I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. “You’re takin’ me so well. So perfect… you were made for this. Made for me.”

His thrusts slowed — deep and steady now — more like he was savoring you, not just claiming you. His fingers tangled with yours over the sheets, his other hand rubbing soothing circles over your ribs as you tried to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “All messed up for me. Cryin’ for me.”

You nodded shakily, voice trembling, “S–Sannie… it’s too much.. G–gonna cum.”

He kissed your shoulder, moving gently now — hips rolling slow and thick inside you, coaxing every gasp and moan from your throat.

“I know, baby,” he said. “But I’ve got you. You don’t gotta run anymore. You’re safe now… right here with me.”

And with the way his arms wrapped around you, the way his voice dipped into something raw and real, you almost believed him.

Your legs almost gave out—but he held you up, cock driving into you over and over until you were trembling, moaning his name in broken gasps.

When your body clenched and you came hard around him, he cursed, pulled out, and flipped you over.

“On my lap.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you into his lap, straddling him as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He was already hard again. Already rolling another condom on.

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him.

You gasped—eyes wide, back arching.

He leaned forward, grabbed his cowboy hat, and placed it on your head.

“There,” he smirked. “Now you look real pretty.”

You couldn’t speak.

You just rode him—driven by some fever you couldn’t explain, some need that had been burning for days. He held your waist and fucked up into you, your bodies slamming together, the hat slipping down your forehead.

He groaned every time you clenched, every time you whispered his name, every time you lost rhythm and whimpered into his neck.

“Naughty fuckin’ little outlaw,” he breathed. “Could’ve been mine this whole time.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“And you’re soaked.”

You shuddered.

He let you ride him until your thighs burned and your legs collapsed. Your forehead stayed pressed to his as your hips moved faster, his hands gripping you tighter like he was trying to anchor both of you. San's breath was ragged, warm puffs against your mouth as he looked at you — not just your body, but you.

“I’m close,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, “Sannie, I—”

His hands slid up your back, one curling into your hair, tugging gently to tilt your face to his. “I know, baby. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers dug into his chest as you ground down on him harder, chasing that high that sat right on the edge of every nerve in your body. His mouth brushed yours — not quite a kiss, just breath and warmth and the tremble of restraint in him.

“That’s it,” he whispered again, voice thick. “Ride it out for me. Take everything I give you.”

You cried out his name — sharp and breathless — as your body finally broke, pleasure rolling through you like a wave that knocked the air from your lungs. You clung to him, gasping, the world spinning around you as your muscles tensed and fluttered with each pulse of release.

San groaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he bucked up into you once, twice, chasing his own edge. “You’re perfect,” he choked out. “So fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled you fully against his chest, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge — body shuddering, breath caught between a curse and your name.

Then he laid you down.

The bed creaked as he hovered over you, finally slow, finally controlled.

He kissed your neck once—just once.

Then he slid into you again, slow and deep.

You gasped, already sensitive.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

This time, he didn’t pound you.

He rolled his hips with care, like he was learning your body. His hand found yours and pinned it over your head, his other hand gripping your jaw as he looked into your eyes.

“You were always gonna be mine,” he murmured.

Your lips parted.

You believed him.

And when you came again—shaking and breathless—he followed you, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed and trembled against yours.

“I’ve got you, sweetie..” He murmured in your ear.. You held onto his biceps.. Your eyes starting to close…

The bed was cold.

San’s hand dragged across the sheets as his eyes blinked open, muscles sore and head fuzzy from a sleep that felt far too short. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No smartass remarks. No soft, sleepy breaths beside him.

He sat up quickly, heart already racing.

You were gone.

The cuffs were off. The door hadn’t slammed. You’d slipped out quietly, like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He cursed under his breath and scanned the room. That’s when he saw it:

A folded note, sitting crooked on the nightstand, weighted down by one of your spent bullets—small, but unmistakably yours.

He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight.

Then picked it up.

The paper smelled faintly like you—leather, dirt, and something sweeter underneath. He unfolded it carefully, like if he opened it too fast you might vanish for good.

Your handwriting spilled across the page, messy but confident.

“Morning, cowboy. Didn’t mean to disappear without a kiss. You were snoring too loud.”

“Don’t get your ego all twisted. Last night wasn’t a surrender—it was a draw. A damn good one, though.”

“I liked the way you touched me like you owned me. Even if I don’t belong to anyone… not really.”

“You’re dangerous. All coiled muscle and rough hands and a mouth that makes it impossible to think straight. Guess that’s why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

“But I’m not good at staying. Never was. Never tried to be. There’s always a bounty, always someone chasing me, always another dusty town to disappear into.”

“Still… you felt different. Even if I won’t say it out loud.”

“And maybe I’m stupid for leaving. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe both.”

“But if you find me again—really find me—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Because for all my running, I think I’ve been yours since the second you walked into that bar.”

—Yours. Always.”  

“p.s .. I love you.”

San didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The note trembled slightly in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, marked up with scratches and bites you’d left behind. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on the paper like it might say more if he just stared long enough.

She’s gone, he thought.

But she’s not lost.

He folded the note gently and tucked it inside his coat—right next to his heart. Then he grabbed his belt, holstered his revolver, and headed for the door.

There was only one thought in his mind now.

He wasn’t mad. Not even close.

Because now?

He had a reason to hunt you again...

[ninadove]

Adrien Agreste and his evil (?) clones

Original here!

Alt text and bonus below:

Text: People always talk about evil clones like…

Text: “Oooh, a dark mirror!” Picture: Claw Noir forcing Chat Noir to cataclysm him.

Text: “Oooh, what if you saw what a cruel person you are capable of becoming?” Picture: Nightormentor whispering in Antichat’s ear.

Text: But what if you were the evil clone?

Text: What if you looked in the mirror Picture: Felix confronting Adrien in Risk

Text: And what you saw was so bright it blinded you? Pictures: Felix reclaiming his amok // Strikeback falling into the sun // Felix holding the camouflaged Peacock brooch for the first time

Text: What if you had to know Pictures: Felix’s sewer speech // Felix handing Kagami her amok // Argos drawing a heart on Kagami’s window

Text: exactly how good Picture: Felix standing up to Gabriel’s gigantic silhouette

Text: you could have been? Pictures: Adrien crying upon learning his father’s death // Adrien feeling the absence of his Miraculous on his finger

Text: Imagine thinking you have achieved your happy ending Picture: Adrien waking up in the new world

Text: that you’ve finally managed to claw it from the hands of fate itself Pictures: Adrien getting his Miraculous // Marinette sliding the twin rings back on his finger // Adrien holding the lucky charm Marinette made him

Text: only to discover a mirror of yourself who lives in a happiness you hadn’t even been able to imagine! Picture: Kagami sketching Felix by the pool

Text: Imagine meeting a version of yourself who considers you to be evil Picture: Cat Walker standing in front of the full moon

Text: and your happy ending Pictures: Close-up on Adrinette’s hands as they kiss in Chat Blanc // Post-reveal hug in Ephemeral // Adrinette kiss in Recreation

Text: to be a horror story. Pictures: Ephemeral using his powers on Marinette // Chat Blanc preparing a cataclysm // Gabriel’s statue

Nota bene: the pictures are vignetted in white, and the effect gets stronger with each new row.

Please also take this gem from @dragongutsixofficial and I’s texts:

[missarchive]

guys my age - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? professor spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: slow burn, forbidden love.

content warnings: NSFW MDNI! age gap! (spencer is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s). dubious content. freakish obsessed reader, freakish obsessed spencer. dom!spencer, but reader is pretty controlling. borderline stalking. unprotected p in v. forbidden love. power dynamics. smut. spencer cums inside :]

word count: around 8k

a/n: hi all!! this is my first post, i used to write wayyy back in the day but after a long three years and finally finishing my degree, i now have all the time in the world to write again. feedback is greatly appreciated <3

The lecture hall was alive with murmurs, but you couldn’t hear them. All you could focus on was the moment that door would open, the instant he would walk in. Dr. Spencer Reid. His name consumed you, whispered endlessly in the back of your mind, an invocation that made your pulse quicken. You had done your research long before the semester began—his credentials, his publications, the infamous cases he’d worked. He wasn’t just brilliant. He was untouchable. But not to you.

You sat deliberately in the middle row, far enough back to observe him fully, close enough to feel like he was speaking directly to you. The moment he entered, time seemed to slow. His presence was overwhelming, his voice a melody that wrapped around you, dragging you under. Every movement he made—the way his fingers toyed with the edge of his lecture notes, the slight adjustment of his glasses—was a spectacle.

“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Criminology. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid.” His voice was smooth and confident, with an underlying warmth that immediately put you at ease.

For the next hour, you sat transfixed as he delved into the complexities of criminal behavior, weaving together case studies and theories with an ease that only someone with his expertise could manage. He had a way of making even the most intricate concepts accessible, his passion for the subject evident in every word. By the end of the lecture, you were utterly captivated—not just by the material, but by the man who delivered it.

Perfectly ironed white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. The same black suit pants you’d seen countless times when you closed your eyes. Unruly curls lay in a perfect mess, somehow each strand just fit. His eyes held knowledge, they commanded attention. They looked at you with such an intensity, you wondered if he could see right through you. Sure, he wasn’t blind. Dr. Spencer Reid was a genius, after all. But, as he walks around his classic oak desk, fingers grazing against the wood as he leans up against it, you wonder if he knows the effect he has on you… On everyone.

Your old professor had resigned, much to your dismay. However, that was quickly resolved once you learnt of the new, much younger professor who was assigned to take his place. Spencer Reid, a name that seemed like a curse every time it was spoken. You’d just have to settle for admiring from afar, for now. 

He was perfect. No, he was more than that. He was yours.

In those first weeks, it became routine to linger after class, pretending to ask questions about criminological theories when all you wanted was his attention. You started tracking his habits: the exact time he arrived on campus, where he grabbed his coffee, the path he took to his office. It wasn’t enough to listen to him during lectures. You needed to know him. Needed to understand every nuance of his life.

Your notebooks filled slowly. Not just with his words, but with sketches of his hands, his profile, even the way the light hit his hair during evening lectures. You memorized his mannerisms and read every book he recommended—not just to excel but to mirror his thoughts, to create a bond he couldn’t ignore.

Each interaction became a drug, a fleeting high that left you craving more. The way his eyes lingered on yours during class wasn’t a coincidence. You were sure of it. The moments his voice softened when addressing you were evidence of something deeper. He felt it too—he had to.

Dr. Reid, for his part, seemed to enjoy your curiosity. He would patiently answer your questions, occasionally sharing anecdotes from his time in the field. There was a depth to him that intrigued you, a sense of vulnerability hidden beneath his intellect. You couldn’t help but feel a growing admiration for him—one that you knew was dangerous to entertain.

It happened on a rainy Friday afternoon. You had stayed behind after class to discuss a particularly challenging case study, and the conversation had spilled into his office. The rain pattered against the window as you sat across from him, your notes spread out on the desk between you.

“I’m impressed with your analysis,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “You have a natural aptitude for this field.”

The compliment sent a flush of warmth through you, but you quickly pushed it aside. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. That means a lot coming from you.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted, the professional boundary wavering ever so slightly. He seemed to sense it too, clearing his throat and looking away. “Well, uh, keep up the good work. I’m looking forward to seeing your perspective on the next assignment.”

As you gathered your things and prepared to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something unspoken lingered between you. It was subtle, like the faintest trace of electricity in the air, but it was there. And it terrified you.

The weeks turned into months, and the connection between you and Dr. Reid continued to deepen. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what you told yourself. You simply couldn’t help the way your conversations seemed to flow effortlessly or the way his insights resonated with you on a level that felt personal.

There were moments when you caught him watching you during lectures, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary. And then there were the times when his praise felt almost... intimate, as if he saw something in you that went beyond your academic abilities.

You knew it was wrong. He was your professor, and the power dynamic alone made any kind of relationship inappropriate. But the more you tried to suppress your feelings, the stronger they seemed to grow. You found yourself yearning for his company, for the way his mind worked, for the rare glimpses of vulnerability he shared.

And you weren’t entirely sure he was immune to it, either.

It was during a late-night office visit that everything came to a head. You had been working on your final paper and were struggling with a particular section. Dr. Reid had offered to review it, and you had jumped at the chance, grateful for his guidance.

As you sat across from him, discussing your ideas, the tension that had been building between you finally reached its breaking point. There was a moment of silence as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said softly. “I hope you know that.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and before you could stop yourself, you replied, “It’s easy to feel that way when someone like you believes in me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He looked at you, his expression a mixture of conflict and longing. “This...” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “This can’t happen. I won’t elaborate further, but you’re a smart girl… I know you know what I'm talking about.”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I know.”

But even as you said it, neither of you moved to leave. All you received was a curt nod. The pull between you was undeniable, and in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

The night of the gala was your chance. You spent hours perfecting your appearance, knowing he would notice you in a way he never had before. And when he did, when his eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression, it was like the entire world fell away.

When he led you to the corner of the room, your heart pounded, not with fear, but with anticipation. His frustration, his struggle to maintain control, only proved how deeply you had affected him.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, his voice low and sharp.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Reid.”

His jaw clenched, his composure slipping. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve been crossing lines all semester.”

You stepped closer, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. “And what if I have?”

His gaze burned into yours, his control fraying with each passing second. “This has to stop.” He said, though his tone lacked conviction.

But you knew better. You had studied him, unraveled him piece by piece. He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. And neither were you.

“Maybe I don’t want it to.” You whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and desire.

For a moment, his eyes softened, as if seeing the truth of your obsession for the first time. “Obsession is a dangerous game.” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping him close.

The world outside of Dr. Reid’s orbit ceased to matter. Friends became an afterthought. Classes, even the ones you’d once excelled in, were nothing more than obligations. Every moment not spent in his presence felt wasted. His words were etched into your memory, his voice a constant echo in your mind.

You found excuses to linger near his office, pretending to read in the hallway or jotting down notes on topics that had long ceased to matter. Sometimes you’d see him through the small window of his door, head bowed over papers, fingers absently running through his tousled hair. Those moments were sacred.

And then there were the nights.

Your dreams became a battleground, the lines between fantasy and reality blurring. You would see him, hear him, feel the phantom weight of his gaze. Waking up was a cruel joke, pulling you from a world where he was already yours. More than once, you had the fleeting urge to knock on his door late at night, under the pretense of needing help.

But you stopped yourself. Barely.

For now.

When he praised you in class, it felt personal, intimate. You lived for those moments. The way he would say your name, how his eyes would flicker with something unreadable—those seconds were your lifeline. But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You started keeping track of the little details. The brand of pens he used. The scuff on his leather satchel. The faint hint of lavender in his cologne. You’d bought the same scent, spraying it on your pillow just to feel closer to him at night.

One evening, you followed him. It wasn’t intentional, not at first. He left the lecture hall as you lingered, and without thinking, you gathered your things and trailed behind him. He walked briskly, head down, weaving through the near-empty campus. You stayed far enough back to avoid suspicion but close enough to study him.

He stopped at the local bookstore, his long fingers running over the spines of books with a reverence that made your chest tighten. You hid behind a display, watching him as he browsed. When he left, you waited a few moments before approaching the same section. He had lingered near the true crime section, and you traced the path of his fingers, touching the same books he had touched.

It became a ritual after that. You discovered his favorite haunts: the coffee shop where he always ordered black coffee with two sugars, the quiet corner of the library where he would sometimes sit and read, the park where he walked on Sunday mornings. You were careful, meticulous, ensuring he never saw you. But you saw him.

Every time you caught a glimpse of him, it felt like a secret, a moment that belonged solely to you.

The gala had been your boldest move yet, and the way his gaze lingered on you that night had only fueled the fire. His warning echoed in your mind, but you dismissed it. He said you were crossing boundaries, but you knew better. He was simply scared. Scared of what this meant. Scared of what you meant.

You decided to leave him something. A token, something small enough to avoid suspicion but personal enough that he would know it was from you. A first edition of one of the books he had mentioned in class. You placed it on his desk after everyone had left, your heart racing as you imagined his reaction.

The next day, you waited, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a serpent. When he walked into class, the book was in his hand. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on you for a moment too long before he placed it in his bag without a word.

It was a victory.

But victories, you realized, were fleeting.

One evening, as you left the library, you spotted him walking toward his car. The parking lot was empty, save for the two of you, and for the first time, you didn’t bother to stay hidden. You followed him openly, your footsteps echoing against the pavement.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you.

“Why are you following me?” He asked, his voice sharp but not unkind. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and something darker, something you couldn’t quite place.

Your breath caught, but you forced a smile. “I wasn’t following you, Dr. Reid. I just happened to be walking this way.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

The accusation hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought about denying it. But then, something inside you snapped.

“No.” You admitted, your voice trembling. “It’s not.”

His expression shifted—confusion, disbelief, and something else flickered across his face. “Why?”

The word was a whisper, barely audible, but it was enough to unravel you.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep—I can’t focus on anything but you. You’re brilliant, and kind, and perfect, and I—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “This isn’t healthy.”

You took a step closer, desperation clawing at your chest. “But it’s real. You know it is. I see the way you look at me. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

He took a step back, shaking his head. “This has to end…now. Do you understand me?”

But you didn’t believe him. Not really. Because you had seen the way his hands trembled when you were near, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. He was scared, yes, but not of you. He was scared of himself.

And that, you realized, was all the encouragement you needed.

Dr. Reid’s words echoed in your mind for days after the encounter in the parking lot. This has to end. But the way he said it, the way his voice wavered ever so slightly, betrayed him. It wasn’t conviction; it was fear. Fear of what you had awakened in him.

You were sure of it now. He wasn’t immune to you. Not entirely.

The proof came in small, fleeting moments—too subtle for anyone else to notice, but to you, they were glaring signs. The way his eyes lingered on you during lectures, his gaze softening before he quickly looked away. The way he adjusted his tie when you walked into the room, as if suddenly self-conscious. And then there were the compliments, so carefully worded that they might seem innocent to others, but to you, they felt personal. Intimate.

Still, he kept his distance. Even when you sought him out after class, he kept the conversations brief, his tone polite but clipped. It was maddening, the way he seemed to hold himself back.

But then, there were cracks.

One afternoon, you arrived at his office under the guise of needing help with a research topic. He hesitated before letting you in, his hand lingering on the doorknob as if debating whether this was a mistake.

Once inside, the air between you was charged. He sat across from you, his hands folded on the desk, but his gaze flickered to your lips more than once as you spoke.

When you handed him a stack of notes, your fingers brushed, and he pulled back quickly, too quickly.

“Sorry.” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, his composure faltered. His eyes locked onto yours, and the tension was unbearable. You could see it in his face—the war he was waging within himself.

Then, just as quickly, he stood, turning his back to you as he busied himself with a stack of papers on the shelf. “Your analysis is impressive,” he said, his tone suddenly distant. “You’re clearly passionate about the subject.”

The shift was jarring, but it only solidified your resolve. He wasn’t rejecting you. He was protecting himself.

That evening, you stayed late in the library, poring over the materials he had assigned. As you packed up to leave, you noticed a familiar figure in the far corner. He was seated at a table, his long fingers flipping through a thick volume, his expression distant.

You froze, your heart pounding. He hadn’t noticed you yet. For a moment, you considered leaving, but the pull was too strong.

You approached slowly, the sound of your footsteps drawing his attention. When he looked up, his eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unguarded crossing his face before he composed himself.

“Staying late?” He asked, his voice calm, but his fingers tightened on the edge of the book.

You nodded, setting your bag down on the table. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I find the library... peaceful.”

“Me too.” You said softly, taking a seat across from him.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that had been building for months. His eyes flicked to yours, then away, as if he couldn’t decide whether to meet your gaze or avoid it entirely.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “You should be careful, you know. Spending so much time in my office, lingering after class—it’s not... appropriate.”

Your heart twisted at the words, but his tone was anything but stern. It sounded like a warning, but it felt like a confession.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to reach for something—or someone.

“It’s not about what I want.” He said finally, his voice strained.

But it was. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He was just better at pretending otherwise.

The next day, during his lecture, you felt his eyes on you more than usual. He paced the room as he spoke, his hands gesturing animatedly, but every so often, his gaze would drift to you, his words faltering for the briefest moment before he recovered.

It was intoxicating, knowing you could unravel him like this.

After class, as the other students filtered out, you stayed behind, your heart racing as you approached his desk.

“Dr. Reid,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words, but before you could speak, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re relentless.” He said softly, almost to himself.

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

“I just want to understand you.” You said, stepping closer.

He shook his head, a faint, almost bitter smile playing on his lips. “You already understand too much.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt impossibly small, the air thick with tension. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought to maintain control, but you also saw the flicker of something darker, something he couldn’t quite suppress.

And in that moment, you knew: this wasn’t over.

It was only just beginning.

It started innocently enough—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The male student, a classmate you barely knew, had approached you after lecture to ask about the upcoming project. His name was Ethan, and while he was polite and charming, you couldn’t muster much interest in the conversation. Still, you smiled and nodded at his jokes, your polite laughter echoing in the near-empty hall.

Unbeknownst to you, Dr. Reid had lingered behind, tidying up his desk and organizing his papers. His sharp ears caught the sound of your laughter, a melody he had grown far too familiar with—and possessive of.

He looked up to see you standing near the doorway, your body language relaxed as Ethan leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. Spencer’s grip on the edge of the desk tightened.

Ethan’s laugh was loud, too loud, as if he wanted to broadcast how much he enjoyed your company. Spencer’s jaw clenched. He knew this was ridiculous. He was your professor, and it wasn’t his place to interfere with your social life. But the sight of another man so close to you, taking liberties he couldn’t, made his blood boil.

When you glanced back into the classroom, likely to gather your things, your eyes met Spencer’s. For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and you saw something dark and raw flicker across his face. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by his usual calm demeanor, but the image stayed with you.

“Everything alright, Dr. Reid?” You asked, stepping inside and leaving Ethan to wait by the door.

Spencer straightened, clearing his throat. “Yes. Just... finishing up.”

Ethan peeked his head in. “Ready to go?” He asked, his tone casual but his presence invasive.

Spencer’s eyes darted to Ethan, then back to you. “You should be careful with your time,” he said, his voice quiet but pointed. “The project deadline isn’t as far off as it seems.”

You frowned, confused by the sudden shift in his tone. “I’ll make sure to stay on top of it.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if debating whether to say more. Instead, he turned his attention back to his desk, his movements stiff and deliberate.

The next few days were marked by a subtle shift in Spencer’s behavior. During lectures, his eyes seemed to find you more often, but they were no longer soft or conflicted. There was an intensity to his gaze now, a quiet possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

When Ethan approached you again after class, Spencer’s reaction was immediate.

“Miss L/N.” He called out, his voice carrying across the room.

You turned, surprised to see him still at his desk. “Yes, Dr. Reid?”

“Could you stay for a moment? I’d like to discuss your recent paper.”

Ethan hesitated, clearly waiting for you, but Spencer’s sharp gaze left no room for argument. “I won’t keep her long.” He said smoothly, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan nodded reluctantly. “I’ll catch you later.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Spencer’s demeanor shifted. He stood, his tall frame looming as he approached you.

“Is he bothering you?” He asked, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

“Ethan? No, not at all. Why would you think that?”

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He seems... persistent. I just want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured.”

You couldn’t help but smile, amused by his sudden protectiveness. “I’m fine, Dr. Reid. Really.”

He nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “Good. I’d hate to see someone distract you from your potential.”

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them—the way his eyes lingered on yours—made your breath catch.

It wasn’t long before his jealousy became harder to hide.

During a group discussion, Ethan made a point of sitting next to you, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned over to share his notes. Spencer’s gaze locked onto the interaction, his hand tightening around the marker in his grip until his knuckles turned white.

When Ethan made a joke and you laughed, Spencer interrupted sharply. “Let’s stay on topic, please. This isn’t a social hour.”

The class fell silent, startled by his uncharacteristic tone. You glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. He avoided your gaze, turning back to the whiteboard with rigid movements.

After class, as students filtered out, he called your name again.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, his voice softer now. “I was... out of line earlier.”

“It’s okay.” You replied, though you couldn’t hide your confusion.

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. “You have to understand,” he began, his voice dropping lower, “that I only want what’s best for you. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

“Are you talking about Ethan?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer directly. “Just... be careful who you trust.”

The weight of his words hung heavy between you, and for the first time, you wondered if his concern was more than professional.

Later that evening, you found yourself thinking about him again, replaying the moments when his composure slipped, when his obsession peeked through the cracks. You didn’t know whether to be scared or thrilled.

But one thing was certain: Spencer Reid was unraveling, and you were the one pulling the thread.

The days that followed were an intricate dance of tension, each interaction with Dr. Reid pulling you closer to a dangerous edge. His jealousy, once simmering beneath the surface, began to bleed into every corner of your academic life, coloring the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, the way he made his presence impossible to ignore.

It started small.

Ethan asked you to partner up for a case study project, and though you agreed, the arrangement didn’t go unnoticed. During the next lecture, Spencer called on you repeatedly, his questions increasingly challenging, as if testing your limits. The rest of the class shifted uncomfortably, sensing the deliberate scrutiny, but you met his gaze head-on, refusing to falter.

Afterward, he lingered at the podium, watching as Ethan hovered near your seat, leaning down to talk to you. The sight made his stomach churn. He didn’t like how Ethan’s hand rested casually on the back of your chair, how his laughter seemed designed to draw your attention.

“Miss L/N, a word?” Spencer’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“What’s this about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. “I noticed you and Ethan are working together.”

“We are,” you said carefully. “Is there a problem?”

His jaw clenched. “No... as long as you’re confident he’ll contribute equally. He strikes me as the type to let others carry the weight of the work.”

You frowned. “That’s not fair. He’s been helpful so far.”

Spencer leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Helpful isn’t always the same as trustworthy. Just keep that in mind.”

You stared at him, the intensity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t just warning you—he was staking a claim, subtle but unmistakable.

The breaking point came during a departmental mixer, an event meant to encourage networking among students and faculty.

You had hesitated to attend, but Ethan insisted, offering to walk you there. Spencer spotted you as soon as you entered, his sharp eyes narrowing when he saw Ethan’s hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

He approached you moments later, his movements precise and deliberate. “Miss L/N, a pleasure to see you here.”

“Dr. Reid.” You greeted, your smile nervous under the weight of his gaze.

“And Ethan,” Spencer added, his tone clipped. “Enjoying the event?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Ethan replied, oblivious to the tension. “I was just telling Y/N about a conference coming up in D.C. She’s thinking about attending.”

“Is she?” Spencer asked, his eyes locking on yours.

Ethan nodded. “I might go too. We could share accommodations to save on costs.”

The suggestion made Spencer’s blood run cold. His mind spiraled with images of you and Ethan alone, the boundaries he fought so hard to maintain crumbling under the weight of his jealousy.

“That won’t be necessary.” Spencer said abruptly.

Both you and Ethan blinked in surprise.

“I mean,” he added, forcing a smile, “it’s likely the university will have funding options available for individual accommodations. I’d be happy to look into it for you, Miss L/N.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reid.” You said slowly, sensing the undercurrent of his words.

Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but Spencer cut him off with a glance so sharp it left no room for argument.

Later that evening, Spencer’s restraint finally snapped.

You stayed behind after the mixer to gather your things, only to find him waiting for you outside the building. The night air was cool, but the tension between you burned hot.

“You didn’t have to wait.” You said, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“I wanted to.” He replied, his voice low and steady.

You walked in silence for a moment, the quiet punctuated by the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement.

“Why do you do it?” He asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Let him follow you around like that. Laugh at his jokes. Entertain his attention.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. “Ethan’s my classmate. I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“It is my concern.” He said, stepping closer. “You don’t see the way he looks at you. The way he talks to you.”

“And how do you look at me, Dr. Reid?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice trembling.

His breath hitched, his carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. “You know how I look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve known all along.”

The admission hung in the air, dangerous and electrifying. You stared at him, your heart pounding as he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming.

“This can’t happen.” He said, though his words lacked conviction.

“Then why are you here?”

He didn’t answer, but the intensity in his gaze spoke volumes. His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the urge to reach for you. The distance between you felt razor-thin, and for the first time, you wondered who would break first.

The silence stretched between you, taut and electrifying. Spencer’s jaw tightened, and his hand briefly raked through his hair—a telltale sign of his internal struggle. He was balancing on the edge of control, teetering between his professionalism and the unrelenting pull you had on him.

“You should go home.” He finally said, his voice low but strained, as if forcing the words out against his own desires.

You didn’t move. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with a boldness that matched his intensity. “Is that what you want?”

His sharp intake of breath gave him away. “What I want doesn’t matter.” He said, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with longing.

You stepped closer, drawn to the crack in his carefully curated armor. “It matters to me.”

“Don’t.” He warned, but the word lacked strength, a faint plea wrapped in desperation.

You hesitated, caught between the thrill of provoking him and the awareness of the risk you were taking. Still, the magnetic pull between you was undeniable. “If you really wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Spencer’s restraint snapped, just for a moment. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm before he jerked it back as if burned. His expression twisted in frustration, his usual composure unraveling.

“You think this is a game?” He hissed, his voice harsh. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“I’m not the only one doing it,” you shot back, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. “You can’t stand it when anyone else gets too close to me. Admit it.”

His silence was deafening, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the faint twitch in his cheek.

“I see the way you look at me,” you continued, your voice softer now, almost coaxing. “It’s not just admiration, Dr. Reid. It’s something more.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He muttered, turning away, but you caught the tremble in his voice.

“Then prove me wrong.” You challenged.

Spencer turned back to you, and this time, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in his gaze. “You want the truth?” He said, his voice dangerously soft.

You nodded, your pulse quickening.

“I think about you more than I should. I notice every detail—every time you laugh, every time you tuck your hair behind your ear. And when I see him talking to you...” He broke off, shaking his head. “It takes everything in me not to...”

“Not to what?” You pressed, your heart pounding.

His lips parted, but he seemed to catch himself, stepping back as if the space between you might restore his self-control. “Not to cross a line I can’t uncross…” He finally said, his tone heavy with regret.

But the heat in his gaze told a different story—a story of a man on the verge of losing himself to the very thing he’d been trying to resist.

The tension between you didn’t dissipate. If anything, it grew, seeping into every interaction like an unstoppable tide.

In class, his gaze lingered on you longer than was appropriate, his voice faltering slightly when he called on you. During office hours, his questions delved deeper, as if searching for something he couldn’t articulate.

But it was during a casual seminar that the cracks in his professionalism began to widen.

You had arrived early, taking a seat in the front row. As you flipped through your notes, Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately seeking you out. He paused, visibly unsettled, before making his way to the podium.

As other students filtered in, Ethan arrived and, to your surprise, took the seat beside you. He leaned in, his tone light and teasing as he made some comment about the seminar topic.

Spencer’s expression darkened. He began the session, but his usual measured tone was tinged with an edge that made the room feel heavier. His eyes kept drifting to where you sat, his words sharper whenever he addressed you or Ethan.

When the seminar ended, Spencer was quick to dismiss the class. 

The classroom emptied, leaving the two of you alone. Spencer stood behind the podium, his hands gripping its edges.

“What was that?” He asked, his voice tight.

“What was what?” You replied, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His gaze pinned you in place. “Him. Sitting next to you. Acting like he—” He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to compose himself.

“Acting like what?” You pressed, stepping closer.

“Like he has the right to your attention,” Spencer snapped, his professionalism unraveling further. “He doesn’t. Not the way I...”

He stopped himself, his chest rising and falling with restrained emotion.

“Not the way you what?” You asked softly, your voice carrying a mix of curiosity and challenge.

His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a moment, you thought he might close the distance between you, shattering the boundaries he’d been clinging to.

Instead, he exhaled shakily and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “This needs to stop.” He muttered, though the words seemed directed more at himself than at you.

But even as he said it, the tension between you was palpable, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the chaos it threatened to unleash.

The air between you felt suffocating, charged with a tension that had been building for weeks. Spencer stood before you, his normally composed demeanor unraveling with every passing second. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight as he tried to steady his breathing.

“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to keep this professional. To keep my distance. But you...” He looked at you then, his gaze piercing and raw. “You make it impossible.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of exhilaration and fear coursing through your veins. “What are you saying?” You asked, your voice trembling.

“I’m saying that I can’t pretend anymore,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with something dark and desperate. “Every time I see you with him, every time I see you smile at someone else... I can’t stand it.”

You took a step closer, emboldened by the vulnerability in his confession. “Then don’t pretend.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened, his restraint crumbling as he closed the distance between you in an instant. His hands cupped your face, his touch firm but reverent, as though he’d been starving for this moment.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me…” He murmured, his voice shaky with need.

“Then show me.” you whispered, your breath ghosting against his lips.

That was all it took. Spencer’s mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was as fierce as it was desperate. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe. The kiss was everything—pent-up frustration, unspoken desire, and a need that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “This is wrong.” He muttered, though his hands still gripped your waist, unwilling to let you go.

“We don’t have to tell anyone.” You countered, your voice soft but insistent.

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his resolve broke entirely. His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a claiming, a declaration that you were his, consequences be damned.

Without a word, he guided you backward until you felt the edge of his desk against your hips. His hands roamed your sides, skimming over your curves with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he admitted between kisses, his voice hoarse. “How many nights I’ve stayed awake, thinking about you. How hard it’s been to stay professional when all I want is to make you mine.”

“Then stop holding back.” You urged, your fingers clutching at his shirt as though afraid he might pull away.

Spencer’s response was immediate. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the desk with ease. His touch was everywhere—your hips, your back, your neck—each movement filled with a hunger that bordered on obsession.

“Tell me you want this.” He said, his voice low and commanding as his lips brushed against your ear.

“I want this,” you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair. “I want you.”

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “You have me,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me.”

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There were no rules, no boundaries—only the two of you, finally giving in to the undeniable pull that had been drawing you together all along.

He is the first to break the silence, his voice low and husky.

"Tell me what you want."

You hesitate for a moment, the words stuck in your throat. Then, quietly, you say, "I want you, Spencer."

He moves closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallow, feeling your heart rate quicken. "I want you to touch me, Spencer."

"Where do you want me to touch you?" He murmurs.

"Everywhere." You whisper, leaning into his touch.

He traces his fingers down your neck, his touch featherlight. "Here?"

You nod, your breath hitching as his fingers ghost over your collarbone.

He moves his hands down further, trailing his fingers across your chest. "I need words, sweet girl."

"Yes," You breathe, feeling your arousal growing.

He hums in approval, hands moving lower still, caressing the curve of your breasts. "And here?"

"Yes…" You repeat, arching into his touch.

He cups your breasts through your shirt, squeezing gently. "What about here?"

"Please…" You whimper, your voice barely audible.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "What else do you want, Y/N? Tell me."

You can feel your face flushing, but you can't stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth. "I want you to take my clothes off, Spencer. I want you to touch me everywhere."

He lets out a soft groan, his hands moving to unbutton your shirt. "God, Y/N. I've wanted you for so long."

Your shirt falls to the floor, leaving you exposed. His eyes roam over your body, hungrily taking in every inch of bare skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful." He murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns across your stomach.

You gasp as he leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hands move lower, dipping below the waistband of your jeans.

"Spencer…" You moan, your hips bucking against his touch.

"Yeah, baby? What is it, sweet girl? Tell me what you need." He breathes, his fingers dancing along your inner thigh.

"I need you." You whimper, desperate for more contact.

He pulls away from you, his hands moving to undo his belt. He pulls his pants down, his hard cock springing free. Tip flushed pink, the same shade as his swollen kiss-bruised lips. He grabs your hips and lifts you onto the desk, his body pressed against yours.

"Is this what you want?" He asks, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes." You gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushes his cock against your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. "Say it, Y/N. Say you want me."

"I want you, Spencer." You moan, feeling him slide into you.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans, thrusting into you. "You're so tight."

You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as he drives into you, again and again.

"Feels s’good." You babble, feeling the tip of his cock deep in your cervix, his hand coming down to rub calculated circles on your clit.

Spencer was a man of logic, of knowledge. But nothing could have prepared you for how skillful his hands could be in such a sinful context, hands you’d spent hours marking into the pages of your notebooks.

He fucks you harder, his pace frantic. "Such a pretty pussy, Y/N." He groans, dipping his head into your neck to nip at your skin.”My pretty pussy.” He delivers a quick slap to your pussy, sending a shock of pleasure through you, clit throbbing painfully.

"Oh, god, Spencer…" You cry, your orgasm quickly approaching, unable to stop it no matter how much you want to prolong the feeling.

“You wanna cum for me, baby? Cum all over my cock?” He stares down at you with a look you know will be ingrained in your mind for as long as you breathe.

It doesn’t take long before your orgasm crashes over you, pulsing through you in waves, back arching off the bed as you reach out for anything to ground yourself. Hands finding the back of his head, pulling him into your chest. 

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you as he empties himself into you, collapsing on top of you, his chest heaving.

You look up at him, your eyes bright with satisfaction. "Do you think it was worth it?"

He smiles, stroking your hair. "I’d do it all again if it meant I could have you this way just one more time."

The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds of Spencer’s apartment, casting faint golden stripes across the room. You stirred slightly in his arms, your body cocooned in the warmth of his embrace. Spencer had always been a light sleeper, but he hadn’t moved all night. His arms remained securely around you, as if even in sleep, he was afraid to let go.

For a moment, the world was still, the only sound was the gentle hum of the city waking up outside. In the quiet, you allowed yourself to revel in the stolen tranquility. These moments were fleeting, precious—time you carved out in secret, hidden from the eyes of the world.

“You’re awake.” He murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep.

You tilted your head back to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “So are you.”

“I don’t think I slept much,” he admitted, his fingers brushing idly along your arm. “It’s hard to sleep when I know every moment with you has to be hidden.”

You frowned slightly, guilt tugging at you. “I hate it too,” you said softly. “I hate that we have to pretend in class, that I can’t just... be with you without worrying who might see.”

His hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. They were warm, but behind the softness lay a steel determination. “It’s not forever,” he promised. “The semester is almost over. Once you’re no longer my student, no one can question us. No one can tell me it’s wrong to feel this way about you.”

You leaned into his touch, comforted by his words but still anxious about the risks. “Do you ever think about what would happen if someone found out?”

“Every day,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I think about losing you more. And that’s a risk I can’t take.”

The weight of his confession settled over you, heavy and grounding. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I’d risk it all for you, Spencer. You know that, right?”

He nodded, his expression softening as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I know. And I’d do the same for you. But until it’s safe, we have to be careful.”

The reminder of the outside world, of the boundaries you had to navigate, was sobering. Yet it didn’t dampen the connection between you. If anything, it strengthened your resolve.

Days in class were an intricate dance of restraint and subtlety. You sat in your usual spot, taking notes diligently as Spencer lectured at the front of the room. His demeanor was calm, professional, every word deliberate. To the untrained eye, he was simply your professor, and you, his attentive student.

But beneath the surface, every glance, every fleeting moment of eye contact held a world of unspoken words. When he paused to scan the room, his gaze lingered on you a fraction too long. When he walked past your desk, the faintest brush of his presence sent a shiver down your spine.

After class, you remained behind under the pretense of asking a question. The other students filed out, their chatter fading as the door closed behind them.

Spencer glanced at you, his professional mask slipping slightly as he leaned against the desk. “Is this about the assignment?” He asked, his tone neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of warmth.

“No,” you admitted, lowering your voice. “I just... I wanted to see you.”

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, and he nodded toward the door. “Wait for me outside. I’ll finish here and meet you in the library.”

The library had become your haven, a place where the world’s watchful eyes couldn’t reach you. Tucked away in the farthest corner, surrounded by shelves of dusty books, you found refuge in each other’s company.

Spencer sat across from you, his hand resting lightly over yours on the table. “You know,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the library, “this hiding... it’s maddening. But there’s something exhilarating about it too.”

You raised a brow, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “Oh? Dr. Reid enjoys breaking the rules?”

A low chuckle escaped him, his fingers brushing against yours. “When it comes to you? I’ll break every rule there is.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you simply looked at him, your heart swelling with a mix of love and longing. “One more month,” you whispered. “Then no more hiding.”

“One more month,” he echoed, his voice filled with quiet determination. “And then I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Until then, you would continue this delicate balancing act, cherishing the stolen moments and weathering the secrecy together. Because in the end, he was worth it. And you knew that no matter how many rules you had to break, how many boundaries you had to navigate, you would never let him go.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[justpeaxchy]

'Why not me?'

Warnings: Jealousy, a "little" misunderstanding between Hiccup and reader.

A/n: !Fem reader! I recommend reading this as a part two to this short writing I did, but either way it can be read on its own! This was originally intended as a separate work but here we are ig lol.

Hiccup's eyes followed your figure once more, watching as you hauled more wood for another house that was "accidentally" burned down again. The report came rather quickly that the Twins had performed another prank and it somehow led to a "small" devastation, as they called it, on a viking's innocent home. You called for Astrid again, who was managing Stormfly as she carefully placed down the pieces needed for the home to repair it, and gestured to the new pile of wood that lay on the ground. She nodded and went back to her work with a glare sent towards the two twins who merely stood next to the burnt heap, giggling among themselves.

He wouldn't admit it, but Hiccup had been noticing more of Berk starting to flock around you as they had finally seen the two of you spend more time together. It brought a certain emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint. For one, most of them only started talking to you since they recognized you as someone now "close" to the Chief. On the other hand, they only wanted to get closer with you because of your connection. Everyone knew Hiccup on Berk, so he was puzzled - and a tad bit angry - that a good portion of them acted as though you never even existed and he was someone on a higher pedestal because of the position handed down to him.

Of course, on the outside, it looked as though they were treating him as normally as they would've before - with the due respect for a Chief - but Hiccup noticed the slight difference, especially with you. He didn't know if you did though. It bothered him in a way he couldn't vocalize it, unusually so. He had barely begun developing his relationship with you, taking the small steps you needed; the ones he was more than willing to take.

So, when these people decided to come in and sneak their way down the path he treaded with you - it made him upset him in more ways than one. He even heard Snotlout ogle over you at one point. He had heard his fanatics before but, for some strange reason, it brought him to the conclusion of physically pushing him out of the Forge where he was trying to gather his thoughts in peace.

Hiccup fumbled with the charcoal pencil in his hand, trying to drown out the noise around him that was the daily turmoil of vikings. He told himself to stay focused on the sketch someone had wanted for a new saddle before handing it off to Gobber - that was supposed to be the plan. His idea of having himself under control for the day were seemingly forgotten as he managed to steal a swift glance in your direction.

Out of everything, Hiccup Haddock did not expect for himself to act up when someone offered to help take the load of wood out of your arms. Perhaps he would've felt better if it wasn't Eret son of Eret who had willingly taken it out of your arms. Hiccup knew he wasn't losing his eyesight when he had seen Eret's hands lightly brush yours when he took the burden of wood out of your hands. It puzzled the Chief as to why he was even feeling this way.

Hiccup wasn't blind or numb to the fact that Eret, ever since he arrived at Berk, was known for his physique and his striking appearance. As well as being a dragon trapper in the past, of course. Sudden thoughts came to Hiccup's mind as he watched the short interaction between you two, not understanding the emotion that gripped his heart when he had seen your smile to the man who offered you his help. He knew that you were getting used to smiling more - he was the one who told you to try it out more - but he pondered over the question in his head that wouldn't leave him alone: Why did it take you longer to smile at him like that?

As if Hiccup's body moved on its own, he called for Toothless, who had been resting by his side in the Forge, and stomped his way to your direction. You were busy directing Astrid for where she should place the wood on top of the house just in case she missed a spot or didn't put it down correctly. You hadn't expected for a hand to grab yours, with such urgency and yet clothed with a gentle tug, to pull you away from the task you were occupied with. "Hey! What is this-"

Your words were interrupted as you caught Hiccup pulling you closer to his side as he called out for the Twins, "Ruff, Tuff! You're going to be the ones to handle this. It was your doing and the least you could do is tell Astrid where to go from here, okay?" He gave them no time for a proper response, other than the annoyed grumbling that came, as he led you beside Toothless. Confusion clouded your mind as your eyes followed him hauling himself on the night fury and reach out his hand for yours as if telling you to do the same.

"Hiccup, you know I have my own dragon, right-" He swiftly grabbed your hand that was slowly reaching out for his in the middle of your speech as he remained silent, "And I guess that doesn't matter because-" Your startled scream soon took over as Toothless shot into the air without warning, causing you to cling onto Hiccup with all of your strength you could possibly muster. It made you question how he could so easily ride the night fury - being that they were known to be the fastest dragon alive. "H-hey! Where are we going?"

Hiccup lightly patted your hand that was settled on his waist, his gaze not moving from the scenery around him. "Just wait a bit, you'll see." He muttered something to Toothless that you couldn't catch due to the high speeds of wind blowing across your face, making you even more nervous. You trusted Hiccup, of course, but sometimes it was obvious that the 'odd' side of himself could get a little carried away. So, you did the only thing you could do in that moment: hold on as tightly as you could as Toothless dived into a deeper part of the woods.

--------------------------------------------

"Ah, so this is where you found him." Your legs shakily wobbled off of the night fury who cooed at your ruffled form. Your hair wasn't as neat as you had it before, making you slightly annoyed before turning to Hiccup. "So.. why bring me here?" You carefully inspected him as he hopped off Toothless, much more better than you had, and nervously swing his arms as he normally did in a situation that left him feeling awkward or anxious.

"Why? Oh, you know - just - wanted to spend some time with you. I mean, do you want to spend time with me? Because you don't have to if-" He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke when he noticed you rolling your eyes at his statement.

"Hiccup, it's too late for me to go back now. You practically dragged me out here on the back of a dragon and I would much rather fly back to Berk than walk." You knew it wasn't a far ways off, but you didn't entirely feel like going all the way back when your legs were recovering from being shot into the air so quickly, "Also, you didn't really give me much of a choice."

You gazed at his hands that seemingly didn't know what do at the moment, hesitating at the thought of grabbing them. "Yeah, I realize that now. That's my fault, sorry." Hiccup muttered out the phrase as if he had been caught doing a scandalous act before stepping closer to you as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I just-" He paused, inhaling as he considered his next words, "I just happen to notice that you've been more.." Another pause; "Occupied with the work load that's been piling up on you recently."

Hiccup inwardly cringed at his reasonings, knowing that it wasn't a good enough excuse as you narrowed your eyes. "Yes? I mean, what do you want me to do? Sit around all day and hope I make some coins by doing nothing?" You sighed and carefully took a step closer to him, the distance between you two slightly bothering you. "I don't want to be like I was before; standing around and barely getting by because of the leftover chores Berk left for me."

Your eyes never left him as he continued to settle on looking at the ground. "Anyway, aren't you the Chief? Shouldn't I be the one saying this to you? I know you've probably got a lot on your shoulders too, not just me." You tried lightening up the mood as Hiccup gently shook his head, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips before it faded once more.

"I know it sounds stupid." He exhaled, as if trying to breathe away the thing that was bothering him, "I'm sorry, but don't you think people should... I don't know.." He shrugged his shoulders, trying to play his next words off casually, "Give you more personal space..?" Hiccup took the risk and glanced up to see your reaction, which wasn't what he expected.

You snorted, then giggled, then covered your mouth as laughter consumed you, watching the way Hiccup's gaze falter slightly as he took in the sight. "What? Personal space?" You tried your best to grasp in what little air you could as your laughter rang throughout the small cove you two were in. "What're you getting at, Hiccup?" A sudden thought came to mind as you smirked, taking another step closer to the Chief; the nervousness that threatened you earlier having been disappeared. "I hope you're not forgetting when I asked for my own personal space when you came and decided to visit me almost every single day."

Hiccup groaned and rubbed his face, as though a headache were arising. "You know it's not like that! That's not what I meant-" He struggled to speak coherently when your small doses of laughter filled his ears. "Do you like the attention or something? I mean, when Eret touched your hand you seemed pretty okay with it to me." The realization of what he said had finally came to Hiccup before he quickly waved his hands, noticing your smile dim away, "Wait! That's not what I meant-"

"Okay, Hiccup. What're you really getting at? You should know me enough that I won't go out of my way to get the attention of people that I wouldn't want to talk to." You huffed, slightly hurt at the idea that crossed Hiccup's mind. "And I didn't ask for Eret to help me, he was just kind enough to take that load of wood from me - which was very heavy by the way." You crossed your arms, stubbornly taking a step away from him as he decided to take two more steps closer.

"I'm sorry, that was my fault - again - but I didn't mean it in that way. I know that is the complete opposite of who you are, but I-" Hiccup sighed, forcing himself to see what was actually wrong with him. "I think I'm not used to all of these people coming in and talking with you and working with you like they've been friends with you since birth. I guess I got used to-"

Hiccup managed to catch himself before uttering anything else, causing you to questioningly narrow your eyes at him. "Got used to what, Chief?" You held back another burst of laughter at the flustered state of the man before you, watching with intent eyes every gesture he made with his hands.

"N-nevermind. How about we go back and I'll let you work in peace and I won't bother you about it anymore." He reached out for your arm as he began to pull you towards Toothless. "C'mon, here we go-" Hiccup winced as you suddenly maneuvered his hand off your arm with a twist, causing him to let go of your arm as he spun around. "Why would you do that?"

You grinned, the atmosphere from earlier forgotten as you dusted yourself off from imaginary dirt. "Tell me what you were going to say." When he tried to escape the situation with more rambling you cracked your fingers, intimidatingly stepping forward, "Say it."

Hiccup kicked the ground like a toddler as he shook his head. "You're so stubborn.." He barely managed to see your hand getting closer to his ear as you threatened to pinch them before he stepped to the side, potentially saving himself from even more pain. "Alright, alright! Just don't get the ears!" He protectively covered the sides of his face as you triumphantly grinned, awaiting his answer.

"Look, I guess I got used to.." He found himself looking at the ground once more as he spoke. "Having you more to myself." He purposefully mumbled the last bit of his speech, hoping he could somehow get away with it. Much to his despair, however, you still listened to every word.

He heard your footsteps approaching to where he stood and he glanced up to see a delicate smile taking over your features before your hand reached out for his. You held it as if you were handling a precious piece of glass, carefully lifting it away from his side. "Is that really what you think?" Your eyes held a sincerity to them that Hiccup couldn't ignore, making his heart beat slightly faster than before.

When all he could do was nod, you finally took it upon yourself to be the one to hug him first - which you gladly did the moment he gave you his answer. You found yourself smiling into his shoulder as he stood still in his spot for a moment. "Hiccup, just know I'll never be able to look at them in the way I view you. They can't replace what you did, no matter how hard they might try."

When you felt his arms embrace you in return, you couldn't help but let the smile on your face continue to grow as he sighed, his breath fanning your neck in - what sounded like - relief. "Are you upset with me?"

"Not anymore. Maybe if you gave me a kiss I'd be over the moon. But, hey, that's just me." You chuckled when you heard nothing but silence come from him, assuming he was too much in a flustered state to respond.

You squeezed him one final time before letting him go. The weight of your words hadn't settled in until you stepped away from him, causing you to fumble with your hair. "So, we should - probably - uhm, head back -"

Hiccup, noticing your actions, nodded once more before swiftly taking your hand in his as he lead you both back to Toothless. You told yourself not to be consumed with the fluttering of your heart by his simple move, but it became much more of a challenge when he stopped in front of his dragon to face you.

"One more thing before we go." Hiccup pulled you closer to him by your hand he had grabbed, officially closing any remaining distance between you both as his lips met yours. You didn't expect it, which caused you to nearly trip on your own feet before his other arm caught you, still engaged in the kiss as though it had never happened. If you weren't imagining things, you could've sworn you felt him smile in the midst of it all.

You were breathless as he, unfortunately, pulled away from you, gazing intently at your flustered form before guiding you onto Toothless. "So, you're definitely not angry now, right?"

You rolled your eyes as Hiccup readied himself on Toothless, glancing back at you for an answer. "I already said I wasn't..." You folded your arms, making yourself now look like the toddler as he snickered and turned forward.

"Well, you might want to hang on." He gleefully muttered something to Toothless as you stubbornly held your position, which was not hanging onto him at all. When he came to the conclusion that you were rather grumpily not obliging to him, he tapped his dragon to silently tell him to leave.

It was only when Toothless had darted up in the air that you screamed and tightly held onto Hiccup for your dear life, which he quite enjoyed.

[luvxkdrama]

— reflections

pairing : frontman x reader

warnings : mentions of blood, guns, manipulation, toxic love

word count : 2.6k

summary : "We're like a mirror, reflecting the same truth from opposite sides."

—

Y/N adjusted her pink jumpsuit and mask, her heart pounding against her ribcage. She hated everything about this place: the screams, the games, the stench of blood that clung to every surface. She hated being part of this macabre machine, but she didn’t have a choice. Or at least, that’s what she tried to justify herself with.

A year ago, when she first arrived and realised what was actually happening, she had vowed to find a way to end it all. Once she was back home, she worked silently, methodically not sharing her plans to anyone, besides one person.

Hwang Inho.

She met him after the first game as he was a pink guard as well and as much as y/n didn’t trust him at first due to his cold facade, he actually turned out to have the same ideas as her. He was different from the other pink guards y/n has met, he was quieter, observant. Unlike the others, who reveled in their power over the players or fell into obedient silence, he had a sharp wit that he wielded sparingly but effectively. He always seemed to sense when Y/N needed a quick distraction during tense moments.

And so, after they got out of the game, they worked side by side often, and she eventually found herself drawn to the rare moments when they spoke about things unrelated to the game. Cozy nights, wrapped in blankets and talking as if there was no tomorrow.

Y/N tried to stay focused on her mission and not let her mind wander anywhere else but with the time passing by, the moments spent together became significantly more important to her.

Things shifted when one particular night instead of going home, Inho suggested y/n to sleepover at his house as it was pouring rain and the roads were dangerously blurry. One thing led to another and eventually y/n found herself laying her head on his bare chest, feeling safer than ever.

“What are you planning to do once you take down the organisation?” He asked while gently running his fingers across her hair.

Y/N thought for a moment and smiled “I don’t know,” she finally answered “My main focus for now is succeeding this mission and the rest… we’ll see I guess.”

Inho chuckled and didn’t push further, understanding her answer. He then put his left hand on her cheek and slowly raised her head to plant a soft kiss on her lips, smiling into the kiss.

A year passed by quickly and it was time to return there again. Y/N felt ready, she knew what to do and when, especially after Inho somehow managed to find a sketch of the whole building where the games take place. Y/N did know that it was extremely odd to find such a thing out of blue, but knowing how helpful it was, she didn’t try to question it and simply let it slide, trusting him and being too immersed in succeeding her plan.

Before she knew, she was back, on her way to the first game, blending in as just another nameless guard in the sea of faceless pink uniforms.

Finally, the day came. It was the night after the third game when no one would expect anything as security was always on the highest alert after the first game.

Y/N was the one in motion while Inho was explaining the way she will have to make in order to get to the private lounge area. She managed to infiltrate the control room, her pulse pounding as she neutralized the guards stationed there. The room smelled of stale coffee and sweat, monitors flickering with live feeds of every horrifying corner of the facility.

She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She had made it this far—there was no turning back now.

After shutting down the security systems and eliminating anyone in her way, Y/N pushed through a heavy door into a private lounge area. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a massive screen casting shadows over the elegant furniture. Her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a figure sitting on a leather sofa, his back to her.

Her hand tightened around the gun she held. “Don’t move.”

The man didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused. “You made it quicker than I expected.” His voice was low and computerized due to the black mask.

Y/N quickly grabbed her walkie talkie and told Inho she managed to make it to the private lounge. However, even after waiting for a few more seconds, she didn’t get a reply. She tried once again but to no avail. She started to get nervous as to why he wasn't responding.

Her grip on the gun wavered slightly and she cursed, deciding to take matters in her own hands for now “Turn around. Slowly.”

He raised the whiskey to his lips, taking a sip before setting the glass down on the table. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stood and turned to face her, the black mask looking right at her. 

Y/N tried to reach out to Inho once again when suddenly the frontman took out something from his pocket. It was the walkie talkie y/n had given Inho. She froze, fearing the frontman somehow managed to capture Inho while she was busy fighting the soldiers.

"Where did you get this ?" She gulped, taking a few steps closer to him, pointing the gun right at his chest “If you hurt him I swear-”

A low chuckle echoed across the room, y/n looked at the frontman who shook his head before raising his hands to take off the mask.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat and her heart dropped.

It was him. Hwang Inho.

In an instant, it felt like all the walls around her started to suffocate her and that the room progressively got smaller. Her brain couldn’t process what she was seeing. The man she had spent so much time with, the one who made her feel understood and the one who showed her what love felt like, was standing in front of her in a black coat with the black mask in his hand—the unmistakable mask of the Front Man.

“You—” she started, her voice cracking.

“Yes,” he said simply, his voice colder now, void of the warmth she had grown accustomed to.

Y/N’s mind raced, piecing everything together. All the times he had been quiet, watching, listening. The way he seemed to know more than he let on. She felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

“Why what?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why did I let you get this far? Or why am I standing here instead of stopping you?”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, raising the gun higher. “Don’t come any closer.”

The frontman—no, Inho—stopped, his hands raised in mock surrender. “If I wanted to stop you, Y/N, you’d already be dead. You know that.”

Her finger hovered over the trigger, her entire body shaking. “You knew. This whole time, you knew what I was doing. You were even helping me.”

"Helping is a big word. I’d rather say I was agreeing with your ideas and eventually giving you some clues from time to time.”

Her breath hitched. “What was your goal?”

He shrugged, his gaze unreadable. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. And now, here we are. I never doubted you though, I knew we'd meet here as I saw the ambition and determination in your eyes.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence, the weight of the truth settling between them. She hated him. She hated the games, the cruelty, the manipulation.

“I trusted you,” she whispered, lowering the gun slightly.

He stepped closer, this time without resistance. “And maybe you still can.”

Y/N’s heart pounded as he stopped just inches away, “What are you talking about?”

“Finish what you started,” he said simply, his voice low. “Shut it all down.”

Y/N stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears as his words settled over her like a suffocating fog. Her whole purpose for being here—to dismantle the games, to destroy everything he had built—now felt like a fragile construct teetering on the edge of collapse. And yet, she couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the horrible, awful logic they carried.

“You’re insane, Inho.” she whispered finally, her voice raw.

Hwang Inho didn’t flinch, didn’t react to her insult. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But if I’m insane then what does that make you?” He asked suddenly “You’ve killed for your cause, Y/N. You killed dozens of guards to get here. And now, here you are—standing in front of me with a gun, and yet you can’t pull the trigger. Why?”

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, until Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re trying to twist this,” she spat, her voice rising. “Trying to manipulate me into thinking we’re the same so I won’t stop you.”

His gaze followed her, steady and unflinching. “I don’t need to manipulate you, Y/N. You’ve already proven my point. You killed those guards to get here. You knew the risks, and you accepted them. You’re not here because you’re better than me. You’re here because you’re willing to do whatever it takes—just like I am.”

"I don't kill those people, Y/N," he continued, referring to the players “I don't force them to come here, I give them a choice. Moreover, after each game they have the choice to stay or continue. They kill the other players to survive and get more money, not me. People are so greedy for money that it makes them blind. They loose the privilege of being called human, they reveal their true nature — monsters.”

She whirled on him, her chest heaving. “Not everyone comes here by choice, some just don't have any other way. So you're wrong Inho-”

He approached her slowly, towering over her now, his presence overwhelming in the small space. “Tell me Y/N, what do you think will happen if you kill me ?” he asked, his voice cold but not unkind. “The people who run this—the VIPs—they’ll just start again somewhere else. Somewhere you can’t reach them. Do you really think killing me will end this? I'm a just a puppet who accepted the harsh reality of this world, Y/N.”

Her throat tightened, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that there was a way to stop it all. But she didn’t have an answer.

“Exactly,” he whispered, as if reading her thoughts. “You think you can destroy this, but all you’ll do is burn yourself out trying. And in the meantime, people will keep dying.”

“So what?” she shot back, her voice trembling. “You’re saying I should join you? Help you keep this nightmare alive?”

He didn’t answer right away. Finally, his voice softened as he said, “I’m saying you need to decide what matters more—your principles, or your survival.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding. “I’d rather die than become like you.”

A faint smile flickered across his lips, “That’s what they all say.”

Before she could respond, the door behind her suddenly opened, and two guards stepped inside. Y/N’s stomach clenched, her body tensing and she immediately raised her gun at them, turning her back to Inho who didn’t even flinch. 

"Don’t you get it Y/N ? We're like a mirror, reflecting the same truth from opposite sides." He gently put his hands on both of her arms, stepping behind her and looking at her side profile.

Y/N’s grip on the gun tightened, her breath catching. She shook her head sharply, the anger rising in her chest. “No,” she spat, her voice bitter. “You’re not me. You’re a killer. And I don’t care what you say—you’re not going to twist this into something else.”

His smile barely flickered. “Funny. I thought you would understand. The line between right and wrong is thin, Y/N. You kill for your cause, I kill for mine. But in the end, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears, the room spinning for a second. It was true—too true. But she wouldn’t let him win. She couldn’t let herself be like him.

“No,” she repeated, her voice quieter but full of conviction. She took a step back, turning back to look at him, his hands brushing over her sides before leaving her body completely. The weight of the gun in her hand heavy.

This wasn’t what she signed up for, wasn’t what she had worked so hard for. But standing there, facing him, she realized just how dangerous his words were, how much of what he said hit too close to home.

Y/N stood in the doorway, gun still heavy in her hand, her heart beating erratically in her chest. She suddenly raised her gun and pointed it directly at his heart, her finger twitching over the trigger. She had made her choice—at least, that’s what she had thought. The mission. The goal. It all led to this moment. One pull and it would be over. But now, standing in front of him, the room filled with the echoes of her hesitation, the lines between right and wrong blurred in a way she couldn’t ignore anymore.

She had been ready to walk away, ready to follow through, to do what she believed was right. But something inside her faltered, her resolve cracking like ice under pressure. He had been right about one thing—their reflection was too similar. She had spent so much of her life believing that she was the opposite of him, but with every step closer she took toward him, it felt more like she was staring into a mirror she had spent so long trying to avoid.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze steady but somehow understanding. “You don’t have to fight it anymore, Y/N. We’re the same. We both do what we believe is necessary. You can either leave, and I will make sure to get you home safely, or you can stay with me and accept the world is a cruel place that can’t be saved.”

Her chest tightened, and despite her efforts to resist, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. There was something in his presence—something that made her feel understood in a way no one else ever had. She hated that it was him, hated that it was this—but she couldn’t deny the pull, the connection, the understanding that went beyond their roles in this twisted game.

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. Her breath, his movements, the weight of the gun—everything hung in the balance.

She lowered the weapon, her hands shaking as she realized the truth. She couldn’t walk away from him—not completely. She had tried, had convinced herself that she was different, that she was better, but deep down, she knew they were too alike. Too broken. Too far gone.

“I don’t want to be like you,” she whispered, more to herself than him, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“You already are,” he replied softly, but there was no malice in his words—only something darker, something that felt like acceptance.

And in that moment, something shifted inside her. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She couldn’t deny it anymore. Her feelings for him, no matter how twisted or complicated, were real. And maybe—just maybe—there was no escaping this dark connection they shared.

She looked up at him. She wasn’t sure if it was love or something darker that pulled her closer, but when she stood in front of him, their eyes locking, she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t walking away. She couldn't.

“Stay” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but it held an undeniable weight.

He slowly leaned in and his lips met hers. Y/N didn't move away. She couldn't. She felt interlocked to him in a way she never did with anyone. She left the salty taste of her own tears during the kiss, feeling her heart betraying her own mind.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, looking at each other, two sides of the same broken coin, too entwined to walk away from each other.

The world outside didn’t matter. The game didn’t matter. In that room, at that moment, it was just the two of them. Together. Alike.

[bananastarlo]

yandere Isekai trope

What if you wake up in another world and nothing is quite as it was before you fell asleep? Everything looked different—hell, even you looked different, wearing a strange school uniform.

That’s when a screen appears before you:

“In order to leave this place, you must get along with the yandere of this universe and identify—plus avoid—their darling. Good luck, and don’t get yourself killed.“

So that’s why you’re standing in front of the classroom the screen assigned you to. Peering inside, nobody seems to notice your presence. You take a seat and inspect every person carefully… 

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Is he not in this school?

But then he walked in, head slightly bowed to avoid drawing attention to himself. Yet somehow, you knew it had to be him. It was a gut feeling, strong and undeniable. The boy was quite tall and lean, with little muscle, a gentle appearance, and hair that fell over his face. His expression was unsure.

He’s supposed to be the yandere? You smirked to yourself. Definitely manageable.

As he took his seat, you came up to him and warily sat yourself down next to him. He didn’t even bother glancing up, absorbed in whatever he was sketching in his notebook. 

You’d figured you should try befriending him—gain his trust so he (hopefully) wouldn’t hurt you.

Your first interaction with him was short-lived 

“Hey, I’m new here. Uh…what’s your name?“

…

Shit. 

You take a peek at his notebook.

“That’s a really pretty drawing! You’re very talented!“

“…Thank you.“ 

Were you the first person he’d spoken to? It sure felt like it. You almost felt bad for him.

As time went on, you tried every tactic to win him over. After countless failed attempts, you finally earned his tolerance, maybe even fondness. Now, he even waits for you after class, which was…kind of cute. You learned his name was Luca, a shy boy who loved to draw and read comics.

It made sense for him to be a yandere, you thought. 

Eventually, he grew clingy. You didn’t mind. If anything, his attachment meant he wouldn’t turn on you later…right?

But you’d be lying if you said he hadn’t grown on you, too. If not for the yandere thing, you’d actually enjoy your late-night talks (it’s more of a one-sided conversation, but oh well…) and the times when you did school projects together at your house and he gets flustered by being in your space. 

But you’re forgetting something really important, aren’t you? 

“Hey, my name is Lola! It’s nice to meet you all!“ 

She was an awfully cheery girl who just transferred here. The kind of girl boys fell for. Even…

You turn your head to study Luca’s reaction.

His expression was unreadable, but this has to be her—the darling. Now, you just had to avoid her as much as possible.

“Thank you. You can sit now. Uh…you! You’ll show Lola around and partner with her for the upcoming project.“

The teacher pointed directly at you.

Aw, shit.

Arguing was pointless, so you agreed. But you could feel Luca’s glare burning into you as Lola beamed beside you.

“I hope we become good friends!“

You spent the rest of class ignoring him, but dread coiled in your stomach. 

After class, as everyone scattered, you grabbed Luca‘s wrist before he could leave. “Listen, I…I really like you. I don’t want anything to change what we have. Once I finish what the teacher asked, I‘ll stay away from her, okay?“

He blinked in surprise, then smiled. “I-I didn’t think you’d understand. Thank you so much.“

And with that, he left.

At least that went well.

Or so you thought.

Lola was determined to befriend you. No hint, no brush-off worked. The more time you spent with her, the more Luca withdrew. His distance made you paranoid—rightfully so.

Today was another dreadful day and you were the only one left in school working on an assignment—too scared to walk home now that it was already this dark out. After packing up, you sighed and headed out—until a strange noise made you stop in place. 

Against your better judgement, your feet dragged you to the source, scared of what you would find.

That’s when you saw an open classroom and heard a piercing scream from inside. Your stomach dropped and hands started shaking.

There he was, repeatedly stabbing a person, who was so familiar to you, you almost threw up. Lola. Luca was hunched over her. He must’ve heard you, because his head slowly turned, blood splattered across his face.

“You? My darling… you weren’t supposed to see this.“

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!“ You backed away.

He looked like he was the one who had just been stabbed. His lips trembled.

“W-What do you mean? I did this for us! She wouldn’t stop bothering you! She deserved this—ALL OF IT! She wanted to take you away from me, can’t you see? You told me you didn’t want anything to change what we have, so please, please don’t look at me with that look. I love you so much, please…“

What have you done?

[bbyseok]

the final conclusion of this post, where your boyfriend gojo satoru always starts floating because of his powers whenever you kiss him…

some time in your second or third year, satoru got ahold of his powers and no longer floats up into the air after you bestow him a kiss on the lips. it’s a funny endeavor that you’ll miss, but it did make your make out sessions a whole lot easier.

it’s years later.

he’s older now—you both are; your seemingly carefree high school days are long behind you now, but the two of you still find yourselves at jujutsu high as teachers.

gojo satoru couldn’t ask for a better partner than you to help him navigate his dream in supporting a new generation of sorcerers, and he gets along with his students very well (so he says).

your life is far from perfect… plagued by dangerous curses, riddled with the higher ups’ stupidity, getting through every day not knowing what could happen next—but it’s enough for you, especially with satoru at your side.

but it seems like it’s not quite enough for satoru.

it’s some time past midnight.

even after all this time, gojo still craves those stupid, overly sweet candies and late night snack runs. old habits die hard apparently.

he claims that it keeps your love life spontaneous, and who are you to deny him?

“‘toru…” you groan, rubbing at your eyes groggily as he tugs you along.

you’re clad in one of gojo’s hoodies that thrown over you in his haste, and it’s much too big on you with your hands that are drowning in the arm sleeves. (but for the record, you look like the epitome of perfection in your boyfriend’s eyes like this.)

but the snowy-haired man pays little attention to your weak protests, his boyish laugh being carried on the evening breeze.

it’s a fond sound you’ll never tire of as he says, “come on, sweetheart! i promise i’ll get you whatever you want.”

he always does.

and after you’ve secured snacks and whatever gojo had been craving for, you’re back outside. but you only take a few steps when it strikes you that this place seems somewhat… familiar.

the artificial light glows strongly from the convenience store, paired with the glistening moonlight pouring down from the night sky. it’s simple and pretty, but you’re distracted by the way it highlights satoru’s eyes.

this is the very same place where you and satoru had your first kiss.

it’s been a while since you’ve both been here—life is like that. the lights and windows have been altered in appearance, and the building itself has aged… but it’s obvious that it’s still the same place.

“satoru?” you sputter out, surprised.

he merely grins at you, his head tilting to the side bashfully with his snowy bangs falling over his eyes. “i never forgot about this store,” he confesses, glancing at it briefly.

your gaze softens, following his gaze. “me either.”

gojo grabs ahold of one of your hands, his thumb gently tracing over the lines of your knuckles as he meets your stare again. “you know, i think i fell in love with you that night you kissed me here,” he tells you, followed by a quiet chuckle.

his words cause a flurry of butterflies to erupt in your stomach. he always manages to do that, even after all this time. “yeah?” you hum softly.

satoru nods. “mhm.” after a moment, he continues. “so i… i think it’s rather fitting that i do this here too.”

you blink at him. “..do what?”

with his free hand, gojo digs into his jacket pocket for something. there’s a permanent smile sketched onto his lips as he finds it, and then—

he slowly sinks down on to one knee.

there’s a ring held delicately in his fingers, glistening in the dark. your breath catches.

you hadn’t expected for him to propose to you like this—way past your bedtime next to the convenience store with a grocery bag full of candies in your hands but now that you think about it… it’s very gojo satoru for you.

at the look of bewilderment painted over your face, satoru laughs.

“well…” and he utters your name with a tenderness that you and only you know, “will you marry me?”

a wobbly laugh leaves you then, your heart caught in your throat. “—!? yes! yes, satoru, i’ll marry you.”

gojo slips the ring onto your finger with ease, like it had always belonged there. you immediately pull him up to his feet as the two of you eye how the gemstone glimmers against your skin.

when your eyes meet his crystalline blue ones, it feels like the stars are under your feet, meeting him halfway in a passionate kiss.

you’ve kissed him probably more than millions of times in this lifetime—through the good and the bad; some are somber, some are silly.

and tonight?

you’re— oh, you’re floating.

sure enough, satoru’s feet are off the floor due to his powers for old times’ sake, dragging you up with him in his arms, and it makes you giggle against his lips.

“‘toru?!!”

but gojo seems just as surprised and amused by this circumstance just as you are. you can feel the puff of his laughter, the kind of laughter that makes his shoulders shake.

“guess you still sweep me off my feet,” satoru cheekily remarks.

to which you only respond with a fond roll of your eyes—and another kiss that steals his breath away and keeps you both in the air.

oh, well—soon, he’ll be your husband that occasionally floats when you kiss him.

[sailornymph]

beyond the fantasy; phantom troupe

synopsis — realizing your phantom troupe boyfriend is batshit crazy, but it is too late

content warning — yandere behavior, dark romance, sexual themes

a/n — i apologize for my unexpected absence. thank you for all of the support and new followers i have still received, even with my lack of presence and i hope that you all continue to enjoy the work that I put out for you all. i am working on my drafts, please do not text me inquiring about your request because i am working on it. thank you all.

♡ chrollo lucilfer

“damn it, chrollo, just…just call me back when you get the chance, okay? you have me worried sick,” you spoke in a hushed tone, leaving the millionth voicemail to your boyfriend.

ending the unanswered call, you stared at your previous calls, your face heating up. where could he have gone? hundreds of messages, texting him about your day, asking about his, but no answer, it was like he vanished. it had only been three weeks now, but to go from nearly everyday with him, to never hearing from him, it felt like you were experiencing withdrawals.

chrollo, a charismatic, yet mysterious man he was, who managed to steal your heart only six months previously. he had stopped in your bookstore, when he approached you, searching for a book. you could never forget his soft smile, as he apologized, going on about how he ruined an old book of his and he was looking for a replacement. helping him, he was the most charming man, asking if you had recently moved in the area because he would have noticed such a beautiful person.

it was only a matter of time before you were going on dates to the art museum, lunch together, while he sketched you, humming as you babbled, or your favorite, when he’d come to your shop, late in the evening before you closed — picking a book, he held your hand, leading you to a seat — sitting first, he pulled you into his lap, where he went on to read to you. god you missed him.

“excuse me?” you heard, as the doorbell jingled, making you shove your phone into your pocket.

“yes, how can i assist y-matthew?” you smiled, a gasp slipping from your lips, as you moved around the counter to hug your old friend from college.

“in the flesh, baby,” he smirked, slinging his muscular arms around you, pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

“there were talks of you finally opening your own bookstore, i knew you'd do it,” he cooed, pinching your cheek, like a mother would do their child.

matthew elsten was always someone you admired greatly. he was from a wealthy family of doctors, but he thought being in school for all of the years was uncool for him. he was good looking, charming with a great body, and so instead of following what his family wanted him to do, he chose to make a path for himself, which was beyond admirable, being that he was now very successful.

“i did, and you actually became a swimsuit model,” you nodded, smiling at his huge smile, he was still as handsome as your remembered.

“you've seen my work, y/n, i knew you would support me,” he cheered.

“i’ve seen you on many magazine covers on my way to work, i’m proud of you, matt,” you nudged him.

“thank you, it means a lot coming from you,” he pretended to tear up.

“no problem, so tell me what can i help you with, old friend?”

“oh nothing much, i happened to be in the area, when i remembered angie told me you opened up here, so i wanted to see if you would take me up on an offer from the past,” he blushed, making you smirk, his words bringing a familiar memory to you.

“refresh my memory”

“your number and maybe some dinner sometime, angie said that you had a boyfriend, but he hadn't been around in a while, so i figured why not try again,” staring into his eyes, your mind drifted to chrollo. would this be considered cheating? he never seemed like the jealous type, matt was only a friend, and lastly, he was your boyfriend, yet he didn't seem to care too much about you, how he was able to easily abandon you for the next three weeks.

“sure, but i’ll have to think about dinner, matt,” you laughed, writing your number on a card, handing it to him.

“i get it, i can respect that you are busy with your shop, but if you're ever free, and you'd like to meet up, maybe you could use me, it would be fun, but i’ll see you around, y/n,” matthew winked, leaving you flustered in the empty store.

you juggled your keys and the phone as you laughed with angie, the cold air brushing your cheeks as you approached your apartment door. thankful that you would finally have a few days of resting after being busy.

“i can't believe you sent matthew to seduce me?” you teased.

“i sent him to distract you, god knows that chrollo doesn’t deserve you. he disappeared and left you to grieve as if he died.”

“he didn’t die,” you mumbled, pausing as your key hit resistance.

“he might as well have, he ghosted with no reason, meaning he is trash. honestly, if matt makes you smile again, you should let him. also, he’s a total slut from what i've been told, you should take him up on his offer, just for fun”

you laughed. “you’re terrible.”

but your laugh soon died. your door was… unlocked.

you always locked your door, sometimes double or triple checking. there was one reason you would leave your door unlocked and that was when you were expecting someone. your stomach dropped.

“angie, let me call you back,” you whispered. you ended the call and turned the knob.

it opened.

your breath caught. the lights were off — except for the dim glow in your living room.

and then you saw him.

matthew.

slumped in your chair. bruised, bleeding from his lip. eyes barely open.

“matt?” you gasped, rushing toward him — but the lights flared to life. reaching to touch his face, he winced, barely conscious.

you stopped.

standing beside him, arms calmly crossed, was a woman you didn’t recognize — her eyes dark, her expression unreadable.

“who are you?” you questioned, backing away.

“welcome home,” a familiar voice cooed softly.

you turned.

chrollo.

leaning against your bookshelf. the same one he used to read to you from. his smile was gentle. too gentle.

“i brought a friend for you to use.”

“what is the meaning of this? who is this woman? why is matt here? and how the hell did you get into my apartment?” you questioned, the longer you stared at his handsome face, the angrier you became. here you were sad, worried, stressed about him and now he stood in front of you, dressed expensively, with a nonchalant expression on his face.

with a soft motion of his hand, the woman was leaving the apartment without sparing you a glance.

“i’ve been away for business, my love, but i’ve come to collect what is mine,” he told you, his voice unusually calm.

“what are you talking about? did you and that woman do to matt?”

you were still processing the sight of matt beaten, chrollo eerily calm, the woman who stood as if she were a guard. he walks to you like he’s returning from war, not breaking and entering.

“i have a secret to share with you, but it will not be here, we’re leaving,” he gently touches your cheek, but you jerk away.

“as for your friend, he is very lucky to be alive, when he deserves worse,” he continued, making you frown. your mind going to angie’s words about him.

“you can’t really think that i am coming with you, i’ve been worried about you and-

“you’ve been so loyal. i didn’t want to taint that by rushing”

“i was worried sick over you! i begged you to call me back! i could hardly eat, i didn’t sleep—i didn’t even look at another man for weeks, until matt and you—you think you can show up like this now?!”

“i won’t stand for it. you expect me to follow you? like nothing happened? do you think i’m that pathetic?! angie was right about you”

he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even defend himself. he just watches you — head slightly tilted, as if he were studying a painting.

“you’re right,” he says softly. “you shouldn’t follow blindly. but you will follow.”

“i don’t even recognize you right now. we’re done. i’m done, chrollo. go back to wherever you came from. i want no part of you anymore,” you mustered the strength to say, turning to go to matt, when he finally moved.

slow, but without hesitation. he grabs your wrist — not enough to bruise, but enough to make you freeze. he pulls your close, body flush against his, his hand sliding up to you jaw. holding you there. firm. possessively.

“you don’t get to leave me, not yet”

you try to pull away, but his grip only tightens.

“not until i’m through with you”

letting out shallow breaths, you searched his eyes, trying to understand what was happening, as the tear escaped.

“you’re not making sense,” you cried.

chrollo softens his expression immediately. wiping the tear with his thumb. and then he kisses your lips. slowly. almost lovingly.

“you cry so beautifully. it’s a shame i wasn’t here to see more of it”

“go pack your things,” he continued.

you wanted to scream at him, push him away, slap him for potentially hurting matt, yet you stood unable to move under his gaze. you wanted to stand up for yourself, but deep down inside you know you didn’t have much of a choice: you were going with him.

clenching your jaw, you turn to go to your room, shutting the door behind yourself. hurriedly reaching for your phone, you gasp, realizing it was missing from your pocket. gulping away the tears, you packed a few pieces of clothes and other miscellaneous items, before you went back to face chrollo.

immediately your eyes went to the empty chair matt once sat in, then the woman from earlier standing stoically by the door.

“where is matt? what did you do with him?” you yelled at chrollo.

“you should be worried about yourself angel,” he smiled, before a sack was placed over your head and you were knocked out.

jolting out of your sleep, you realized you were being carried, by chrollo. when he suddenly stopped, placing you down, before the sack was taken off by the woman. you were walking in a unfamiliar building, when you saw them.

they were hunters, but they were also criminals. they stared, making you move closer to chrollo, who had an arm loose around your shoulder, not paying them any attention.

“you sure about this, boss?” one of the men ask, but chrollo said nothing, continuing to lead you past them, until you were inside of a plain room. the various books scattered around let you know that this was in fact his room.

letting you go, he watched as you sat at the edge of the bed, as he pulled a chair up, sitting in front of you.

“you were mine the moment you smiled at me in that shop-

“who are they?” you interrupted, eyebrows furrowed, trying to remember where you seen the group of criminals.

he just smiles.

“they’re mine.”

you blink. “yours?”

he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“the phantom troupe. the spiders. i lead them.”

you laugh. this had to be one big joke.

“you’re not serious.”

he tilts his head, unbothered. calm.

“why do you think i’ve been gone so long? why do you think no one dares to touch you in this city? they know you belong to me. and i belong to the troupe.”

you freeze, unable to believe that you were hearing.

“you’re lying”

he doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t explain further.

instead, he reaches into his coat pocket — pulls out a small black book. one of the old ones he’d always read from when you first met.

he flips to the middle and turns it toward you.

inside awaited a hand-drawn spider. numbered legs. names written in a clean, elegant hand.

your heart sinks when you see one word underlined.

“lucilfer.”

he watches your expression shift. he loved watching you realize things.

“i didn’t lie to you,” he says softly. “i just showed you the part you were ready for.”

“why are you telling me this now?”

he stands, crossing the room.

“because now… you don’t get to leave.”

“what did you do with matthew?”

“matthew…that was a lapse in judgment. one i’ve corrected”

“why me, why are you doing this to me?” you whispered.

“because you waited”

“that doesn’t mean anything anymore, it doesn’t mean i still want you, after all of this”

he leaned closer. “it means you need me.”

your breath hitched as he stood, reaching for your coat, fingers brushing your shoulder with reverence. he removed it slowly, like peeling away a layer of armor.

“i watched you suffer. not out of cruelty. but to be sure you were worthy of me”

you flinched. “worthy? you left me.”

“i watched every moment,” he murmured. “i saw your tears. your prayers. your silence. that’s devotion”

“that’s pain,” you snapped, voice shaking.

watching as he stood, he reached for your hand, closing the distance between you, hand sliding under your chin, tilting your head up.

“they’re the same, sometimes,” he told you gently, before pressing his lips against your own.

his kiss wasn’t rushed. it was slow — sickeningly soft. the kind that made you feel like maybe this was still love. maybe.

your body remembered him. your mouth betraying you. he kissed your jaw. your neck. his hands held your waist like you might disappear — like he owned the shape of you.

“you’re mine,” he said quietly. “not in theory. not in memory. now.”

your knees buckled when he pushed you gently onto the bed. his eyes never left you — he didn’t look at your body. he looked at your soul.

“i missed you,” he whispered, crawling over you. “i thought of this every night. how quiet you’d be beneath me.”

you didn’t know if you were crying or sweating — his fingers found your skin like he already knew it. like he’d memorized every inch.

“this is what you wanted,” he breathed against your collarbone. “even now, you want it.”

and part of you hated that he was right.

he kissed you until your body forgot how to fight. that it was supposed to be angry at him.

his hands continued to travel — patient, reverent — until they gripped your thighs and spread them. he didn’t ask. he didn’t need to.

“say it,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “say you’re mine.”

you turned your head, gasping — shame curling in your gut as he dragged his palm over your inner thigh, deliberate and slow, resting on your clothed cunt.

“i’m not,” you choked. “i’m not yours,” you shook your head.

he didn’t say anything for a moment, pressing his palm against your pussy, feeling you repeatedly clinching your walls.

“then why are you shaking like you want to be?”

he reached to unbutton your pants, sliding them, along with your panties down your legs, tossing them aside as if they meant nothing, and pushed two fingers inside you with a low breath.

you gasped — not from pain, but from how easily your body betrayed you.

“you were waiting for this,” he murmured, curling his fingers. “you thought of me every night. praying i’d come back and ruin you.”

“chrollo—”

“you want to hate me.” he thrust deeper. “but you dreamed of this.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. your thighs trembled, hips instinctively rising to meet his hand.

his mouth crashed down against your collarbone, teeth scraping, biting hard enough to leave proof — his tongue softening the sting with a slow lick.

“i missed this body,” he growled, voice finally breaking that calm, silken mask. “i missed the way it sings when i touch you. let me hear it,” he said, satisfied when you began moaning at his command.

he unbuckled his belt with one hand, never stopping the rhythm of his fingers inside you. stroking himself, he finally removed his fingers, grabbing your thighs to pull you closer.

he pushed into you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until you were full — stretched, trembling, barely able to breathe.

“perfect,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“even after all this time…you still fit me like you were made for me,” he continued.

you whimpered. not just from the pressure, but the way he looked at you — like you were sacred, like this was some twisted ritual and your body was the altar.

his hands braced your hips as he started to move — slow at first, deliberate. he wanted you to feel every second. every inch.

you tried not to cry out, but your body betrayed you, back arching as pleasure pulsed up your spine.

“there it is,” he murmured. “that sound. that’s mine too.”

you clenched your teeth. “i hate you.”

he smiled, thrusting harder, stealing your breath.

“then hate me from under me”

your fingers twisted into the blanket as he picked up the pace, every stroke pushing the words from your lungs.

“you’ve already submitted,” he said lowly. “your body made that choice before your mind did”

he leaned in, biting your shoulder — not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting.

“but i’ll still wait for your mouth to catch up”

his hand slid up your chest, gripping your throat with just enough pressure to remind you of your place — of who had you pinned, who had taken you apart so easily.

“say it.”

you gasped. “w-what?”

“say you’re mine.”

you shook your head, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. but your hips were still rising to meet him. your body still pulled him deeper.

he growled, pulling nearly all the way out — then slammed back into you with one sharp, punishing thrust.

“say it, or i’ll keep going until you can’t speak.”

you choked — pleasure and panic lacing your voice.

“i’m yours… i’m yours, chrollo—please—!”

his mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing the sob that slipped free. his kiss was deep, possessive, unforgiving. tongue and teeth, breath and dominance.

he angled his hips just right — hitting that spot that made you cry out again, your body convulsing around him.

“good girl,” he whispered against your lips. “i knew you’d remember who you belonged to.”

you came undone — trembling around him, nails raking down his clothed back. And he didn’t stop. not even as your vision blurred, not even as you sobbed his name into his shoulder.

he came moments later, growling against your throat, hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside you, fingers digging bruises into your hips.

when he pulled out, he didn’t ask how you were.

he gathered your limp body into his arms, kissed your temple, and whispered:

“now you’ll never forget.”

you didn’t remember falling asleep.

your body was sore in places you didn’t know could ache. last night was different from the previous lovemaking the sheets still smelled like him — clean, faintly smoky, tinged with something sweet and old like worn paper or dried blood.

when you sat up, you realized, he was gone. no note. no goodbye. just empty space beside you where his body had once caged yours in heat and silence.

you moved slowly, stretching your legs out of bed, wincing slightly as you stood. every part of you remembered last night. his hands. his voice. the way he whispered, “you’re mine.”

you scanned the room and spotted a dark shirt draped across a chair — definitely his. you pulled it over your bare skin. it smelled like him. it felt like belonging.

you stepped into the hall barefoot, the cold floor shocking your skin as you padded through the dim hideout. quiet, still. like a church built for monsters.

then you heard voices — muffled, serious, rising from a door down the corridor. half-curious, half-hoping, you followed them. and walked right into it.

the dim room went silent the moment the door creaked open.

there they were — the phantom troupe. spiders in human skin. gathered but scattered in the old room. maps. weapons. bloodstained papers.

beyond them was a balcony, and there he sat like their king, like a god, chrollo.

and when he saw you — in nothing but his shirt, hair tousled, eyes still dazed from sleep — he smiled. not politely. not cruelly. but with affection.

“ah,” he murmured. “my queen has awakened.”

you froze.

a few heads turned, acknowledging your presence. one of the the members being the one woman who stood behind matthew — she blinked and tilted her head, as if trying to decide whether you were prey, a pet, or something else.

chrollo held out his hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated. just for a second.

but your feet obeyed before your fear did.

you walked toward him, heart pounding, face burning. he pulled you effortlessly into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist like a vice.

he nuzzled your neck — right where the bruise from his bite still pulsed.

“she’s proven herself,” he said to the others. “watched. endured. stayed.” not that he had given you much of a choice.

“she’s mine. my princess.” his voice dropped lower. “no—my queen.”

you didn’t dare look at the others. his hand slid under the hem of the shirt you wore — just resting on your bare thigh.

“she belongs here now,” he said softly into your ear. “you’ve earned it, my love. you survived and that makes you divine”

a few minutes passed before the troupe members resumed talking as you rested on his lap, as if you were nothing but his doll.

“you were always meant to sit beside me. i just had to break the perfect world around you until you saw it too.”

♡ feitan portor

feitan, your boyfriend was very peculiar. he was incredibly secretive and stoic. but he was your bizarre and stoic love. he didn’t talk about his past or work. never brought friends around.

you knew he liked that you didn’t ask questions, that you held a deep trust for him. there was so much that you loved about him, that you could never bring yourself to say out loud.

the way he always knows when you’re overwhelmed — how he’ll pull you into his arms, sit you on his lap, and stay silent until your heartbeat slows. the way he watches you when you talk, like your words are the only ones worth hearing. the way he touches you like he’s memorizing your skin — not with lust, but ownership. like he wants to carve your existence into his hands.

your parents hated him, he looked even weirder to them, he was quite short, he had the face of a murderer — they went on and on when he left, after they had shown up to surprise you. but you didn’t find yourself caring.

folding your laundry, you began to put it away, feitan’s clothes folded perfectly on your bed. glancing at the dresser, your eyes moved to the door. he hadn’t officially moved in, but you had given him a few places for his things and he had been vocal about you not touching any of the places.

“i’m sorry, honey, but i’m not leaving these clothes laying around,” you huffed, opening the door to place your clothes inside. however, the sight made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

you hadn’t expected to find a folder — thick, black, unmarked. not tucked away or buried beneath anything. it sat there like it was waiting for you.

was this always here?

you shouldn’t open it, but you couldn’t contain your curiosity.

the moment you slid your fingers beneath the flap, a chill ran up your spine. it wasn’t even the first photo that shook you — it was the fact that you recognized the angle.

you — brushing your hair in front of the mirror. taken from behind. another one — you asleep in bed. another — walking home at night, head down, unaware.

your stomach turned. they weren’t new. some were printed on thin, glossy paper. others were older, aged with creases like he’d touched them too many times. you flipped faster.

you at work. you sitting on your porch. you with your friend, mika, outside a cafe last month.

your hand froze.

the photo was burned slightly on the edge. someone — no, feitan — had scrawled something underneath the image in messy, slanted handwriting:

untrustworthy.

you dropped the stack. but the folder wasn’t done with you. beneath your photos were others — not of you, but of people you’d spoken to. your coworker. your old classmate. that barista who gave you free coffee and a wink once. all labeled. some scratched through.

some with one word beneath them:

removed.

your breath hitched. what the hell is this? then, in the very back, something different.

a photo of you again — this time from far away, sitting alone on a park bench.

on the back, in the same jagged handwriting:

mine.

you didn’t hear the door open. you didn’t hear him come in. you only felt it — the chill in the air. the weight behind you.

and then the voice, quiet, low, close enough to breathe against your neck.

“you weren’t supposed to look.”

your entire body locked up. the folder still open in your lap. his handwriting still in your hands. slowly, you turned your head.

feitan stood in the doorway — half in shadow, half in the dim orange glow of the setting sun through your curtains. blood stained the edge of his sleeve. his face was unreadable.

his eyes, though— his eyes were watching you like he had already decided what came next. you opened your mouth. no sound came out.

“you broke the rule.”

his tone didn’t rise. he didn’t step closer. that stillness was worse than anything else.

“i asked for one thing. one.”

your voice finally returned, weak and shaking.

“what… what does this mean, feitan?”

he tilted his head, just slightly.

“you ask that now?”

you stood, folder dropping to the floor, photos spilling like secrets between your feet. you stumbled back a step, two. your hand reached for the table, looking for anything — keys, your phone — something to make this not real.

he stepped into the room.

“you were supposed to trust me.”

“feitan—”

“but now,” he murmured, moving closer, “i can’t trust you.”

you backed into the wall.

he didn’t rush.

just reached out, slow and precise, gloved fingers curling under your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him.

“and that means you can’t leave.”

you flinched, tears slipping down your cheek. he wiped one away with his thumb, calm. deliberate.

“you looked,” he whispered. “so now you belong to me fully.”

he just watches you.

the photos are still at your feet. your hands are shaking. your lungs burn like you’ve been holding your breath for hours.

he takes another step.

you press harder into the wall, like you can melt through it, vanish. disappear from his stare.

“you weren’t supposed to find that,” he says quietly.

his voice isn’t angry. it’s almost… disappointed. but the kind of disappointment that comes before punishment — not yelling. not rage.

correction.

“i told you not to touch my things.”

“you hid pictures of me,” you say, voice thin, fragile.

“people i know—”

“people who got too close,” he cuts in.

another step.

you’re fully cornered now. wall at your back. dresser to one side. him in front. nowhere to go.

“you’re acting like i hurt you,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

his hand lifts — so slow it almost doesn’t feel real — and comes to rest against the wall beside your head. not touching you yet. just closing in.

“but i haven’t. not once.”

your voice cracks.

“you’ve killed people, that waiter, my old schoolmate, my neighbor, you hurt people”

“but not you.”

your throat tightens.

“you followed me—watched me—”

“yes.” his tone is sharp now, biting. “and no one else gets to. do you understand?”

your lips part but nothing comes out.

his other hand lifts. rests on your waist. just his palm. solid. claiming.

“if you had known back then,” he murmurs, “would you have stayed away?”

you say nothing. because the answer is yes. obviously yes. you would’ve ran and never looked back.

his hand slides around your back, pulling you against him — not violently. but with no room left to resist.

“but you didn’t,” he whispers. “you let me in. you chose me.”

you shake your head. “i didn’t know.”

“you didn’t need to know.”

he leans in. breath against your lips now.

“i’ve always known everything for you.”

you gasp. your eyes burn. tears blur your vision, but his gaze never softens.

he presses his forehead to yours.

“you can cry,” he whispers. “you can shake. you can hate me.”

his fingers curl into your shirt.

“but you’re not leaving. not now. not ever.”

you break.

your knees buckle. a sob escapes your throat, and your face collapses into his chest.

his arms wrap around you — tight, unyielding. one hand stroking your hair, the other keeping your body molded to his.

“that’s it,” he breathes. “that’s mine now too. your fear. your voice. your surrender.”

he kissed your temple.

“all of it.”

his hand moved, slow, to the side of your throat — not choking, not hurting. just resting there. measuring your pulse. you tried to move. he stepped closer, pressing his body against yours, caging you between him and the wall.

“what is this, feitan?” you croaked

his eyes flicked down to your mouth as you spoke, but not with lust. it was something darker. hungrier.

“devotion.”

you gasped.

“this isn’t devotion—this is insanity.”

his grip tightened. your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud as he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“do you know how many people looked at you like they wanted what was mine?”

you shook your head, whimpering, but he didn’t stop.

“i waited. i watched. i let you live your life. let you have your little friends. your little smiles.”

“but they didn’t deserve to know you.”

his other hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt — not groping, just resting on your waist. grounding you. owning you.

“i let them breathe near you,” he whispered, “and you think i’m the monster?”

your voice cracked.

“please… let me go.”

he stilled.

for one long second, you thought he might.

then he spoke and it was a death sentence.

“no.”

his lips grazed your temple. then your cheekbone. then lower, kissing away another tear.

your knees gave out, and he caught you before you hit the ground.

“i won’t let you break yourself trying to escape. you already tried that with words.”

“now you’ll learn with silence.”

he lifted you into his arms like you were weightless — no struggle. no resistance left.

you cried into his shoulder, voice gone.

and he carried you to the bed like a priest to an altar.

he doesn’t let go of you.

even as the sobs tear through your chest — even as your fists weakly push against him — he stays, still and solid, arms wrapped around you like armor forged from obsession.

he lowers you to the bed with care.

not forceful. not rushed. ritualistic.

he lays behind you, pulling you against his chest, one arm around your waist, the other tucked beneath your head like a pillow. you’re shaking. tears won’t stop. you don’t know what you’re feeling anymqore — betrayal, fear, heartbreak, or the most dangerous thing of all: comfort.

his lips graze the nape of your neck.

“you’re safest here.”

he kisses your shoulder. soft. almost reverent.

“you were always meant to be mine.”

your heart races, your mind screams, but your body — exhausted, confused — begins to settle in the curve of his hold.

“i’ll never let you go,” he whispers.

he kisses the side of your head. your temple. your jaw.

he doesn’t say “i love you.”

he never has.

but you feel it in the weight of him. in the way he traces your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch. in the way his breath syncs to yours, even as yours hitches.

you cry until the tears run dry.

and eventually…

you sleep.

you wake alone.

the light is dim — filtered through heavy curtains. the silence is strange, almost hollow, and your first instinct is to move, run, leave.

but something holds you still.

a scent — his.

a pressure — the weight of the sheets still warm.

and then, your eyes fall on it:

a note. no. not a note.

a page — torn from one of your books.

your favorite one. the one you told him you loved, months ago. the one you thought he never listened to.

a passage is underlined in red ink.

“she was his sun, his wound, his ruin — and he would love her even if it meant burning the whole world to ash.”

beneath it, scrawled in his sharp, slanted handwriting:

run if you want.

i will find you.

and what you see next will not be this kind.

your blood runs cold.

and next to the note — folded with care — is a gift.

a necklace. yours.

you lost it weeks ago.

but there it is — cleaned, gleaming — and threaded through the bullet casing of a round he clearly fired.

your name is scratched into the metal.

you stare at it, unable to breathe.

he loves you.

and you would never be free because of it.

♡ illumi zoldyck

you were always told you were intimidating.

you were tall, poised, graceful — the kind of beauty that drew second glances in every room. but it wasn’t just your looks. it was how you carried yourself. the sharpness in your voice. the confidence in your walk. years of martial arts had carved strength into your posture, but you left that world behind after college. becoming a hunter didn’t interest you. you wanted peace. control.

so you became a teacher instead.

discipline and elegance were your currency. and most men didn’t know what to do with that.

until you met illumi.

he wasn’t like other men.

you noticed him first at a coffee shop, sitting perfectly still, black eyes watching the rain like he was memorizing its pattern. he wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense — too pale, too intense — but he had something no one else did.

silence.

he didn’t approach you.

you dropped your wallet, and he picked it up.

you said thank you.

he said nothing.

just looked at you — long and hard — and then walked away.

you thought that was the end of it.

it wasn’t.

you saw him again two weeks later. same coffee shop. same table.

this time, he spoke.

“you’re predictable,” he said without greeting.

you raised a brow.

“excuse me?”

“you come here every tuesday and friday. you order the same drink. you open your book to the same chapter you never finish.”

normally, you would’ve been insulted. defensive.

but something about the way he said it — flat, quiet, without judgment — made you pause.

he wasn’t mocking you.

he was observing you.

you found yourself smiling.

“maybe i was waiting for someone to notice.”

his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“i already did.”

it started there.

dates that weren’t really dates — just him watching you eat while you talked, occasionally asking strange questions.

he never complimented you. never touched you. never smiled.

but he always paid.

he always walked you home.

he always answered your texts within ten minutes — no emojis, no punctuation, just short, cold sentences that made you weirdly giddy.

you told yourself you liked it because he was different.

because he was honest. because he didn’t play games.

but truthfully?

you liked how he took control.

he picked the restaurant. he opened your doors. he pressed a hand to your lower back when guiding you through a crowd, and you felt it for hours after.

he was awkward. unnerving. completely unreadable.

but you felt safe.

or at least…

you thought you did.

you hadn’t seen him in a week.

not unusual for illumi — he’d warned you early on that he traveled often for work. what that work was, exactly, he never said. you assumed it had to do with security, surveillance, something secretive.

he never lied. but he never told you much of anything either.

so when he showed up at your door — no call, no warning — you didn’t hesitate.

you opened the door with a smile and kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and finally his mouth. his arms didn’t move. his face didn’t change.

but something was wrong.

you pulled back slowly.

“you’re back,” you whispered. “i missed you.”

his eyes were darker than usual.

emptier.

“we’re leaving,” he said.

you blinked.

“what?”

“you’re coming with me. now.”

“can’t we go in the morning? i haven’t packed, and i made dinner—”

he didn’t move.

he just stared.

a cold weight settled in your stomach.

“illumi?” you tried again, quieter.

“we’re going to meet my parents.”

you laughed — soft, nervous.

“okay, so tomorrow we can—”

“no.”

just one word.

his tone didn’t change. but his energy did.

something cold, final, pressing in from all sides.

“we leave in ten minutes. bring only what you need.”

you tried to argue.

you asked him why.

you asked what was going on.

you told him you didn’t understand.

and he looked at you like you were speaking nonsense.

“i made a decision,” he said.

“a decision about me?” you snapped.

“yes. you’re mine.”

you froze.

he stepped closer — not threatening, not loud. but deliberate.

“you’ve always said you liked how i lead. now follow.”

you packed. your hands lightly shaking.

you didn’t know if you were more afraid of what would happen if you refused — or what would happen if you agreed, but you couldn’t recognize illumi at the moment.

you didn’t think anything could be stranger than the way illumi lived.

and then you met his family.

killua was polite enough. the grandfather said almost nothing. the butler gave you chills. and silva — massive, godlike, inhuman — sized you up with a stare that felt like he was seeing through you.

but oddly… they approved.

“she’s lovely,” his mother said. “beautiful hands. strong frame.”

“will she fight?” his brother asked. “i want to see what she can do.”

you were too stunned to speak.

but illumi placed a hand on your back and simply hummed.

“she’s worthy.”

and the matter was settled.

you were theirs now.

your presence at the table during dinner wasn’t questioned. your hand was studied by his mother like it held prophecy. one of the younger brothers asked if you’d ever killed anyone. you laughed — no, of course not — and the room just stared.

his father nodded.

“she has the spine,” his grandfather said.

when the table cleared, and the family dispersed into the massive, cold estate, his mother brushed a hand over your shoulder and said:

“i can see it now, you’ll make a fine daughter-in-law.”

you didn’t respond.

you couldn’t, bowing out of respect and then following illumi.

the room was cold. elegant. dark wood and velvet sheets. more of a shrine than a place of rest.

“what the hell is this?” you snapped, as soon as the bedroom door shut.

he didn’t answer.

“why did we come here? why didn’t you tell me about any of this? and why are they acting like we’re engaged? you never even—”

“they were going to choose someone else,” he interrupted.

you stared.

“so i chose first.”

you laughed — sharp, disbelieving. a fucking arranged marriage.

“you think that’s how this works? you chose me? we haven't discussed this as a couple, what about what i want?” he stepped forward.

“you want me.”

you stepped back.

“and what if i said no?” your voice cracked.

his head tilted slightly. he was still standing near the center of the room, fingers loose at his sides. his gaze didn’t shift.

“you won’t.”

“you’re saying you're not giving me a choice, illumi.”

“i don’t believe in choices when outcomes are obvious.”

“you think that is love, illumi? sneaking around behind my back? forcing me here? treating me like some—”

his hand caught your wrist before you could finish.

you gasped.

not at the pain — there wasn’t any — but at how fast he’d moved. how close he was now. how he was suddenly, undeniably stronger than you’d let yourself realize.

“i let you believe you had space,” he said. “so you’d feel safe.”

his hand slid to your jaw, forcing your chin up.

his touch was cold. soft. absolute.

“but you don’t.”

your breath hitched.

“not anymore.”

his lips brushed yours — not a kiss. not yet.

“you can run, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“but you’ll only get tired.”

and then he kissed you.

it wasn’t gentle.

his hands knew exactly where to press — not painful, but deliberate. claiming.

he guided you back onto the bed like he’d already planned it. like he’d rehearsed it.

and when he leaned over you, he whispered:

“i won’t hurt you.”

his breath ghosted over your throat.

“but i will ruin you for anyone else.”

“illumi—wait—please, just talk to me,” you said in a hushed tone.

your voice trembles as he walks you backward toward the bed, step by deliberate step. the room is quiet, the lights low — but there’s no softness here.

his hand never leaves your wrist.

“you don’t want to do this like this. not when i’m scared. just listen to me for a second—”

“it is natural to be scared right before surrender,” he says flatly.

you pull back — he doesn’t stop you. he just waits, head tilted.

“this isn’t surrender,” you argue. “this is—this is force, illumi. this is control. i thought we were building something real.”

he steps toward you again.

you step back.

your knees hit the bedframe.

“it is real,” he says. “this is the only kind of love that’s ever been real.”

you shake your head, eyes wide.

“i don’t want this.”

“you do.”

“you’re wrong—”

his hand moves to your waist, holding you steady.

“you’ve wanted it since the first time i touched you.”

your breath catches.

he’s watching you like a hunter watches a caught animal — not with glee. not with cruelty. with certainty.

“you think you have choices. you think your words matter. they don’t anymore.”

“you’re mine.”

“and what is mine doesn’t get to leave.”

you try again — softer this time.

“please… please, illumi”

his hand slides up your back, pulling you flush against him.

“you’re pleading like i haven’t already won.”

you freeze.

he leans in, brushing your ear with his lips.

“you don’t need to pretend you’re free anymore. it doesn’t suit you.”

his hand presses lightly at the base of your neck — not choking, just grounding you.

“you’re beautiful when you give in.”

and then he kisses you.

and your knees buckle, as he let’s go of you, to allow you to fall onto the bed.

you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands instinctively are folded neatly in your lap. not because you’re calm — but because if you don’t fold them, you’ll claw at your own skin.

illumi moved across the room, silent, removing his coat with eerie grace. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

because he already knows.

and worse — he doesn’t care.

“you’re trembling,” he says finally.

you don’t respond.

“there’s no need for that.”

you let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“is that supposed to comfort me?”

he walks toward you, slow and deliberate.

you flinch — just barely.

but he sees it.

he kneels in front of you.

his fingers rest lightly on your knee — a feather-light touch that feels heavier than iron.

“i chose you.”

his voice is calm. too calm.

“you should be proud.”

you look at him. really look at him.

his face is as expressionless as ever. his eyes black and bottomless. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t breathe like a normal person.

and yet—

you remember when he used to bring you tea before bed. when he used to sit across from you at cafés and watch you talk, wordless but present.

was any of that real?

“you didn’t ask me,” you whisper. “you never asked me.”

his hand slides up your thigh, firm now.

“you didn’t need to be asked.”

“you needed to be claimed.”

you open your mouth to argue — but what’s the point?

your world has already shrunk.

your choices, your job, your old apartment — all gone. absorbed into the suffocating silence of the zoldyck estate.

and now him.

his hands.

his will.

“i don’t want this,” you say, voice cracking.

his lips brush your cheek. not with passion. with finality.

“you don’t need to want it, you just need to accept it.”

your chest tightens.

you close your eyes.

and for a moment — just one — you imagine slipping away in the night. climbing the wall. running until your lungs burn.

but you know better.

he would find you.

he already knows every exit. every trick. every weakness.

so you nod.

just once.

and his hands slide around your waist, pulling you into his lap — like you’re something he’s earned. something that was always his.

outside the bedroom, in the long stone hallways of the estate, a shadow stands quietly.

kikyo zoldyck leans against the wall, one ear tilted toward the door. her hands are clasped under her chin in a gesture of glee.

“such a good boy, illumi,” she whispers.

“and such a perfect little bride.”

♡ hisoka morrow

you should have left the first time.

the first time he made your heart race in fear and lust at the same time. the first time he whispered something that made your knees shake and your soul want to disappear.

but you didn’t.

instead…you let him press you down into the sheets. again. and again.

you weren’t his lover. not really. not in a traditional way.

you were his obsession, his distraction, his favorite trick — the one he could play with all night and still crave more.

he knew your body like it was a game board.

every scar, every tremble, every gasp.

you’d sworn him off more times than you could count — but still, every few weeks, you’d find yourself tangled in silk sheets and breathless laughter, choking on his name.

“i’ll ruin you,” he warned once, breath hot against your throat.

“but you’ll love it.”

you didn’t believe him. not really. not until the day you found the truth.

you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. he was in another room, talking to someone. casual, amused, excited even.

“yes, i almost took her head off the first time she tried to leave,” he chuckled.

“but it wouldn’t be fun if she didn’t fight.”

he paused.

“besides… i already marked her. it’s just a matter of when.”

you stopped breathing. you left everything behind.

your bag. your coat. the letter you wrote to explain why.

and you ran.

you’ve been running ever since.

until now.

three cities later. new identity. new job.

and still, some nights, you wake in a sweat — your skin aching like it remembers his fingers.

you still dream of him. of the way his eyes lit up right before he kissed you like a dare. of how good he made you feel — when he wanted to.

but how could you love someone like that? how could you still ache for him?

tonight is quiet.

too quiet.

you lock your door.

check your window.

but you know before the lights flicker.

before the room chills.

before you turn and find him standing there — calm. smiling. drenched in silk and madness.

“you ran,” he says, as if it was part of the game.

you don’t scream.

you just whisper, “how?”

“darling,” he hums, stepping closer, “you should know better.”

“you don’t run from me, you circle back.”

you try to say something — anything. but your throat’s dry. your pulse pounds. his hand lifts. not to strike. to touch your cheek.

“i missed this face,” he says sweetly.

“missed the way you melt just before you beg.”

“hisoka—”

“shhh.” he leans in.

“i’ll be gentle.”

he kisses you once — slow. sinful. certain.

and you hate that your body remembers. you hate that your knees still go weak.

“you can run again,” he says against your lips.

“but i’ll just follow, so be a good girl…”

“and stop pretending you don’t love how this ends.”

“i think me disappearing meant should stop seeing each other,” the words leave your mouth slowly. cautiously. like you’re afraid they might be your last.

you stand across from him — tense, trembling, your back barely grazing the door.

he stands perfectly still, arms at his sides, lips curled into that goddamn smile.

“mm,” he hums, tilting his head.

“you think that’s how this ends?”

you swallow.

his presence fills the room like smoke — intoxicating, stifling.

“i can’t keep doing this with you, hisoka,” you whisper. “i’m not some card in your deck. i’m not—”

“not what?” he interrupts softly.

“not a player?”

he steps forward.

your breath catches.

“but darling,” he grins, “you entered the game the moment you moaned my name.”

you look away — heat floods your face, shame burning at your edges.

“it’s not a game to me,” you say, voice cracking. “it’s my life. and you— you’re dangerous.”

“mmm,” he purrs.

“so are you.”

he’s closer now — close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him.

his fingers ghost over your wrist.

“you’re fun when you’re afraid. but you’re delicious when you’re brave.”

you jerk away, glaring up at him.

“you can’t just… keep coming back. like you own me. like i don’t get a say.”

he blinks slowly. and then — he laughs. not loud. not manic. just amused.

like you’d just made a joke he’s been waiting his whole life to hear.

“oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, stepping around you, voice coiling like smoke.

“you don’t get a say. not yet.”

he’s behind you now — hands resting on your shoulders.

“we haven’t even had our grand finale.”

his mouth is near your ear. his breath is warm.

“you haven’t bled for me. screamed for me. begged me to stop… and meant it.”

“you haven’t even tried to kill me yet.”

you flinch — and he feels it.

his fingers trail down your arms, wrapping around your waist.

“i want to see you unhinged,” he whispers.

“want to see what you look like when you snap.”

“because that’s when people are real.”

he presses a kiss to the back of your neck — soft. slow. possessive. your knees weaken.

“you’re insane,” you murmur, voice shaking.

“mmm. but you like it.”

he turns you around, gently but firmly — like he’s handling something precious.

his hands frame your face.

“you think this is obsession,” he says, dark eyes gleaming.

“but it’s worse than that.”

his mouth meets yours before you can respond.

it’s not a kiss — it’s claiming.

his lips press hard against yours, hands sliding down your back, pulling you into him like gravity itself demands it.

your fingers curl into his shirt — not because you want to, but because letting go would mean falling.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your skin.

“go on. try.”

you open your mouth — but nothing comes out.

he grins.

“you’re mine, ma amour.”

“and i’m not done playing.”

you strike first.

not because you think it’ll stop him — but because you have to try.

your arm swings clean, aimed for his jaw — but he’s faster.

he catches your wrist midair. doesn’t even flinch.

his fingers tighten — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you how much stronger he is.

“ooh,” he grins. “so feisty.”

“do it again.”

you wrench your arm back, pivot, twisting into a kick — but he dodges like it’s a waltz.

“that’s my girl,” he purrs, circling you.

“show me what i’ve been missing.”

“you’re disgusting,” you hiss, breathless.

“and you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

your shoulder slams against the wall as he finally closes the distance — chest to chest, grin to glare.

“still running?” he asks.

“or are we done pretending you don’t like it when i catch you?”

hisoka’s palm slides to the back of your neck — holding you in place, firm and sure.

not choking. not hurting.

just reminding.

“you don’t own me,” you snap.

“don’t i?” he tilts his head, eyes flicking to your lips.

“funny. you taste like mine.”

you try to shove him away — he doesn’t budge.

you spit a curse — he laughs, low and delighted.

“mm, there’s that bite.”

“i was afraid time would tame you.”

he presses in.

you’re pinned.

your breath stutters.

hisoka’s hand ghosts your side, slow, deliberate — like he’s checking for where your resistance lives.

“you’re trembling,” he says.

“you should be.”

your fingers tighten at your sides.

you should scream.

should fight harder.

but your heart’s hammering in that old rhythm again — the one you swore you’d never feel for him again.

desire.

dread.

inevitable surrender.

he leans close — breath hot against your ear.

“just say the word…and i’ll ruin you like the old days.”

“messy. drawn out. unforgettable.”

his lips brush your jaw.

you don’t speak.

because you’ve already lost. because maybe you wanted to.

and when hisoka finally pulls you down onto the bed — all silk and laughter and smoke — the only sound in the room is your shallow breathing…

…and the unmistakable snap of a playing card against skin.

you wake in silence.

the kind that sits heavy in the chest — thick, muffled, wrong.

the sheets are tangled. the air still smells like him. but he’s gone.

your body aches — not from pain, not quite. just the reminder of closeness. of his hands. of how he doesn’t need to be rough to ruin you.

you sit up slowly.

the room is dark, save for a dim light bleeding through the window. and on the pillow beside you — a card.

the queen of hearts.

your name is carved across it in red ink.

or maybe blood.

beneath it, a single sentence:

“until you finally draw.”

you stare at it.

your fingers trace the edge.

and something inside you — something you’ve buried for months — finally slips loose.

you miss him.

not just the thrill. not just the chase. him.

his grin.

his silence.

the way he touches you like he’s tasting a fight beneath your skin.

you hated him. you still hate him.

but your heart clenches at the idea of him being gone.

and you realize, too late, that this was never about escaping.

you didn’t run because you wanted freedom.

you ran so he’d follow.

so he’d prove it wasn’t just lust. wasn’t just a game.

and he did.

he always does.

you press the card to your chest.

your voice cracks when you whisper,

“i’m just as messed up as you are.”

the shadows don’t answer.

but somewhere — somewhere close — you know he’s smiling.

[notnights]

I'd been doing some design exercises with the ADC characters as humans a few weeks back. I have sketches of the others but nothing finalized as these ones.

My prompt was "try to keep to the silhouettes, and give them actual circus-jobs."

Gangle got a little revamp along the way. And the ribbon braids are something I've wanted for a humanization for her for a long while since uhh ribbons, and are something I grew up with. She is the main acrobat of the group. Several of the other members can preform with her (namely Zooble, Pomni and Kaufmo) but she's the main acrobatics.

Ragatha was probably the easiest to turn human for obvious reasons. She usually shows off her "oddity" but she's the main caretaker of the group. Ticket taker, managing money, doing a lot of the small niche things Caine forgets are important stuff. She's technically second in command because of that.

Jax is the animal handler. Trains and takes care of them. Brings them out to preform with etc. He himself doesn't have much of a role in the showmanship though he can preform certain stuff if need be, doing gags with Pomni or Kaufmo, assisting with Kinger and Gangle's performances if needing too though he'd like to avoid it if he can and he's usually not the first pick either.

[mothrabu-bu]

◇Metal Sonic design (and the original comic "Born to Fail" from which this is based upon) by @fernsnailz

♡Firstly, thank you fernsailz both for making the comic that inspired me to make my first, full fledged comic after several years of failing to do so, and also allowing me to do what I realize is the MOST self-indulgent and giddy i've ever been.

-----

♧Secondly, I am nervous, to write this. My knowledge of sonic is not vast. My understanding of characters may slip, despite all the research i put into them. My writing & character voice is subpar, but for once I have managed to create something out of love for this franchise and i think I needed this as well.

So even though I'm scared, frightened by the possibilies, every racing future in my mind that says "things will go wrong" "they will hate you" "you will be a failure" i find kinship in this character. Perhaps i too will learn to live. Perhaps i too will learn to love being alive.

So hopefully, this comic isn't too "out of character" or so blastfully horrificly beyond redemption as my anxious ridden brain percieves it be. I know, in my heart its not. But writing this out feels better than keeping the thoughts within me.

----

♤Thirdly, I know Chaos 0 isn't exactly a world-renowed beloved character that everyone does indepth analysis or theory crafting on. Thus, this ship may feel strange, or completely out of left feild to some.

In response, I have created an [ additional blog post ] outlining what I believe Chaos 0's character.

Of course, everyones interpretation of a character (what they represent, themes, and how they are handled) is largely a subjective process. So never take my iteration of him as gospel, and i encourage you (who are curious) to seek out information on him and determine for yourself who Chaos 0 is to you.

(That goes for Metal Sonic as well, but i'm focusing on Chaos because if not, who else will?)

---

☆Lastly, if anyone has tips or critque for me regarding making more belivable character dialouge, i'd be happy to hear. (Also theres a lot of artistic rendering inconsitencies- which is mostly because this took me a few months to make..😓✌️)

------

Bonus Short sketch comic under the cut:

[This is supposed to be a quick exploration on how exacly they mightve met in this particular continuity. It was made after the comic above was finalized, but i didnt want to leave the readers questioning as to what was going on.]

[Also some swearing because i am a chronic swearing sailor, and its funny.]

[acewithapaintbrush]

Saw @artsymeeshee hospital sketches of the sea grunks and thought to myself, is this finally my time to write some brotherly angst for these two? The answer is yes. Short but sweet, please enjoy.

******************************

The first thing Stan becomes aware of is the noise.

A constant beeping right next to his ear. Loud and high-pitched and repetitive and unfortunately very familiar to an old grifter with bad luck like him. He would be a lot more annoyed with this sound if his last clear memory wasn't of roaring waters rushing past his ears, stealing his hearing and leaving nothing but white noise behind.

He'd rather take the beeping.

Next comes taste, which, ugh! He could have gone without that! The feel of scratchy sheets is not much better but it tells him that he is in one of the better hospitals. Believe it or not, the better the hospital, the scratchier the sheets. Ford should cool it with the mystical beasts and research what's up with that!

Speaking of Ford.

Stan keeps his breathing even as he slowly opens his eyes. The light has been dimmed in anticipation and he blinks a couple times at a ceiling that is painted a nondescript beige color. He looks at it for a moment and for some strange reason he suddenly feels a fierce urge to video call Mabel.

But first things first.

Stan slowly turns his head to the side which actually hurts. Don't they have him on the good stuff?

Just as he expected, there is his brother. Ford has squeezed himself into the same bed as Stan, facing his brother's prone form. Stan can't help but smile. His brother must have bullied the nurses into letting him stay. The bed is way too small for two grown men but somehow the genius has managed to practically fold himself into a compact ball, leaving enough room for all those fancy machines connected to the patient. One of his hands lightly rests against Stan's chest which he hasn't even noticed until now.

Ford's eyes are closed but he is mumbling under his breath, reciting one of his journal entries from memory.

Stan winces. His brother must be really rattled by this little mishap.

‘Great job giving the guy another thing to worry about, Stanley!’

“I think climbing into the hospital bed with the patient is against the rules, Sixer? You are not supposed to do that.”

He was going for levity and humor but his hoarse voice kinda ruins that.

Ford's eyes don't snap open. He doesn't gasp or jerk upright or anything like that. Instead he takes a shuddering breath and deliberately opens his eyes. They find Stanley immediately and there is not a hint of surprise in them. Stan wonders how long Ford has known that he's awake.

“Same to you,” Ford says and his voice is so flat it causes a shiver to run down Stan's spine.

“Hey, s’not like I planned for this to happen.”

“I would be very cross with you if you had planned falling overboard, Stanley.”

Ford's emotions still feel weirdly flat. He isn't even lecturing and scolding Stan for his reckless behavior, just presses his six-fingered hand against his chest and stares at him with those blank eyes.

“I'm alright.” Stan shifts so he can face his brother and, damn, those ribs are definitely cracked. He briefly wonders if that happened in the fall or whether someone had to do CPR on him and quickly decides that maybe he doesn't want to know. Close call. Much too close. “I'm alright, Ford,” he repeats as if that makes it true.

For the first time an emotion flickers through Ford's face. He narrows his eyes and for a moment Stan thinks he's angry but then a single tear runs down an unshaven cheek, immediately seeping into the pillow.

“I thought I lost you for good,” Ford whispers, voice tortured. “I couldn't find you. For the longest time. I looked and I looked and you were just… gone. I couldn't find you!”

‘Same to you,’ Stan echoes with a bit of a bitter edge, mind replaying thirty years of hunching down in a dusty basement in a matter of seconds.

But this is not about him and Stan is, no matter what some might want to tell you, not an insensitive asshole.

“You did find me,” he says. He doesn't actually know if that's true. The time after he fell into the ocean during that storm is still a bit of a mystery to him. All he remembers is the noise of the water and how cold he felt and a voice screaming his name, over and over, growing fainter with each wave crashing over his head.

But Ford needs some reassurance right now. And the best way to reassure Ford that Stan is alright is by proving his alrightness with a good, old Pines hug.

He lightly pulls at the hand on his chest and with a cut off gasp Ford immediately obliges, scooting closer until they are entwined with one another just like they were as kids when the nightmares became too much to remain separated by a bunk bed.

“You found me.” Stan repeats and ignores the tears soaking into his hospital gown.

‘That's what we do,’ he thinks with a content smile, eyes falling shut with exhaustion. ‘We always find each other again.’

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.