#I love his little bit about drugging the guard

[stoner-butch-blues]

the nausea before the game or the r___ of miss goldberg PLEASE

I really fell behind on these!! I already did The Nausea Before the Game here, so here's The Rape of Miss Goldberg from the same recording. Both tracks have lyrics that aren't in the cast album :)

[rafescvntyclubgf]

⭐ Republished ⭐

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝟑

𝟿.𝟼𝙺 𝚃𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝

3.8k

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚟𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚝!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

📖 Rafe is your boyfriend… You just don’t know it yet.

⚠️ warnings contain spoliers ⚠️

swearing, Stalking, pet names, degradation, namecalling, public masturbation, dark!rafe, mean!rafe, perv!rafe, mentions of cum play, mentions of unprotected P in V, ownership kink, mentions of rough oral, violence, threats, blackmail, fighting, blood, gore, mentions of sextortion, Rafe sneaks into the reader’s room, panty stealing, panty sniffing, takes pictures of the reader’s private images, cum tasting, oral male receiving, oral female receiving, twist dark reader, mutual obsession, rough oral, gagging, kissing, reader doesn’t ask rafe if he wants to go further than oral but he does and she starts anyway, messy sex, squirting, praise, drinking, smoking, mentions of drug use

✨ “Just do it, baby girl,” I moan, watching as she pinches her top button. I grab mine as well, tugging it open with her. I hiss at the sensation of my rock-hard cock in my hand, feeling some relief. This is the first time I’ve touched myself all day. I was edging myself as I studied her Instagram and TikTok page, saving my favorites to my phone. When I saw her in the parking lot, I swear I could have cum untouched. ✨

Rafe’s POV:

“So, class. What does its structure contribute to the poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night?” The professor drones on, sliding her reading glasses down her nose as she looks out onto the lecture hall. I shrink in my seat slightly, along with the other boys, doing my best to avoid her gaze.

Required reading, my ass. Did she honestly expect us to read this shit on a Thursday night? Barely drug my ass outta bed for class. Thank fuckin’ god. I relax in my seat as one of the front-row nerds saves the basic population who doesn’t give a fuck.

“Repetition. The poet used it to stress his key theme for his readers.”

I nod, scribbling a little line of nothingness on my paper, keeping up with the facade. That shit went in one ear and out the next. “Hey, Cameron.” My frat brother elbows me on the side. “You good for the kegs?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. What else can daddy get you?” I sneer as I roll my eyes at Billy, who laughs and scoffs. “I get paid back first, plus 10%. Get me a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle; I ain’t drinkin’ Coors, and I ain’t pickin’ that shit up either.”

“Thanks, daddy,” he responds in a breathy voice, snatching the wad of cash off my hands. “We need ten kegs between the Deltas and Phi Mu… You good for that-”

“Fuck you, ‘Am I good for that’?” I cut him short through a breathy laugh. “You’re holdin’ the cash in your hands, bitch. Stop askin’. Add an extra 5% for questionin’ me-”

“Rafe.” My stomach sinks as my professor’s eyes zero in on mine. “Am I interrupting something?” The old bird cocks an eyebrow, her annoyance visible, matching my own.

“No,” I answer simply, crossing my arms across my chest and relaxing at my desk.

“Splendid. I assume you know the answer then. Correct?” She challenges me, trying to catch me off guard. A smirk pulls on her lips as she does just that. Cunt.

“I agree.”

“The key insight about death in the poem is, ‘I agree’?” She belittles. I stare at her blankly, blinking a few times to let her know she’s wasting her time. She’s not gettin’ shit out of me. I’ve got an A in this class, bitch. What’re you gonna do about it?

She chuckles weakly, shaking her head at my resistance. “Am I wrong, ma’am? I have a bit of conversational anxiety… If you’d like to repeat the question, I’d love to try again,” I ask through a shit-eating smirk, letting my sarcasm drip all the way through, irritating her even more.

“Anyone else?” She invites in a shrill voice as she dismisses me, looking around the room to find another. Some of my frat brothers snicker in the back, making the professor’s features even more rigid. “Miss. Y/n?” Her demeanor changes instantly, shaking off my defiance, moving on to another one of her perfect pets.

Who’s that?

Holy shit. I swallow hard, feeling my mouth dry up as I see her. She twiddles her fluffy pink pen, acknowledging the teacher with a smile. Y/n? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. How have I never seen her before? I watch as a football player shuffles down the row of the lecture hall. My question, answered in a moment as his broad shoulders cut off my line of sight. No. I stretch back, cranking my neck to get her in my sights again.

“The key insight’s that death should be fought against, even though it is inevitable.” Her beautiful voice fills the lecture hall like a song. The teacher smiles at her again, praising y/n for her correct answer. Y/n grins and nods, averting her eyes as she catches the room’s focus. Her cheeks blush the prettiest shade of pink, matching her glossy lips.

Those lips… I lick my own, thinking about the way they would look wrapped around my cock, drool running down her chin as she deepthroats my dick. I’d grip that little ponytail like a handlebar, using her mouth like a toy. I chuckle at myself, still surprised that my mind went there almost instantly, but I know myself too well. I am who I am.

Y/n looks so goddamn innocent… Not for long. She’s a slut for praise. I can tell. I can work with that.

My eyes work lower, following the curve of her cleavage in her low-cut shirt. Fuck, I can’t wait to get her on top; watch ‘em bounce in my face. I’m gonna cum all over her perfect rack. Tiddie fuck her while she cries for daddy’s dick. Smear that shit- “Earth to Rafe?” I grit my teeth as I’m torn from my fantasy. “Buddy, you good?” Billy chuckles, his voice taunting as he follows my focus to her. “Mmm… Y/n,” he sighs blissfully. “So fuckin’ hot, bro. She’s a Phi Mu girl.”

“No shit?”

“Mhmm… Transferred from LSU. Smart, funny, sexy… But she’s mine, buddy. Aight? Been layin’ down groundwork all semester.” He elbows me playfully, chuckling to himself, actually believing his own words.

“All semester, and you haven’t made a move?” I spit, eyes rolling in his direction. This whole conversation is laughable. Has he been sitting on this all semester? Really? She was mine the second I looked at her, buddy. You’re done.

“Long game,” he defends himself.

“Long game?” I scoff. “Doesn’t sound like you got any game at all...”

“Hey. Fuck off… I know she wants me. Her bedroom faces mine and she doesn’t even close the curtains when she changes anymore; she texts me all the time. See?” He gloats as he thumbs through his phone. I don’t even bother myself with the semantics. Why the fuck does that shit matter? What’s he gettin’ at? “I’m gonna help ‘em after class. They have some car wash fundraiser downtown.”

Is that so? “I like the sound of that,” I smile, feeling my cock growing stiff in my jeans at the thought of seeing her in next to nothing, wet and soapy no less.

“You can’t just take her from me, Rafe,” Billy mutters in annoyance. A laugh rumbles in my chest as I take in his empty words. “I’m not fuckin’ around. She’s mine.”

My head turns slowly in his direction as he bends in mine. I mean, the guy’s big, but I’m bigger. He can fight, but he’s not willing to see that shit through. Billy’s got that moral compass that urges him to stop where I couldn’t care less. And he knows it.

He balls his hands up in fists at his desk, jaw tightening as he does his best to intimidate me one last time. My boy’s a bitch.

“Mine.”

I study her movements as she glides through the halls. Her hair bounces with each step brushing along her backpack, half-hiding her perfect ass. Her bum shakes a little as she walks, just a tease for me. Y/n slight skirt grazes just a few inches below her ass, leaving her bare legs on display.

I wonder what they’d look like over my shoulder… Spread wide on my bed as I devoured her perfect pussy. Damn. I bet she makes some pretty sounds. I can’t wait to hear that, to see her face, as she squirts all over my mouth and cock.

Where are you going, pretty girl?

She hooks a left, heading toward the coffee shop. I continue to follow my girl, watching as she strolls inside. Y/n walks toward the line, stalling next to the case of pastries, eyeing the bottom. Do it for daddy, baby. C’mon. There you go… She drops down, surveying the options. That goddamn ass… Does she know I’m watching? She’s gotta know. The paisley material tugs higher on her thighs, a peek of her round ass poking out the bottom.

She stands up again, taking another step, moving with the traffic flow. Y/n reaches into her purse, pulling out her phone. She smiles as she looks at the screen. Billy Hargrove ���. I feel my heart pick up pace, my breathing quickening; rage boils inside me.

I gave him an order. This shit’s not up to him. I roll the tension out of my neck, fingers twisting into fists of my own. Where’s the fucking loyalty? She bites her bottom lip and smiles at the message, making me physically ill.

I’ve got distracted by her… Say somethin’ to make her forget about that.

“Uh, hey,” I rasp. Y/n continues to type up a little message. “Y/n?” I reach out, resting my hand on her arm.

“Oh, hi… Umm, Rafe?” She says my name, making everything stand still. I look down at the beautiful eyes and soft, pouty lips, the corners of which curl into a sweet smile.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, trying to level my tone. “We’re in class together.”

“Yeah… She’s kind of a bitch. Right?” Y/n asks weakly as her eyes soften on mine, showing me pity like my feelings might have been hurt by that little exchange between the professor and me.

“Yeah, she sucks,” I laugh lightly, tossing my head down in fake shame. “The boys and I got a little rowdy last night. I didn’t read that shit. Did you? I mean, obviously-”

“On my way to class,” she giggles as she looks around playfully for our professor.

My mouth falls into an open smile. “Naughty girl. Coast is clear, by the way,” I rasp through a little laugh.

“Good,” Y/n sighs as she tucks some hair behind her ear.

“You’re really smart.” I praise, watching her cheeks blushing again, this time closer than before, making my heart bang in my chest.

“Thank you. Oh, umm, you’re a Delta. Right?” She asks, solidifying her answer as she eyes the embroidery on my polo.

“I am. And you’re Phi Mu?” Y/n grins as she nods in reply. “I’m headed over to your car wash after this.”

“Awesome. Yeah, Lyndsey was worried that the University might question where the money came from if we made anything off selling beer tonight.”

“A cover-up?” I smile down at her as I stuff my hands in my jeans.

“Mhmm,” she breathes. “The party’s gonna be huge. Do you think we’ll get busted?”

I chuckle at the sweet nativity of her question. “‘Course we will. Over 500 students in one place… But it’s a block party. Right? So they won’t be able to pinpoint anybody. Not usin’ the frat’s money directly. Cash. The boys are gonna pay me back as they sell cups. Untraceable.”

“Aww. That’s so nice of you,” she smiles. Her demeanor hasn’t faltered since we’ve spoken. She doesn’t seem to care about the material shit; my Breitling watch, the gold rings on my fingers. Her face didn’t light up when I dropped the fact that I would buy beer for the masses. She just said it was nice… Fuck, she’s perfect.

“I try… But, if we get busted, I’ll blame it on some beautiful Phi girl I know.”

She gasps playfully, smacking me in the chest. “You wouldn’t!” Everything tenses in my body as I fight back my arousal, covering the growing excitement in my slacks with my notebook.

Y/n looks over my shoulder, catching the girl’s eyes behind me as she tells us to move forward. “Sorry,” Y/n sighs apologetically, clearing the open space between us and the register. Y/n steps up to the counter, ordering a latte and a muffin before reaching into her purse.

“Oh, shit. No. Sorry! Let me,” I breathe as I hurry to her side. “I’ll pay for whatever she’s havin’ and a coffee for me: one cream, one sugar. Thank you.”

“Wow. Thank you, Rafe. You didn’t need to do that,” she coos.

“No problem, y/n.”

Gifts… That’s what my girl likes.

Well, shit. She’s gonna need a grand gesture. I can sneak into her room tonight. Check the essentials: dress size, music taste; the little things she enjoys.

I’ll take a look at her nightstand. How could I not? Gotta know what she uses to please herself so I know what I’m working with and what it takes to get her there. I want to know her better than she knows herself.

I follow along, trying to keep my eyes on her face, but I can’t help but roam her body. I’ve never seen anything like it, never seen anything so perfect for me. I never wanted anything so bad.

The barista walks over, setting down my coffee. I suck my teeth, regretting my choice, knowing if I got the same shit as her, I could have stayed. But I shouldn’t. “I’ll come by. Yeah? Don’t kill me… I gotta big ass truck, and she’s dirty as shit.”

“No worries,” she smiles sweetly. “I’ll see you there, Rafe. Oh, and thanks for the coffee again.” She reaches out, resting her hand on my arm.

“Of course, sweetheart.” I test a pet name, watching her smile widen. Just gorgeous.

I step away, walking towards the door. Looking over my shoulder as Y/n pulls out her phone, that same smile for Billy setting on her perfect lips.

He’s fucking dead.

I pull up toward the parking lot, falling into the line of cars; a caravan of dicks with their windows already rolled down. Fuckin’ dogs. I lean out as well, surveying the scene looking for her. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I watch the gaggle of girls prancing around in their bikinis, excitement building as I frantically look for her.

My heart skips as I see her sporting the most clothes, donning yet the sluttiest outfit of them all. She’s an absolute fuckin’ tease in her cut-off jean shorts and white t-shirt, soaked with water. The material clings to her curves, teasing me with her little triangle top, gathered slightly, barely covering her tits.

She leans over and reaches into the bucket, pulling out a sponge before ringing out the soap. A guy rolls down the window of his Mercedes, bending his neck to watch as she washes the side. I can already tell where this is goin’. He smirks, watching her ass as she leans down, cleaning the rear fender. “Aww, sweetheart,” he soughs, “Uhh…You missed a spot.” Y/n smiles sweetly, lowering to where she was before, making me huff out an aggravated breath.

Her friend walks over with a hose, spraying down the suds that y/n left behind. Tori Clarence, a late-night Delta regular. She says something that makes Y/n laugh. Y/n claps back, teasing her sister through a wicked smile. Tori lifts the gun, spraying y/n with a stream of water, hitting her directly on her tits.

Y/n gasps as her shirt turns from milky white to practically see-through, the chilly water running down her perfect body, making her nipple hard. She panics to get warm, reaching for the bottom of her shirt. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. She pulls it over her body: soft skin, perfect boobs, and wet hair. Little lines of water cascade down her bare skin, rounding her curves catching on the denim of her shorts. Her eyes fall down her body, eyeing her damp state.

“Just do it, baby girl,” I moan, watching as she pinches her top button. I grab mine as well, tugging it open with her. I hiss at the sensation of my rock-hard cock in my hand, feeling some relief. This is the first time I’ve touched myself all day. I was edging myself as I studied her Instagram and TikTok page, saving my favorites to my phone. When I saw her in the parking lot, I swear I could have cum untouched.

I start to fist my cock as she leans over the trunk, her body perfectly positioned like I’m taking her from the back. Goddamn. I’d snake my rough hand up her soft skin, following the curve of her arched spine, drifting into her hair. I’d pull it back, feeling her pussy clench around my big dick. I’d spank her, cracking her tight little ass with the palm of my hand, leaving her red and bruised. Just one of the many ways I’d mark my girl. “Fuck, Y/n,” I moan her name as heat radiates through my body.

She walks along the side of the next car, letting me see her little triangle top: light blue, thin material, the blush of nipples visible. I roll my hand over my tip, whimpering at the sensation, imagining myself hitting the back of her throat as tears pool in her pretty, innocent eyes. Y/n looking up at daddy, mascara running down her cheeks as she throats me like the slut I know she can be. I’d hold her head in my hands, using her mouth to stroke my cock. My perfect little toy…

Fuck. I got a Fleshlight with her name on it. I’m gonna use those pictures when I get home… Gotta get myself ready for tonight. She has no clue what she’s in for. What I wouldn’t give to have my cock in her hand instead of my own. I’d make her jerk me off as she pleaded for my dick deep in that pretty tight cunt. I bet she’s so goddam wet. So, so fuckin’ tight.

“I know, baby. Daddy’s gonna give you his dick. Don’t worry,” I mumble, feeling my breathing start to increase with my pleasure. I thrust into my hand, fucking up into my fist as I watch her undo the loosened side strings of her bikini, tightening it again.

I eye the sign, catching the time. 11-4 PM. Yes… They’ll be here all afternoon. Just need to make a pit stop. Grab a pair of panties. Whatever I can get. I need to taste her. Stuff ‘em in my mouth as I study my prize. My hips stutter as I feel myself about to bust, imagining just how sweet she’ll taste. I work myself quicker, taking hold of my steering wheel as I rut into my hand.

‘Rafe. Rafe. Rafe.’ I can hear it now. See my little whore creamin’ on my cock as I give it to her over and over again.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby girl. Where do you want it?”

‘Deep in my pussy… Please, baby’. She’ll whimper and beg, pleading to get stuffed full. I’m gonna brush my fingers over her swollen clit, making her gush all over my cock and thighs, wetting everything around us until I’m pumping her full of my cum.

I’ll watch it drip out of her puffy pink hole, fucking it right back in, cleaning the rest off with my tongue before spitting it in her mouth.

My perfect cumslut.

I need it drippin’ out of her for days. Watchin’ my little angel walk into class, knowing just how good I dicked her down. I’ll watch her from my seat as she cleans the little cum tear off her inner thigh, slipping it between her lips as her eyes flick to mine, sucking it clean.

No one will have her again. “She was made for me.” The thought alone has my hand faltering; jaw falling slack. My stomach sinks, eyes doubling as she looks in my direction, matching my gaze. “Fuckkk…” My eyes roll back in my skull, toes curling, head thrown to the headrest as I cum harder than I ever have. Shit. I don’t even care if she saw. If she’s any girl of mine, she’d want to see it anyway.

My dirty little whore.

I look down at my jizz covered hand and lap. Goddamnit. I clear the gap between my car and the next before ripping off my shirt and wiping away my mess. I flip my hat on, snagging my protein shaker bottle from the passenger’s seat floor as I try to disguise the real reason I’m covered head to toe in sweat. I do my best to control my breathing, still running high from my climax, hit with the post-nut clarity that she may have seen it all.

She looks happy to see me… Real happy. Y/n smiles, making my heart race again as I meet her gorgeous eyes. She greets me happily, trotting up to my truck. “How are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She dunks her hand into the soapy bucket, grabbing a sponge. “Livin’ the dream,” y/n smiles, moving closer than expected. I take in her perfume, already so familiar to me, the smell of it revving me right up again.

“Sorry. I’m a sweaty mess,” I sigh. Her gaze falls down my body, studying me with a bashful smile.

“Just got done with a workout?” She asks.

“Mhmm…” I smile and nod in reply. “Pay now? Pay later?” I invite as I snag my wallet.

“Now,” she sings. “Donation based, so whatever you’re willing to give.” I thumb through my wallet, plucking out $200.

“Rafe…” She breathes, taking it off my hands. “Are you sure? This is a little much.” Y/n looks down at the cash in her hands before meeting my eyes again.

“Positive,” I assure.

“Well, that is very nice, Rafe Cameron,” she coos. Y/n uses my last name, making my stomach drop. She wouldn’t have known my last name unless she did some digging. I didn’t give it to her; I never said anything in class before today. She must have looked me up on Instagram or Snapchat… Maybe she asked one of her sisters about me.

I fight off a wide smile as she gets started on the car. She takes her time, putting in a little more effort than the cars before. She walks to the front of the cab, leaning over, breast jiggling as she swirls and circles the sponge on the hood. She rises a little higher on her tippy toes, unable to reach the rest.

“Here you go, babe.” Her friend sets down a ladder for Y/n. She bends over once more, the angle alone making my cock rock hard again as I imagine us fucking raw. Tonight… I’ll bend her over on the bathroom counter, just like she is now, the bass of the party on the street not even loud enough to cover her cries and my moans. I’ll pound into her as the slaps of our skin fill the bathroom. Her eyes shift to mine, catching my stare. She doesn’t drop focus, keeping her eyes on me as she continues to scrub. A smirk spreads on her lips, mirroring my own.

Baby girl…

Y/n steps down from the ladder before walking to her friend, grabbing the hose off her hands; taking her job instead. She sprays down the truck, cleaning off the suds. The light breeze catches the flow of water, sending little beads of it flying, catching on her perfect skin. My mouth waters as I imagine licking the glaze of it off her skin. Fuck… I don’t think I can take this.

“Alright, Mr. Cameron. You’re all set,” she smiles as she eyes her work. I bite my lip and nod.

“Thank you, princess. See you tonight.”

I pull forward, watching her from my wing mirror as she greets the next car. Her excitement fades as she welcomes the next. Good fuckin’ girl.

Next stop, Phi Mu.

𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 2

tag list and masterlist on my pinned post

@starkeysprincess @rafesthroatbaby @gri959 @loserboysandlithium @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @akobx @darlydixon83 @hyperfixationgirl @savayvayblr-blog @oxpogues4lifexo @rafesgiirl @sleepiibunniiii

[yandere-writer-momo]

I know I promised Jervis, but Ed Nygma enraptured me. God I love that weird man. It’s short and sweet (to my standards).

Yandere DC Shorts: The Missing Piece

Yandere Riddler x Nurse Fem Reader

TW: Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamic, stalking, obsession, DELUSIONAL man, exploring Ed’s OCD a bit, and Edward Nygma is obsessive

Edward Nygma knew he was the smartest man in the world. He’s proven it countless times with his elaborate attacks on Gotham city.

He was simply kind enough to leave clues because he enjoyed the game he played with Batman! The attention thrilled him for years… at least until he got a taste of genuine affection from the new nurse in Arkham.

Never had Edward felt his heart flutter and his stomach twist when (your full name), his sweet nurse in Arkham, gently disinfected the wounds on his pale skin that were inflicted by guards. Never had has his breath shuttered when she’d ask in her soft, velvety voice if he was okay… never had he experienced someone show care for him.

By the heavens it was simply addictive. The chemicals that released in his brain when he saw (your name)’s sweet, smiling face were better than any drug known to man. Edward never wanted anyone more in his life.

Look at him, (your name)! Love him! Let him worship you as you equally worship him! Praise him! Be his! His! His! His!

If only the poor, little nurse realized just how detrimental of a decision she had made just by the simple act of kindness… maybe then, it would have saved her from the obsession of a lonely madman.

.

.

.

“I never noticed your eyes were such pretty shade of green, Ed.” (Your name) smiled warmly at her patient whose ears turned pink. “They remind me of sea glass.”

Edward held his hands that began to sweat profusely in nervousness. She thought his eyes were pretty? He found every inch of (your name) pretty! From the tips of her toes to the strand of each hair on the top of her head. How could someone be so perfect?

“T-thank you.” Edward felt so nervous… he wasn’t used to someone’s utmost attention. To compliments and praise he had always desired since he was young. He was thrilled to finally be perceived.

“I’m glad you’re healing up nicely.” (Your name) smiled at him as his green eyes studied her expectantly like a lovesick puppy. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’m sorry the guards are so nasty to you.”

She had no idea he purposely riled those British guards up just to be able to be here with her. That he needed his fix.

“I have a riddle for you…” Edward gave (your name) a sickly sweet smile as his heart fluttered and the blood rushed to his cheeks. Would she be able to solve it? He hoped so! He would try to make it easy so she could figure it out…

“A riddle? For me?” (Your name) smiled at him. “I’d love to hear one.”

Here it goes… Edward mentally told himself before the usual cocky persona he presented to the world came back to the forefront.

"What grows stronger the more you share it, and makes your heart beat faster when you're near someone special?"

(Your name) thought for a moment before she smiled. “Is it feelings for someone?”

“Correct.” Edward smiled as he took her hands in his. “Do you… have feelings for anyone?”

“Not currently.” She told Ed as his grip tightened on her hands. His breath shaky and his eyes glazed over.

Was he not on her radar? Did she… not see him as a man? Was he not handsome enough? Did he not have enough brawn?

“Ed? Are you alright-“ Ed suddenly pulled her close with a strength she didn’t know he possessed. His body trembled as all of his frustrated emotions bubbled to the surface.

“Look at me.” He said firmly. “Am I… not attractive?”

(Your name blinked. Once. Then twice. Her brows scrunched together in confusion.

“What do you mean, Ed?” She softly asked.

Ed scoffed and looked away. Why had he shown such vulnerability to her? (Your name) should feel blessed to be in his general vicinity! She was ungrateful to have the attention of the ingenious Riddler! She should be the one who begged for his attention, not the other way around-

(Your name) gently placed a palm on his forehead. “You’re hot to the touch, Ed… why didn’t you tell me you had a fever?”

Ed completely melted under the touch. His eyes closed and his breathing calmed. Her touch always felt so right… like his missing piece.

[gokyrts]

Patrón!Carlos | C.S. 55

18+ | warnings: mentions of drugs, cartel politics, mentions of kidnapping, d/s dynamics, finger sucking, dom!carlos, unprotected p in v, spanking, oral (m receiving), slight degradation and humiliation, light ass play, dirty talk

Summary: you needed a favour, a favour only the leader of the local drug cartel could grant you, so you went to beg for it and you bit more than you could chew

Author’s note: MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM YOURS TRULY!! This is a gift for all my lovely supporters. if you’ve liked Mafia AU, you’re definitely gonna like this 🤭 welcome to Narcos AU with Carlos Sainz !

wc: 4.3k

Check out part two here and part three here !

In case you’re unfamiliar with the plot and terms of Narcos, here’s a little vocabulary with terms that are used throughout the story:

el patrón — (noun) boss of a drug cartel

sicarios — (noun, pl.) high ranking members of a cartel, armed, usually on motorcycles

DEA — (noun) drug enforcement administration; U.S. federal office tasked with combatting drug trafficking

The air outside the compound was still, heavy with the heat of late afternoon. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of laughter echoed, mingling with the crackle of a lit cigar. You sat alone, staring at the rim of your glass, swirling the amber liquid inside. The burn of it no longer registered—it had stopped doing that weeks ago. You hated this place. Hated the velvet couches, the chandeliers, the lingering stench of power and fear. But it had become your world.

Your sister was safe. That was what mattered. That was what you kept telling yourself.

Still, the memory of the first step you’d taken into this life clung to you like smoke, no matter how many times you tried to shove it away. And, as always, it returned unbidden:

The air was just as oppressive that day, tightening around your throat, pressing against your chest. But not nearly as oppressive as the gazes and words of the sicarios you encountered when you came to beg for a favor. Their eyes on you like you were a piece of meat delivered to their door.

“Move along, sweetheart,” one of them said, making your stomach churn.

“I need to speak with señor Sainz.” your assertiveness was a joke to them, seeing nothing more than a defenseless animal.

“Did you hear that?” he’d said, turning to the other guard with exaggerated mockery. “Little mama here wants to speak to el patrón.”

Their laughter had stung, but you’d swallowed your pride. This wasn’t about you. It was about your sister. It was about survival.

“Please,” you’d whispered, your voice cracking just enough to reveal the desperation in your chest. “It’s important.”

The sicarios had exchanged amused glances before one stepped forward, his expression darkening with a hint of suspicion. “Es importante, ah?” he’d asked, the firearm in his hands a reminder of who had control. “How so?”

Your fists had tightened, your body screaming to run, but you had stood your ground. “I need his help. My… my sister has been kidnapped.”

The two men exchanged a glance, this one colder, heavier. Without another word, they had stepped aside, opening the door to the building with a mockingly polite gesture. “Muy bien, let’s see what the boss has to say to this… little request.”

They had flanked you as you walked down the dim corridor, the echo of their heavy boots swallowing your lighter steps. The long hallway felt like a gauntlet, and each step seemed to draw you further into a cage you wouldn’t be able to escape. They led you to an unassuming door, another guard stationed outside. A brief knock sounded, a whisper you hadn’t caught, and then you were ushered inside.

Carlos Sainz’s office had been every bit as ostentatious as you’d imagined. The room reeked of wealth: leather chairs, imported bourbon, and a portrait of the man himself staring down from the wall. But none of it had held your attention for long. Your gaze had locked onto Carlos the moment you saw him.

He’d been seated behind his desk, looking as though he owned not just the room but the air you were breathing. His expression had been unreadable, save for the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Before you could speak, one of the guards shoved you forward. “I’m not armed!” you’d snapped, your voice sharp with indignation.

The guard’s rough hands searched you anyway, brushing over your clothes with no effort to hide his smugness. Carlos, meanwhile, had leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching the scene like it was some form of theater staged for his amusement.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he’d said, his smirk widening as his gaze swept over you. “You seem to have a sharp tongue on you, señorita.”

You’d forced yourself to endure and once the guard was satisfied, you had been given the space to speak.

“I—I need your help, señor. They… they took my little sister. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

He hadn’t reacted at first. Instead, he’d reached for a glass, pouring himself a measure of whiskey with deliberate slowness. The sound of the liquid hitting the glass filled the room like a mocking echo.

“You came to ask for a favor?” he’d said finally, his tone light, as though you were discussing the weather. He hadn’t given you a chance to respond. “I remember you owing a favor to me, little one.”

Your throat had tightened. Of course, he remembered. A debt passed down from your father, inherited like a curse. You’d known the weight of it would crush you someday. You just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

“Sí, señor,” you’d said, voice cracking, fighting the urge to wipe your sweaty palms on your skirt. “I still owe you. But I need this, please. She was taken by men from the other side. I-I don’t want them to hurt her or worse…”

Carlos had tilted his head, studying you as though you were some strange creature that had wandered into his den.

“So… you expect me to solve more of your family’s problems, sí?” His words were light, almost teasing, but the sharp edge in his gaze had made your stomach twist.

Your knees had felt weak, but you’d pressed on. “Please,” you’d said again, the word tasting like ash on your tongue. “I—I will do anything.”

At that, his amusement had deepened. The room had gone still.

“Anything…?” he’d repeated, his voice dropping just enough to make you shiver. One of the guards had snickered, but Carlos had silenced him with a click of his tongue. Then he’d mentioned for the guards to exit, leaving only the two of you in the room.

With deliberate slowness, he’d risen from his chair, rounding the desk until he stood in front of you. He’d been taller than you remembered, his presence overwhelming.

“Do you know what that word means, little one?” he’d asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Do you know what it costs to ask me for a favor?”

You’d lowered your gaze, the weight of his stare crushing you.

“I… I will pay the price,” you’d whispered.

Carlos had tilted his head, lifting your chin upward with surprising gentleness, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Careful,” he’d murmured, his tone soft but laced with warning. “There are men who would take this as an invitation...”

You’d stiffened, your skin crawling under his touch.

“But I’m not one of them…not today.” he’d stepped back with a smirk, allowing you to breathe again.

“Muy bien,” he’d said, returning to his desk. “I’ll deal with these men and bring your sister back. But… from this moment on, you’re mine. Your time, your life. When I call, you answer. No questions. No hesitation. Understood?”

You’d hesitated, just for a moment, but Carlos didn’t let you. His voice had turned sharp, cutting through your resistance like a blade.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” you’d said, voice shaking. “Yes… I understand.”

He’d smirked, satisfied. “Good. Go home, little one. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

…

You closed your eyes as the memory finished replaying, pressing the glass back to your lips, its contents dwindling fast. Anticipation brewed in your gut mingling with the expensive imported whiskey. He has called again and you answered, per agreement.

Over time you learned to ignore the hungry stares from his wolves, their sleazy whispers, and dirty hands adjusting their pants when you passed them in the halls of the safehouse. It made you sick. But this was part of the price you had to pay. The price you agreed to pay for the safety of your sister’s life, and the doom of your own.

“Princesita,”

Your eyes snapped open at his voice — smooth, silky, like the liquor you just downed. The familiar burning sensation returned, your body starting to smolder again. You swallowed the bitterness and turned on your hell, the dress you were told to wear flowing around your form.

Carlos regarded you with a long gaze, from the shoes you picked to wear, across your hips and waist, where the dress tightly hugged your soft curves, to your face, lingering on your painted lips.

He nodded in approval, beckoning you closer with a finger.

Teaching you obedience was his favorite, along with making you regret every life decision you ever made, but especially the deal you made with him.

His thumb found your bottom lip as you stepped closer, the red on your lips pulling him in like a bull following its toreador. The rough surface of his finger swiped over the carefully applied lipstick, smudging it and dragging it down your chin. A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes at your ruined look, his favorite look on you. His thumb slid off your chin, leaving a light red stain.

Beautiful, he thought, before retracting his hand only to notice the smudge on his finger.

He pressed the thumb back against your mouth.

“Clean it.”

And your body burned, the whiskey in your gut the fuse and his command the spark. The finger was thrust into your mouth with zero patience, the taste of ash and metal hitting your tongue along the unmistakable sweetness of your cherry red lipstick. As much as the taste made you retch, it was addicting.

First lesson in obedience — do as you’re told.

Your tongue wrapped around the digit, swirling to catch the pad of his thumb and sucking it clean. Carlos rewarded you with a hum of approval, pressing down harder on your tongue, forcing your mouth to open up further.

Your jaw gave way, letting Carlos in on the sight of his saliva-covered thumb in your mouth, your tongue playing around with it. He pulled back, dragging his finger out of your mouth but not without wiping it slightly against your lip, enhancing the redness of it with a top coat.

“Good girl… good ruined girl.”

Heat pooled between your legs, forcing an involuntary hum from your throat. Weeks ago you would resist, deny, and deflect — you didn’t want him to notice, because he noticed everything — but his praise was like a switch flipped in your brain.

However, as fast as he praised, he also did the exact opposite.

“Go clean your face, I’m not letting you accompany me looking like that.” he spat, stepping aside so you could go wipe the mess he made on your face. The oval mirror in his office was nearly as familiar as the face you saw in it. The flashbacks were instant when you looked into it, images of him, of you, in positions he forced you into. Carlos liked making you watch, it etched itself in your memory better, he said.

You squeezed your thighs together as you wiped the ruined lipstick off of your chin, similar redness blooming on your cheeks. Carlos smirked knowingly, standing a few feet behind you. He could be in the background, not even touching you but your body was aflame for him, your mind playing tricks on you, triggers he put in your head setting off. You reapplied the lipstick, the phantom feeling of his finger on them almost making you miss the intimacy.

There was a knock on the door, signaling your ride was there. Armed guards escorted you to an awaiting car. A small convoy left the compound to ensure the patrón’s safety. A meeting with the other Narcos wasn’t something to underestimate. Light chatter took part in the car you were not part of. They didn’t need your opinion. You were there as a pretty face, nothing more, nothing less.

As you approached the hotel where the meeting would be held, the oppressive air started clawing at your lungs again. The delicate power balance you felt in the atmosphere was unnerving, ready to tip over in any direction. You and Carlos were patted down before entering. It was agreed that this meeting would be weapon-free. If anything was to go down, you’d be fighting with your bare hands.

The hotel was grand, smelling of the same filthy richness that Carlos’ office did. Your presence caught eyes. A woman, a pretty woman, here? Just as you learned to ignore the stares and comments of Carlos’ sicarios*, you avoided those of the other men, asking if you were lost or looking for a good time. The tension only heightened as you neared the entered the conference room and Carlos felt the need to remind you of your place. He caught you by the elbow, pulling you back against him, his lips against your ear. “You’re here to keep me company, not to speak. Understood?”

Your breath hitched, his voice, so close, sent shivers down your back. “Sí, señor.”

Carlos was satisfied enough with your response and let you go, stepping around you and opening the door. Your smaller form was hidden behind Carlos’ broad back as you entered, the other Narcos only catching sight of you as you walked along the enormous glass table.

Without looking up, you uttered a quiet ‘Buenos dias, señores.’ That was the only time you were allowed to speak.

Behind the clouds of smoke from cigars and cigarettes, the Narcos recognized a woman. They exchanged glances, whispers, scoffs but nothing you wouldn’t be used to already. Despite their visible disapproval, no one dared speak up.

Carlos sat at the head of the table, as he was the organizer of the meeting, leaving you a small seat behind him, just to further emphasize you were not part of the negotiations.

The meeting started but not much has reached your ears throughout, selectively more than not. The Narcos discussed new routes, skirmishes with the DEA, feuds over territory, nothing you could be a part of anyway.

You were picking on your nails when one of the older gentlemen mentioned the neighborhood you grew up in.

“…a possible lab location, routes go out here and through this way,”

His fat finger was pointing to a map, showing what in his mind was a new business idea the others would approve of. For a moment you were taken into your childhood home, playing with your sister on the front porch. It was nice, safe but you always saw men linger around, men who had DEA badges on their belts. Still thinking you were in your mind, you murmured. “Yeah, right into the DEA’s hands…”

Silence.

Feeling a full body chill, you looked up, slowly, each tilt of your head further revealed more shocked and angry expressions of the Narcos.

The man whose idea you challenged leaned back and looked at Carlos in disbelief.

“Carlos, who is this? Did you bring a secretary? Are you into females advising you now?”

Your heart nearly stopped, eyes widening as the weight of your little comment hit you.

“Why did you bring a woman into the meeting anyway? Now she’s thinking she’s one of us.” Another man sneered as all gazes turned to Carlos to watch his reaction.

Whatever he was thinking, one could not tell. His eyes flit briefly to you and then back, but you did notice his jaw clenching, a subtle show of his anger. But he masked it well, leaning back in his seat.

“She’s not one of us, but she’s right. Think about it.”

Carlos’ response had the Narcos stunned a second time that night. They turned to one another, murmuring amongst themselves, considering the situation. But no one was stunned more than you. He saved you…he acknowledged your opinion, among those he trusted the least but had to respect the most and vice versa.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly on alert and aware of what was being discussed. With bated breath, you watch the meeting conclude and the drug lords pour out of the conference room. Some regarded you with disgust, others with interest, some with caution but you would be in the meeting minutes of everyone who attended.

When the last of the traffickers left, the atmosphere of the room shifted. Carlos was quiet, too quiet for your liking. His fingers drummed against the glass table, the echo loud in the empty room. His head tilted to the side and you saw his jaw lock in place before he spoke.

“Are you the expert on routes now?” His tone was calm and cold, the kind that makes you want to huddle for warmth. It wasn’t a question for you to answer. A loud warning despite the pitch in his voice, but you knew this was more dangerous than if he’d yelled. “What did I tell you about speaking up?” his words had bite now.

“I-I didn’t mean to… I was just— you said I was right though! I grew up in that neighborhood! If you let them set up a lab there, the DEA would be onto them and you’d be the one cleaning up the mess.”

“Oh? You think you saved me?” he chuckled but there was no humor in it. “Do not think this is how you repay favors, little princess.”

You averted his gaze, the taste of forced submission bitter on your tongue. Your palms were sweating again and you had to wipe them on your dress this time. Carlos watched you, the intensity in his eyes threatening to light the fire inside you again and he knew.

The sound of the snapping of his fingers was loud in the room, making you look up at him again.

“Come here.”

First lesson in obedience — do as you’re told.

You got up on shaky legs, taking a few short strides to Carlos’ side. Your tongue swiped over your bottom lip in anticipation, catching the cherry red lipstick he had given you a taste of before.

“Over the table, princesa…”

The glass table felt cold over your thighs and stomach, the dress you wore riding up as you bent over in front of him. You heard him sigh, the sound filling you with more delicious uncertainty. You felt his large hand on the back of your thigh, the rough callouses contrasting against the gentle caresses he gave you.

“This room was full of men who would shoot you for even looking at them wrong…” He spoke with softness that made you almost comfortable against the table like this was a fatherly scolding. Except it was.

Smack.

His palm landed against the back of your thigh, forcing air out of your lungs.

“And you thought you could just come in and play queen?” Carlos continued, his voice dropping an octave as he pulled your dress up, revealing your bare ass.

Smack.

The handprint on your ass cheek stung, its red outline hot to the touch as he rubbed his fingers over it. You cried out as he delivered the next smack to your other cheek.

Your eyes squeezed shut with the force he used, an involuntary moan slipping from your lips. He fisted his other hand in your hair, pulling your head back. His lips were against your ear again.

“I have every right to throw you to them… to let them devour you till there’s nothing but bones… but,” he trailed off, a strange occurrence, stretching the moment and breathing fire to your insides.

“You’re mine.”

Your head landed against the glass table as he let go of your hair, the thud making you groan. His hands trailed back down, catching against the waistband of your underwear and pulling it down. You gasped as the cold air hit your soaked pussy, the undergarment landing around your ankles. Carlos grabbed at your ass cheek, squeezing and spreading you to him.

“Ah… I’m beginning to think you like this, princesa.” His tone was mocking as his index finger slid through the wetness making your hips jerk. Your neediness amused him, almost as much as your fear.

The clinking sound of his belt undoing only made you squeeze your thighs together, searching for friction despite how wrong it felt. But the smoldering need in your gut was stronger than your moral code. Your thighs spread slightly, welcoming him. You could hear a faint chuckle behind you, your willingness nothing short of amusement to Carlos.

He nudged the tip of his cock against your slit, coating himself in the slickness he was the cause of. Just like all those times before, Carlos didn’t wait, he took what he wanted. Always.

The first thrust pushed you hard against the glass table and stole air from your lungs. You never got used to his size, the stretch always stung a little, the force of his thrusts always left your hips aching the next day and you knew you’d be feeling the same later.

He hissed, forcing himself to the hilt before pulling back and in again, setting a steady pace. His large hands gripped your hips, keeping you pinned between him and the table. You knew there would be bruises, bruises you’d hide, bruises he’d expose. Regrets you’d have to face one way or another.

Carlos pressed one hand against the small of your back, making you arch, your ass pushing back against his hips.

“That’s it…that’s it,” he murmured, looking down, your ass bouncing off his hips a mesmerizing sight. As your cheeks spread further apart, his eyes fell to your tight hole, and Carlos felt an itch he could not help but scratch. His hand slid down, his thumb pressing against it, feeling you clench around him.

He growled, pressing a little harder, testing your reaction. When you whined and clenched again, he knew he found a sweet spot.

“Fuck, you like it, princesa? You like when I play with your tight little ass?”

Your insides were molten, your resolve and pride burned to a crisp. Even your unspoken protests evaporated right on your tongue from the heat. “Yes…fuck, yes!” you panted out, feeling the knot in your stomach coil.

Carlos grinned, his thumb staying where it was, relishing in your walls fluttering even tighter around him, pushing him closer to the edge. He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force.

“Such a dirty little thing… you want it? Tell me you want it, princesa.” You knew he was getting close when his mouth spewed the filthiest words, looking to get off on your reactions.

Your tongue nearly lolled out of your mouth, the pleasure overwhelming your senses. You knew what he wanted to hear and you gave in.

“Please,”

Carlos bit his lip, groaning as you begged for him, the act alone making his cock twitch. “Again, let me hear you.” You felt his chest press against your back, pushing you impossibly closer to the table to the point you thought it would break.

“P-Please…” your voice was louder this time, enough to the man above you. He grunted in satisfaction, his pace faltering before he spilled himself inside you. His hips stilled, but the weight of him continued to bruise your smaller body.

Carlos took a moment before he pulled out, panting, the grip on your hip easing. Your knees bucked slightly with exhaustion and Carlos, thinking himself merciful, grabbed at your elbow, pulling you up. You looked up at him but the sight of the cunning smile on his face told you that this was far from over. He yanked you in his direction and you ungracefully landed on your knees, the impact making you whine. Carlos snorted with laughter, adoring the sight of your pathetic self beneath him. He stepped closer to you and you lifted your head to meet his gaze, instead, you were met with the sight of his still-hard cock, now glistening with your mixed juices.

“Clean it…” His bottom lip twitched slightly, along with his eyebrow, taunting you as he breathed deeply. He pushed your limits, used you to his heart’s content, all because he could. Each little request a test to see if you’d break and disobey. But the moment your lips wrapped around him, his hands were back in your hair.

“Fuck— good girl,” the overstimulation made him groan, tightening his hold on your hair. You licked at him obediently, the taste salty on your tongue. He revered in the skill of your mouth, praising it as you worked. Every gag made him coo in a mocking tone and when you pulled off, he didn’t hesitate to take the reins. He took hold of his cock, his other hand in your hair, and dragged it over your cheek, across your face, a sick grin spreading across his lips as he watched you squeeze your eyes tightly so none of the mess would get there. He knew the smell would cling to your sweet skin, that was why he did it. He pulled back to look at his work.

The sight of your makeup ruined, cheeks stained, now with the added smell of him on you. Perfect. Carlos grinned, moving to tuck himself back in his suit pants.

“Now, that’s a pretty slut. Come on, let’s go…”

…

want more patrón!Carlos? lemme know in my askbox!! I plan on writing more for this AU and would love to know your thoughts on it<3

2024 @ gokyrts . Do not distribute or translate my work on other sites.

[juniperdugong]

Their favorite place to kiss you

Scoups Your hands. More specifically your knuckles whenever he remembers he's holding your hand in his. Placing a peck upon each knuckle while trying to catch your eyes, this always ends with an actual kiss though. Or in the car, I always imagine that he's holding your hand while driving stick shift, intertwined at all times unless you want him to make a scene about you not loving him. At every stoplight, he's pressing his lips against the back of your hand like it's an instinct. Ugh, he would drive me crazy.

Jeonghan He's a classic type of man opting for a quick smooch to your cheek in haste and then looking away like nothing happened. Ever the trickster even in love. Whenever you catch him in the act though he's a giggling mess. You might not notice it but he seems particularly fond of acts of affection when you're smiling. What can he say? When you smile so brightly and your cheeks puff out it's like a drug to him ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Joshua Your nose. Another one who tries to catch you off guard but unlike Jeonghan he always fails because he's trying to catch your nose rather than any other part of you. The slight scrunch gets him weak in the knees from cuteness so of course it's his favorite. It's also partially because of how you look as he does this, your eyes crossing as he's coming towards you. "You look dumb but in a cute way", he tries to explain not understanding how you can't see what he sees.

Jun He's a tad awkward in his tastes I imagine, so I feel like the outer corner of your eye is his cup of tea. He doesn't really have an explanation himself but maybe it's because everytime he kisses you there you immediately focus your attention on him. Whether that's in confusion or shock he doesn't care as long as you're looking at him. I feel like he's a firm believer that the eyes are the windows to the soul so being able to hold your gaze is like looking at heaven, that is to say, he thinks you are heaven.

Hoshi This dude is pretty straightforward with affection so your lips are always gonna do it for him. He's always looking for a moment to trap you in a kiss no matter the situation. You could be talking about the most important thing in the world and this man is looking for an opening before bombarding you with his lips and then nonchalantly going back into the conversation. He doesn't see any issue with it, in fact, he thinks it's the most proper way to show you his love.

Wonwoo Forehead all day! He doesn't show affection all that often but when he does it's discreetly and quickly leaving chaste kisses on your forehead before bed, when you're focusing on work, or pretty much whenever you aren't paying attention. You learn after a bit that acknowledging his affection makes him more shy about it so you've gotten in the habit of giving little to no reaction. (The hardest thing in the world because he's the cutest tbh)

Woozi He's going for the corner of your lips. He isn't forward enough to give you a full kiss all the time nor does he really feel the need for that most of the time. He isn't one to show affection much either but it doesn't mean he shies away from it, it's just not something he thinks about doing often since he knows that you know that he loves you completely and fully. It may seem half-hearted to some but to him, a kiss on the corner of your lips means "I'm here and I love you".

Minghao Hao prefers hugs to kisses in my opinion. But when he does kiss you it is often on your shoulders. Whenever he's got you entangled in his arms he's leaving tender kisses along your shoulders, TRUST. In line and he's back hugging you? Kisses. A hug once he's gotten back from tour? Kisses. Cuddled up in bed and completely tangled in each other? Kisses. It's the only place he's willing to leave multiple kisses without feeling like it's too much PDA.

DK This man. I don't know how to tell you this. Literally everywhere and anywhere. As long as it's you he's willing to kiss even the soles of your feet (not in a weird way he swears). I could go on and on about the way he would kiss your eyelids, your stomach, the inside of your wrist, all in the name of loving you completely and wholly with his entire being. Not afraid of affection in the slightest, he's always clinging to you. Swears up and down that with every kiss he falls more in love.

Mingyu Tippy top of your head. Listen listen listen...as much as I would love to subvert expectations with Mingyu I simply cannot imagine a more perfect scene than this man kissing your head. He does it without even realizing honestly. Feels the most natural to leave a gentle kiss there. Why can I so clearly imagine him sniffing your hair too? Not in a weird way but in the way that people like to smell babies' heads...okay maybe that's weird BUT it's very endearing coming from him. He just likes your scent so much. (Also, if you're short enough, he'll probably rest his head on top of yours)

Seungkwan Dudes a romantic and he's going for the jawline. It catches you off guard and it's sensual enough to mean something but not sensual enough to mean something if you know what I'm saying. He doesn't shy away from affection either so I feel like he's happy kissing you wherever but along your jawline always seems to get a small reaction out of you so it's his favorite for that reason. The blush that warms your cheeks warms his heart.

Vernon Your lap/ thighs. I was originally gonna put this down for Jeonghan since he's a napper but I feel like when Vernon gets comfortable with you he's the type to lay in your lap often. He doesn't even think about the kiss as anything other than innocent and loving. You're just right there and he feels an urge to kiss you so he does. Plus, when he does this you often pat or stroke his hair as recognition and he completely melts into your touch.

Dino He's a back hugger and for that reason, I think he would fall into the habit of leaving kisses on the back of your neck. I wouldn't say it's his favorite since this dude is head over heels for your lips as well but it's where he's leaving the most kisses for sure. Holding you by the waist and swaying you gently side to side, head laying on one of your shoulders, he leaves feathery kisses that you almost can't feel if it weren't for the fact that he smiles and chuckles as he does so.

NOT PROOFREAD

{If you're interested in being on the Taglist for my Seventeen works please let me know!! And my requests are open!}

{A/N: I'm going crazy I think. I don't know where this came from. It's 2am as I finish writing this and reading it over once. My eyes are red and all I can think about is these boys. I've been writing and thinking of prompts like an insane person. Ngl though I feel like all of them are good kissers.}

[cherrysnip]

sincerely yours - choi seungcheol

pairing: seungcheol x afab!reader

content: married life, dad!seungcheol's reaction when your daughter received a love letter.

(spoiler alert: he freaked out😭)

word count: 1.5k

Tuesday nights have always been Seungcheol's turn to wash the dishes. In retrospect, no one can even make him do a single household chore when he was younger. He grew up surrounded by helpers who were paid to do the job so he didn't try as much to learn them.

However, that changed when he married you. Probably it was because of how you were raised differently from him but you’re not comfortable of having other people hovering around your house to "do things you can do on your own". And unwilling as he was at first, Seungcheol just obeyed what you wanted because well, that's how whipped he is. (He'd undoubtedly say yes had you even declared the sky green.)

So here he is, seven years later, a "master" on the craft of washing the dishes. It's silly how such a simple thing could make him so happy but really, it wasn't easy for him to reach this point. He broke plates after plates that he swore at one point he saw you gritting your teeth like you were one thread away from strangling him.

But he said that every time you would smile at him and utter a soft thank you, hell, everything's worth it.

"Why are you smiling like a fool?"

He turned to see you leaning on the counter watching him with suspicion. A sheepish smile escaped from Seungcheol's lips as he reached out for a dry towel to wipe his hands.

"You don't have to know," he teased.

Your brows furrowed, "You better not be thinking of another woman or else..."

Seungcheol chuckled and walked towards you. He leaned, placing his hands on your sides, caging you on the counter. The action was so sudden it caught you off guard.

"How would I do that when you're everything I think about every waking day of my life? Hmm?" He planted a kiss on your shoulder which made you gasp. Years into your marriage but this little things your husband does still makes you giddy like a teenager. And of course, the blush spreading all over your face didn't escape Seungcheol, causing him to grin wider. Your reaction to his touch will always be his favorite drug.

"Now, you're just flattering me..." 

"I'm being sincere," Seungcheol insisted and met your eyes. "I still can't believe that after all these years, I'm actually married to you. How can I be so damn lucky?"

After he said that, your pouting lips turned into a wide smile. He is such a dork, you thought. You can't resist it anymore so you cupped his cheeks to kiss the tip of his nose. Being the competitive guy that he is, he did the same to you while chuckling. 

"I'm luckier to have married you, Cheollie. You're everything I've dreamed of a husband."

"Are you sure? I remember six years ago, you said you'll divorce me because I forgot to clean our room."

"Well, you already learned your lesson, didn't you?"

Seungcheol nodded, "I most certainly did."

"Oh by the way, I have something to tell you," you said a little bit later. Your arms were already wrapped around Seungcheol's waist with your chin on his broad chest.

"Baby no. 3?" Seungcheol asked hopefully and he only received a pinch on his side. "Aw! I'm just kidding sweetheart!"

"Tss," You removed yourself from Seungcheol but you still didn't let go of his arm while you gently dragged him to your living room. You picked up something from your coffee table and even though he was basically towering over you, he still wasn't able to have a clear sight of what it was because you were quick to hide it on your back.

"What is it?” He curiously asked but instead of answering him immediately, you slightly squeezed his arm."Promise me you won't have a heart attack?"

"How can I promise that sweetheart? Come on."

"Well, okay. Just please don't pass out."

"You're just making me nervous."

You pursed your lips and handed him the familiar heart-shaped paper. The last time he got a hold of something similar to this was during Valentine's Day and he almost lashed out. Good thing, you were able to prevent him from doing so. 

"W-what's the meaning of this?"

You clicked your tongue trying to supress your laughter. Knowing your husband, you kind of expected this reaction from him already. 

"Found that in your daughter's workbook. I was helping her with her assignment and that fell."

"Damn it! Seriously?" Seungcheol dramatically gasped and stared at the piece of paper again. "Sweetheart, you've already read this haven't you?"

"I did."

"And you're not bothered?"

"No, I'm not. Actually, I find it cute," you replied.

"It isn't." Seungcheol almost shouted but tried hard not to make it too loud because he was well aware the twins were already sleeping. "Look here sweet, whoever this kid was, confessed he has a crush on Chaewon and even wrote I LOVE YOU! He wrote I LOVE YOU to our daughter!"

You finally burst into fits of laughter, "What's wrong with that?"

Seungcheol was starting to get annoyed now but it immediately dissipated when you touched his arm and guided him to sit on the couch.

"Calm down Cheollie. It's just a simple note. No need to fret so much about it," you tried to ease him and Seungcheol sighed. He reached for your hand and pressed it as if he's trying to summon his lost composure.

"I mean...that kid wrote those words for our daughter. To our princess. And he's only what? Six years old? Does he even know what it means?"

"Don't insult the feelings of that kid, Cheollie. You yourself even proposed to someone when you were just what? Three?"

Shock passed through Seungcheol's face. He was just going to defend himself when you waved your free hand. "Don't even try to deny it. It was your mom who told me about it."

"Fine. But that's beside the point...last time it was Jungwon. Our little prince received a similar letter with three red roses on Valentine's Day and now it's Chaewon...and an I love you? God! The moment we received the result of your pregnancy test even felt like it just happened yesterday and now, they're receiving these...things. It's too fast. They're growing up too fast."

"Cheollie. It's not as if they're already marrying--"

Seungcheol was quick to cut off what you were supposed to say. "God no sweetheart! They're just six-year olds!"

"Exactly my point," You calmly said and closed the gap between you by hugging him and burying your face on the crook of Seungcheol's neck. "So loosen up, okay?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that... I know that after several years they'll grow up and will meet a lot of people. And then eventually, both of our kids will each meet the person they will love...but right now, I really just want them to enjoy their childhood first...is that too much to ask?" Seungcheol immediately stopped talking when he heard you sniffing. "Are you crying?"

You lifted your head and hurriedly wiped your tears without looking at him. "This is your fault."

"What did I do?" Seungcheol asked teasingly and helped dry your cheeks. "Okay, I'll stop being irrational now so you should stop crying too."

You immediately shook your head, "You're not being irrational. You're just being a good, scratch that, the best father you have always been. You're loving and responsible."

"And?"

"Fine. Handsome too. Very," you both chuckled. "Jungwon and Chaewon are sure lucky to have you as a father."

“And you as their mother," Seungcheol kissed your forehead.

"Seriously though," You suddenly said and peeked at the paper your husband was holding. "The kid is undeniably sweet writing a letter like that."

"Sweetheart..." He groaned and his plump red lips automatically turning into a pout like that of a kid sulking. 

"Sorry," you giggled. "I won't bring it up again."

You both just stayed on the couch for a long time hugging each other. And even with just that, everything felt perfect.

"Cheollie?" You called in a whisper.

"Hmm?"

"I just realized something after reading that kid's letter."

"Uhuh?" Seungcheol responded expectantly.

"That I don't say those words a lot to you," Your voice wavered. "Even if you very much deserved to hear it everyday."

Seungcheol can't help but smile because he is completely aware that you're not the most expressive when it comes to your feelings (which is a complete opposite of him) but he also knew that you have so much love to give and you just have a different way to express it. 

"Even if you don't say it everyday sweetheart, I can always feel your love for me and for the twins. And that, " Seungcheol hugged you tighter, "...is more than enough.

"But still, I feel like you want to hear it."

"I do but--"

"I love you, Cheollie." You said rather abruptly and buried your face on Seungcheol's chest. He could only laugh at your cuteness.

"Are you seriously acting shy now?"

Shame was definitely already creeping on your system so you slapped his chest and whined in a low voice, "Stop teasing me!"

With a contented smile, he whispered too.

"I love you more sweetheart."

—♡—

[cherryxbooo]

Tim Bradford x younger reader. Reader is in university and lived next to the Bradfords her entire life. She was there for him when Isabel ran away.

You make everything better

Summary: You never expected to be the one there for Tim when his first love ran away.

Reader x Tim Bradford

Genre: fluff/angst(ish)

The Bradfords had always been part of the background of my life.

Their house was right next door, the kind of place that never felt imposing, yet it was one of those houses you couldn’t help but notice.

Big but not overwhelming. Quiet but never completely still.

I didn’t pay much attention to them growing up, not really.

Tim was just the cop next door, and Isabel, his wife, was always the one you’d see bringing in groceries or tending to the flowers.

They were a picture of normalcy, or at least, that’s what it seemed like from the outside.

I always had a vague sense that Tim was someone different, though.

He was a cop, after all, and while I didn’t know the details, I could tell that job had a way of changing people.

The long hours, the emotional weight of it all, it was clear that Tim carried it around, even if he didn’t talk about it.

He wasn’t the kind of person who shared much.

In a way, that silence became part of him.

But he had Isabel. She was the lightness to his quiet, his grounding.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t hear from them much, but I noticed when Isabel started to pull away.

It wasn’t obvious at first.

Little things, like how she’d come home late from work more often, or how Tim’s shifts seemed longer, somehow.

But then one day, I noticed that the porch light, which had always been left on late into the evening, was off.

I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t even realize the full extent of it until the whispers began.

I didn’t know much about their life. All I knew was that Isabel left. People talked.

They said Isabel had gotten caught up in something, something to do with drugs, maybe, and that Tim was too wrapped up in his work to see the signs.

And then, one morning, she was gone. Vanished.

And Tim? Tim was still there.

I didn’t know what to do. We’d always been neighbors, nothing more.

I’d never had a real conversation with him, beyond pleasantries when we bumped into each other in the yard or when I’d wave from across the street.

But as I watched him from my window one afternoon, sitting on the porch in complete silence, I felt like I had to do something.

So, I did what anyone would do, I grabbed a plate of cookies, the kind my mom always made when someone needed comforting, and walked over.

The air had grown cooler with the fall, and the leaves crunched beneath my feet as I approached his house.

The familiar smell of wood and earth drifted over from the yard, but there was a heaviness in the air that made the whole place feel different.

When I knocked on the door, Tim answered, and for a moment, I couldn’t recognize him.

The man I had always seen with his dark hair neatly combed and his uniform pressed was now wearing a faded shirt and a tired expression.

His eyes, though, his eyes were what caught me off guard.

They were dull. Tired. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Or weeks.

"Hey, Tim," I said, unsure if I was doing the right thing.

"I made some cookies. Thought you might want some."

His gaze softened, but there was still a trace of wariness in him.

He glanced at the plate of cookies, then back at me, his mouth pulling into a small, tight smile.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rough as if he hadn’t spoken much recently.

"Can I...?" I hesitated, glancing at the porch. "Can I sit with you for a bit?"

Tim nodded, stepping aside so I could enter. The house was quiet, unnaturally so.

There was something unsettling about the emptiness.

I followed him outside, where we sat on the porch swing, the sound of the chain creaking softly in the air.

We didn’t speak at first. Neither of us did.

There was nothing to say that could make things better.

I looked over at him, and it struck me how much older he seemed. There were deep lines around his eyes now, shadows under them, as if all the sleepless nights were etched into his skin.

The air between us hung heavy, but I didn’t want to force anything. Not with Tim.

I didn’t know what he needed.

But eventually, he spoke.

"You must have probably heard it.," he said quietly, as though it was hard for him to even admit it out loud.

"People around here like to run their mouth a lot, but it's true. She left."

I wasn’t surprised, but I was still caught off guard by the way he said it, like the words were foreign to him.

I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to comfort him, but I didn’t need to speak.

Tim wasn’t someone who needed a lot of words.

"I thought we were solid," he continued, almost to himself.

"I thought... I thought everything was fine." His fingers tightened around the edge of the swing, his knuckles going white.

I had heard rumors.

Whispers about Isabel’s drug use, about how things had started to spiral out of control, but I hadn’t known any of the details.

And now, as Tim spoke, I realized that none of that mattered.

The details didn’t matter.

It was the fact that everything he thought he knew about his life had been turned upside down.

Tim’s job had always been his first priority.

It had to be.

But in the end, it had taken more from him than just time, it had taken his connection with Isabel.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I couldn’t offer solutions or quick fixes, but I could be here.

So, I just nodded, offering a small, sympathetic smile.

"I’m really sorry, Tim," I said softly. "You didn’t deserve that."

He let out a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as he finally looked over at me.

"I didn’t see it coming," he said, his voice coming out low.

"I didn’t see her slipping away. I was too focused on... everything else. On work. I couldn’t even see what was happening in my own home."

I couldn’t imagine the guilt he must have felt.

But all I could do was sit there and listen, let him talk if he needed to.

"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," I said after a moment.

"You’re allowed to be... lost. It’s okay not to know what comes next."

Tim gave a short, almost humorless laugh, and for a brief moment, he seemed like the Tim I had always known.

The one who was steady, even in his uncertainty. "I guess I am lost," he said, shaking his head.

"I just... don’t know where to go from here."

I didn’t have any grand advice, didn’t have any perfect words to make it better.

But I could tell him this:

"You don’t have to figure it all out at once. You can take your time."

There was a quiet pause. Then, Tim looked at me, his face softening just a little.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"I don’t know what I’m doing, but... maybe you’re right."

We sat there in silence, watching the sky darken, feeling the weight of the moment settle between us.

Tim didn’t have to say anything else.

I didn’t either.

Sometimes, just being there was all that mattered.

And so, that’s what I did. I was there.

I didn’t have the answers for him, but I could offer him this small moment of peace, even if only for a little while.

It wasn’t much, but in that silence, it was enough.

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months and as the time passed, I found myself at Tim’s house more often than I’d initially planned.

The reasons varied, of course.

Some days, it was just to check in on him, to make sure he was eating or getting enough rest.

Other days, I brought food, sometimes it was simple takeout from a nearby café, or sandwiches I made between classes, nothing fancy but enough to share.

But more often than not, I came just to be there.

To fill the empty spaces that seemed to surround him, whether that meant sitting in silence or trying to spark a conversation when I could see the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.

Each visit felt like a quiet reassurance, for both of us. For him, because I was giving him the time and space he needed, without expecting anything in return.

And for me, because with every passing moment, I could feel the walls he’d built around himself begin to crack just a little bit more.

It wasn’t that I was expecting some grand breakthrough, but it was the small things, the subtle changes, that mattered the most.

He didn’t ask for much, but somehow, I could tell that just having me there made things a little easier.

We didn’t always talk. In fact, there were times when the silence between us was thick, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Sometimes, it was like we didn’t need words. Like just being in each other’s presence was enough to offer some comfort, some small piece of healing.

I could see the way he’d look at me out of the corner of his eye when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, those fleeting glances that spoke volumes.

He’d never say it out loud, but I knew he was starting to rely on me, even if just a little bit.

There were nights when we sat outside on the porch swing, the world going on around us, but we were there in our own little bubble.

I’d bring over sandwiches, and we’d eat in silence, the rhythmic creak of the swing the only sound between us.

I’d never been one for forced conversation, and Tim was always a man of few words.

But those nights, with the sun setting low in the sky, everything just felt... peaceful.

Like nothing needed to be said for it to be understood.

One evening, I arrived a little later than usual since I had back-to-back classes.

The streetlights were already flickering on, casting long shadows across the yard.

I had grabbed some sandwiches from the café I passed on my way to his place, still warm from the grill.

As I knocked on the door, the usual stillness inside his house greeted me, and Tim opened it almost immediately.

When he saw the bag in my hands, his expression softened for just a moment, a slight but noticeable change from his usual tiredness.

"Another day, huh?" I said with a small smile, holding out the bag of sandwiches to him.

He glanced down at the bag, then back at me, his tired eyes betraying a hint of something deeper.

He hesitated before accepting it, like he wasn’t sure whether he should let me in again.

His lips parted, and I caught a small flash of guilt or perhaps embarrassment before he spoke.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, looking at the bag in his hands.

It was the same phrase he had used before, but this time, it sounded different, less dismissive and more... unsure.

I stepped past him into the house, not even bothering to wait for him to fully open the door.

“I know I don’t have to,” I said, brushing past him with a teasing grin.

“But I want to. Besides, someone’s got to make sure you’re eating, right?”

I noticed the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it quickly disappeared.

Tim didn’t laugh much these days, and that was something I’d come to accept.

But there was something else in the way he watched me as I set the sandwiches on the coffee table.

It wasn’t the tired, distant look he had when I first started coming by.

This was different, there was something in his gaze that made me pause, something that said he was beginning to see me again, not just as the person who brought food, but as the person who had been there for him.

The person who wasn’t going anywhere.

“You know,” he said quietly after a beat, his voice almost hesitant,

“I never really asked for any of this. I never asked for someone to keep showing up like this. But... I don’t know, Y/n. I guess I’m kind of glad you do.”

He looked down at his hands for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to explain himself.

I felt my heart give a little lurch at his words.

I could see how hard it was for him to open up, how uncomfortable he was letting anyone in, especially after everything that had happened.

But I was here. I had been here all along, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t have to say anything, Tim,” I said softly, sitting down beside him on the couch.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m not here because I feel obligated. I’m here because I want to be. And because... you’re my friend and neighbour. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone.”

He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable.

But there was something in the way he held my gaze, something that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to trust me again.

Not completely, not yet, but he was letting his guard down just enough to see that I wasn’t going to walk away.

“I don’t know what to say to you sometimes,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.

“I feel like I’ve messed everything up... with Isabel, with everything. And... I don’t know how to make it right.”

I watched him for a moment, the vulnerability in his words making my heart ache.

He had never been one to show weakness, not to anyone. But in that moment, I could see the cracks in his armor.

It wasn’t easy for him to admit how much he was hurting, but I could feel the weight of it, the guilt he carried from everything that had happened.

“Tim, you don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” I said, gently placing a hand on his arm.

“You don’t need to fix everything all at once. You just need to take it one step at a time. And I’ll be here for all of it. Okay?”

He didn’t reply immediately, but I could feel the tension slowly draining from his body as he leaned back into the couch, his gaze unfocused, lost in his thoughts.

I stayed quiet, letting him process everything in his own time.

After a few moments, Tim sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he relaxed into the couch.

“You’ve been showing up a lot lately,” he said, his voice quieter now, like he was trying to figure out what this all meant.

“And I can’t tell if it’s because you feel bad for me or because you actually want to be around me.”

I turned to him, my eyes soft.

“I’m here because I want to be. Because I care. And because... I know you. Tim Bradford, who’s always been too stubborn to let anyone in, and yet here I am, sitting on your couch, talking about feelings like we’re some emotional soap opera. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

He gave a small, reluctant chuckle at my teasing tone, his lips curving upward just slightly.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I said with a grin, “here you are.”

We fell into a comfortable silence again, the kind that didn’t feel forced, the kind where two people didn’t need words to fill the empty spaces.

There was something unspoken between us, something that told me that whatever had happened before, we were on the right path.

Tim wasn’t healed, he wasn’t perfect, but I could see the shift, the subtle change in him.

The walls weren’t down yet, but they were starting to crumble. And I was right here, standing by, waiting for him to let me in completely when he was ready.

It wasn’t going to be easy.It wasn’t going to be quick. But it didn’t matter.

We had time.

It didn’t take long for others to start noticing too.

One afternoon, I decided to stop by the station to bring Tim lunch.

I figured since my classes were done early, why not get something for Tim?

He was buried in paperwork, as usual, but I didn’t mind waiting for him to finish his shift.

I didn't bother letting him know I was here since I knew sooner or later he would take his lunch break anyways.

I found myself seated in the break room, scrolling aimlessly through my phone, trying to keep my mind occupied as the day dragged on.

As I settled into a chair, I couldn’t help but notice how different the atmosphere felt.

The usual hum of chatter was punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter or complaints about long shifts, but today there was something more, something that seemed to linger in the air.

It wasn’t just the usual noise; it was the weight of unspoken things.

Things I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but I felt them pressing in from all sides.

I was trying not to overthink it, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut.

A few minutes passed before the door to the break room opened, and Lucy, walked in.

She glanced around the room and her eyes immediately landed on me, a teasing smile spreading across her face.

"Well, well, look who it is," she said, her tone light but with that unmistakable edge of curiosity.

"You and Tim are spending a lot of time together these days, huh?"

I froze for a second, caught off guard. I hadn’t thought much of it before, but now, under Lucy’s sharp gaze, I realized how conspicuous my visits had become.

It wasn’t like I was hiding anything, it was just... complicated.

I cleared my throat, trying to act natural, though it felt impossible under her intense scrutiny.

"I’ve known Tim forever," I said quickly, offering a weak smile.

"We’re just—uh—friends. I’m just helping him out while he’s dealing with everything." I shrugged, hoping the explanation would sound casual enough.

Lucy raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, her smile widening as she looked at me.

"Uh-huh. Sure," she said, her tone dripping with amusement, though there was an underlying curiosity that made me uncomfortable.

"You sure it’s just that?"

I laughed awkwardly, not sure how to respond.

"Yeah, it’s nothing like that," I said, forcing a more confident tone.

"Just... making sure he’s okay."

Lucy didn’t seem entirely satisfied with my response, but before she could say anything else, Angela walked in, her presence soft but steady, as always.

She gave me a brief, knowing glance, then made her way to the coffee machine.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, then glanced at me, her expression casual but thoughtful.

"Everything okay with you and Tim?" she asked, her voice carrying that undertone of concern that I was getting to know so well.

I shrugged, trying to keep things light.

"Yeah, just trying to be there for him. You know how it is."

Angela gave me a small, understanding smile. "Uh-huh," she said, her voice warm.

"Well, he could really use someone like you right now. He’s been through a lot."

There was a certain empathy in her voice, a softness that made it clear she wasn’t just speaking out of curiosity but out of genuine care.

I nodded, though my throat tightened slightly.

"I know," I said quietly. "I’m just... I’m not going anywhere."

Angela studied me for a moment, her gaze steady. "Good. Because he needs you more than you realize."

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I simply nodded, grateful for her understanding but also feeling that tug in my chest.

He needed me?

The words sounded so simple, but I knew they carried more weight than either of us could truly express.

I wasn’t sure if I was the right person for him, but at least I knew I wasn’t going to turn my back.

Just then, Tim walked into the break room, his tired eyes immediately locking onto me.

The usual exhaustion seemed heavier in his steps, but when he saw me, his face softened, the corners of his lips turning up in a faint smile.

"Hey," he said quietly, his voice rough from the long day.

"Hey," I replied, standing up to hand him the bag of lunch I had brought.

Tim’s eyes flickered over the bag before meeting mine, and for a moment, there was a hesitation in the way he looked at me, like he was unsure whether to accept it or not.

But then he sighed, a weary but grateful exhale, and took the bag.

"You didn’t have to, but... thanks."

I watched as he sat down at one of the nearby tables, unpacking the lunch while I leaned against the counter, my heart quietly thudding in my chest.

Angela, who had been standing by the coffee machine, exchanged a glance with Lucy, her smile now knowing.

Lucy, still leaning against the doorway, gave a small smirk before turning her attention back to Tim.

"So, you finally caved, huh?" she teased, nodding toward the food.

"She’s got you eating lunch now."

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was a soft chuckle beneath the exasperation.

"It’s not like I have much of a choice," he said, still looking at the sandwich like it was some sort of rare treasure.

He glanced up at Lucy.

"Besides, I’m not complaining. I’m just not used to people looking out for me like this."

There was a vulnerability in his voice that I don’t think he meant to show, but it was there, in the quiet undertone, the subtle shift in the way he spoke.

I knew Tim wasn’t the kind of guy to ask for help.

He was the one who fixed problems, not the one who leaned on others.

But somehow, with me, it felt like he was starting to let go of that.

Angela watched the exchange closely, and then, as if sensing the shift in the air, she turned to Lucy.

"You know, Tim’s been through a lot recently," she said quietly, but loud enough for Tim to hear.

"He’s lucky to have someone like Y/n looking out for him."

Tim’s expression softened, but there was a flicker of something, embarrassment, maybe, crossing his face.

He didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening between us, and I could tell he didn’t want to make it into anything more than it already was.

But the way Angela spoke, the way Lucy subtly nodded her head, it felt like the room was starting to see something I hadn’t even fully acknowledged myself.

Tim cleared his throat, looking between the two of them.

"Can we not do this?" he muttered, his usual gruff tone returning.

Lucy just grinned. "We’re just saying, Tim. You’ve got someone good by your side."

He shot her a glare, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, picking up his sandwich.

"Now, let me eat in peace."

I couldn’t help but chuckle at how Tim was, even when the attention was on him.

He was the kind of guy who liked to keep things quiet, low-key, but deep down, he had a heart bigger than anyone could guess.

I’d seen it in the little moments.

In the subtle ways he would smile when he thought no one was looking, the quiet gratitude he’d show when I checked in on him.

But what nobody else saw, what no one else truly understood, was that he wasn’t just letting me help him.

He was starting to let me in.

And that, in itself, was something I’d never taken for granted.

Months went by, each day gently nudging Tim closer to healing.

It wasn’t immediate or obvious, but I could see the small shifts in his demeanor.

The subtle way he would offer a half-smile when I arrived at his door, the ease with which he would share a quiet moment with me on the porch swing.

Slowly, he started to settle into the routine of his life again.

Work at the station, though demanding, seemed to bring some comfort to him, and I often found myself bringing him lunch or joining him for a coffee break, simply to be there, without expectations.

One evening, nearly a year after Isabel left, I found myself sitting with Tim on his porch again.

The night was unusually quiet, the world around us seeming to pause in a peaceful stillness.

The trees swayed gently, and the air smelled like summer, warm and comforting.

Tim had wrapped up his shift earlier than usual, and we found ourselves sitting together, the familiar rhythm of the evening comforting and unhurried.

I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He was staring out at the stars, but I could see the subtle tension in his shoulders.

The way he exhaled a little too deeply, as though he was letting go of something that had been weighing on him.

It was a feeling I had grown used to, the heaviness he carried.

But tonight, it felt like something was different.

The night air was cool, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves above us, and I could feel the calmness settle into my bones.

Everything was quiet, except for the soft rhythm of our breathing and the occasional sound of crickets in the distance.

I turned my head slightly, stealing a glance at Tim.

He was sitting so close, his presence so palpable, but he still had that same tired, thoughtful look in his eyes that I had come to recognize over the past few months.

But now, there was something softer in him, a quiet strength, a peace that hadn’t been there before.

For a moment, I simply let my fingers brush against his, the simple touch lingering in the air between us.

The connection was natural, easy. It wasn’t the first time our hands had brushed like this, but tonight, it felt different.

There was an unspoken understanding between us now, something we hadn’t put into words yet, but that felt like it was always there.

I felt the warmth of his hand against mine, the solidness of it, and it made me realize just how much he had come to mean to me.

Tim looked at me then, his eyes meeting mine with that softness I hadn’t seen before.

It was like he was letting down the last of his walls, the final pieces of the armor he had put up after everything with Isabel.

I could feel the weight of it, the healing that had happened, the painful journey he had been on, and I was there, right beside him, supporting him, but also, silently sharing in his transformation.

"I don’t think I ever really understood what it meant to have someone by your side until now," Tim said, his voice soft but heavy with emotion.

He spoke with such raw honesty that it made my chest tighten.

"I think I’ve always been so used to carrying things alone... But you, you’ve made it easier, without even trying."

I squeezed his hand a little, my heart aching with all the things he hadn’t said out loud but that I could hear in his tone.

"I’m just here for you, Tim," I whispered. "I always will be."

There was a long silence, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was full of understanding, full of all the emotions we had shared over the past year.

Tim shifted closer, the space between us becoming just a little smaller, but it wasn’t rushed.

It was like we were both giving ourselves permission to feel this moment, to let it settle in without trying to force anything.

He leaned his head back slightly, his gaze shifting to the stars above us.

The night was clear, and I followed his line of sight, watching the stars twinkle in the vast expanse of sky.

The quiet was soothing, almost as if the universe was holding its breath for us.

"I didn’t know how much I needed this," Tim murmured after a while, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

"You’ve always been here, always had my back. I never really appreciated it until recently."

I turned toward him, my heart swelling with something I couldn’t quite put into words.

"You don’t have to say anything, Tim," I said softly.

"I’m just glad I’m here, that we’re here."

He met my gaze again, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that wasn’t just about the past or the hurt he had carried.

There was something new, something tender, something hopeful.

It was like he was letting go of all the things that had weighed him down and opening himself up to what was right in front of him.

"I think… I think I’ve been afraid of letting go for so long," he said, his voice catching slightly.

"Afraid of trusting again, of letting myself care for someone like this. But with you, it’s different. You make me feel like I’m not broken anymore."

My breath hitched, the vulnerability in his words piercing right through me.

I didn’t know what to say, so instead, I reached out, my fingers gently brushing his cheek.

The warmth of his skin beneath my touch made my heart race, and the moment felt so real, so tangible, that it made everything else seem distant.

He looked at me, his eyes holding mine with a quiet intensity.

And then, without another word, Tim leaned in just a little, his breath mingling with mine.

There was no grand gesture, no big confession.

It was just two people, sharing something that had been building for so long.

Something that had been quietly simmering in the background but was now ready to come to the surface.

The kiss came slowly, naturally. Tim’s lips were soft against mine, hesitant at first, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what this all meant.

But as the seconds passed, the kiss deepened, became more certain. His hand moved to my waist, pulling me closer, and I responded, letting myself get lost in the warmth of the moment.

There were no more walls between us, no more hesitation.

It was just us, in that fleeting moment where everything felt right.

When we pulled away, our foreheads rested together, both of us breathing a little heavier, but neither of us moving away.

Tim smiled softly, his thumb brushing across my hand in the gentlest of gestures, and there was a quiet kind of joy in the way he looked at me.

"You make everything better," Tim murmured, his voice low and full of tenderness.

I smiled, my heart swelling with the truth of his words.

"You do the same for me."

And just like that, in the quiet of the night, everything had changed.

The air between us was no longer filled with uncertainty or unspoken words.

It was filled with the promise of something new, something worth exploring.

Tim looked at me one more time, his smile wide, and without hesitation, he kissed me again, deeper this time, like he had found the peace he had been searching for all along.

I closed my eyes, letting myself be wrapped up in the moment, in him, knowing that this was just the beginning of something beautiful.

As we pulled away, I laughed softly, feeling lighter than I had in a long time.

"You’re not so bad, you know?" I teased, my voice playful.

Tim grinned, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes.

"I could say the same about you."

I leaned back a little, still grinning.

"You know, this whole ‘finding peace’ thing is great and all, but I still have a paper due tomorrow. So… no more distractions from you, okay?"

Tim chuckled, his fingers brushing against mine as he leaned in once more.

"I think you might be the only person who could make me feel guilty about a kiss. But I guess I can’t argue with a paper deadline."

I rolled my eyes, laughing.

"Good. Because I’m already regretting not studying before I decided to spend all my time with you."

Tim smirked. "Well, I’ll make it up to you by making sure you get an A on that paper. I can be pretty persuasive."

"Only if you promise not to distract me more," I shot back with a wink.

Tim raised an eyebrow. "No promises."

And just like that, the world felt right again.

In that moment, with the stars above us and the quiet of the world around us, I knew everything was finally falling into place.

The end

[sidekick-hero]

I can't stop thinking of Eddie as Cyrano de Bergerac.

He's in the drama club, he's known for his way with words, his ability to bring whole worlds to life with them. Few people know that he also writes poetry, poems about love and loss, society and justice, whatever comes to his mind. Many of them are about a mysterious person with gold-flecked eyes and autumn hair, constellations on his skin, and the sun in his heart.

Eddie guards his notebook full of poems like a dragon guards his hoard of gold. And yet.

And yet Susie Bowers finds it where it fell out of his pocket when that asshole Tommy Hagan pushed him against the lockers. She reads it and realizes how devastatingly beautiful Eddie's words are.

It makes her think… think about her crush on Steve Harrington, the fallen king who is still the most eligible bachelor at Hawkins High. Especially since he refuses to just take girls home to fuck them. No, he wants to date. He wants to fall in love. It's catnip for everyone, but at the same time so frustrating because no girl has managed to catch his eye yet.

Maybe this little notebook is her ticket to a relationship with Steve Harrington.

She approaches Eddie and shows him the notebook, pulling it out of his reach as he attempts to grab it. She offers him a deal: she won't spread copies of all his cute little writings all over the school, exposing his deepest secrets for everyone to see and ridicule. In exchange, Eddie will help her sweet-talk Steve Harrington.

Eddie agrees and writes love letters to the boy he's been in love with ever since he found him drunk and depressed on the side of the road after his girlfriend dumped him. He had taken him home, listened to him ramble on about what he had done wrong, why no one would want to love him, and then put Steve to bed and watched him sleep until morning to make sure he was okay.

He left before Steve woke up, and the next time they saw each other at school, Steve didn't even look at him. It had broken his heart and inspired most of his poems, because nothing inspires like heartbreak.

And now Eddie can tell Steve all the things he thinks and feels about him - just to make it seem like it's written by Susie.

It seems to work, because Steve replies to her letters. His replies are simpler, less lyrical, but just as earnest. His words are sweet, and he's funny and thoughtful.

He's everything Eddie knew he was going to be. And Susie couldn't care less, she just wants to go out with him, have him take her home, have everyone know that she's Steve Harrington's girlfriend.

They go out. After a dozen letters, he gives in and asks her out.

Eddie cries himself to sleep that night.

Someone knocks on his bedroom window. Confused and a bit nervous, because he doesn't have only friends in this town, far from it, he goes to open it.

And finds Steve Harrington standing right outside his window.

"What -"

"Did you mean them?" Steve asks and he can't tell from his tone what he's thinking.

"What?"

"Your letters, did you mean what you wrote or did you just write down what you thought I wanted to hear so I'd go out with Susie?"

His tone doesn't really change, but Eddie can see his eyes shining in the dim light coming from his bedroom. He looks upset, and Eddie wants to fix it, but he doesn't know what answer would do that.

So he chooses the truth. "Yes. I meant every single word I wrote in those letters."

"Then why didn't you send them under your own name?" When did Steve get so close? And why is the window sill digging into his stomach?

At Steve's question, Eddie can't help but laugh bitterly. "Did you look at me, Steve? I'm the town freak! A fuckup. Trailer trash. A small-time drug dealer who failed his senior year. Why would anybody - why would you want to get love letters from me?"

Steve nods, not saying a word as he turns and walks away. And okay, he deserves it, he guesses. Hanging his head in defeat, he shuffles away from the window and face plants on his bed, letting fresh tears fall from his eyes.

Until there's another knock, this time at his front door.

He's out of bed in record time, almost breaking his neck in his haste to get to the door. It can't be - it's impossible that this is -

Steve is standing on his front porch, looking devastatingly handsome in his light-washed Levi's and red sweater. His date outfit.

He walks up to him before Eddie can say anything and cups his cheek.

"I've been looking at you, Eddie. All I've done since the night you brought me home and listened to me and took care of me, I've been looking at you. Looking and waiting. Hoping. Wanting you to give me a sign, any sign, that it wasn't just chivalry that made you do this, but the fact that you cared. About me. But you never did."

"Steve," Eddie whispers, but Steve isn't finished.

"And then I get these letters, and all the words, they sound like you. I couldn't be sure, not until I read the line, 'You deserve someone who wants to love you, all of you, the good and the bad and everything in between. I want to be that person. I want to love you.' You're the only one I've ever said that to. I knew it had to be you."

"But why? Why go out with Susie?"

"Because I had to be absolutely sure that it wasn't Susie. And after ten minutes with her, I was. I drove around until I couldn't… I had to talk to you. To see if you mean it. If you want to love me."

Eddie kisses him.

There's nothing else on his mind but the need to finally kiss the boy he's been in love with for almost a year.

Steve kisses him back, soft, tender, then deeper, dirtier.

When they pull apart, both gasping, Eddie leans in closer because his next words are meant for him and Steve and no one else.

"I want to love you long after my body crumbles to dust and my soul finds yours in the afterlife. I want to love you as the ocean does the moon, forever bound, forever following its call, until the end of time."

[shushmal]

merman steve pt 2

a continuation of this for @spectrum-spectre, now with some pre-steddie~!

Henderson is skulking around in the cereal aisle when Eddie spots him.

The kid has been a bit of enigma to Eddie since he met him at the beginning of last fall semester. Dustin had a tight group of friends, but often times, he caught the gang of them sans Henderson and the fact seemed to annoy the hell out of them.

"He just goes off on on his own sometimes," Baby Beyers would say.

"He won't tell anyone where or why or with who," Mini Wheeler would snarl.

"And it's definitely not to talk to his girlfriend, because we hear ALL about that," Big Sinclair would sigh, rolling his eyes.

So catching kid creeping around the grocery store minus the rest of his party, after hearing many complains of his mysterious disappearances? Color Eddie intrigued.

"Hendersooon," Eddie sang, wrapping an arm around Dustin's neck to keep him from escaping. "Whatcha doing?"

"Eddie!" he said brightly, grinning at him. "Just buying some snacks. Hey, which cereal do you think a fish can eat?"

Eddie stares at him for a moment, blinking. "Uh..."

Henderson's face scrunches up. "I guess he's not really a fish though, so I'll try whatever." He grabs a box of Honey Combs from the shelf.

"Dude, are you keeping a sea turtle at your house again? You know that's illegal."

"No!" Henderson snaps, flushing. "And I was going to take Dart back after show and tell, I had already promised Steve!"

"Steve?" That was a new name. Eddie hadn't heard Henderson talk about a Steve before, and the guy was kind of a motormouth and a terrible liar. The only time Eddie had seen him actually avoid a topic was when his little disappearing acts were brought up. "Who's Steve?"

Henderson's eyes go comically wide. "No-one! I don't know any Steves!"

Eddie knew at least three Steves, and two were in Henderson's grade. "Uh-huh."

"Anyways," Dustin says, clutching the box of Honey Combs to his chest as he backs down the aisle. "I gotta go man, nice seeing you, bye!"

Bemused, Eddie watches him go. He's planning to give Henderson a five minute head start before he goes to tail him, but apparently, he needn't to have planned a stake out after all. Henderson finds him again, two aisles over, panting and red-faced.

"Actually, can you give me a ride?"

🧜‍♂️

"Eddie," Henderson says, voice even more serious and deadly than the time the party took on Vecna last month during their campaign. "I need you to swear that you will never, ever tell anyone about what I'm going to show you."

Eddie cocks a brow at him. "Is this a drugs thing? Dude, you—"

"No!" Henderson snaps. "This is not a drug thing! This is a very serious life and death thing, and I need you to swear on you life you won't tell anyone about it."

"Dude," Eddie says, a little in awe. He stares out his windshield for a moment where they're still parked just outside of town. He can hear sounds of the ocean just past the ridge, waves crashing on the cliffs. It's a remote little area, opposite of the tourist favored beaches. Eddie, in fact, deals just a few miles down the shoreline from here. "Did you bring me out here to kill me? Are you the world's dorkiest serial killer?"

"Eddie." Eddie turns to look at him. His face is grave, brows furrowed with real worry. "I'm serious."

"Okay... Okay, then."

"You have to swear."

"I swear."

And just like that, Henderson's face breaks into a bright smile. "I knew I could trust you!" he crows, grabbing up his bag from the store and kicking open his door.

Eddie stumbles out of his van after him, listening intently as they pick their way over the rocks.

"He's so cool, Eddie, you're going to love him. He totally saved my life when I was like ten and I got pulled out on a rip tide. Like, I really almost died dude and then he just swims up out of no where and helps me catch my breath. Helps me float there while I'm freaking out too until the life guard finally came out to get me. It was crazy! I come out here all the time to visit him, I think he gets a little lonely. So it's good you're here, I've been trying to think of someone else to introduce him to, but it's hard to figure out who's going to freak out and try to sell him to Sea World, or something."

They crest over the hill to a tiny little cove bitten out of the rocky shore, and carefully begin to make their way back down to the water's edge. Eddie's still not entirely sure Henderson hasn't brought him here to die. Maybe Steve is the serial killer and he uses Henderson as bait.

"Okay, okay," Dustin says, once they reach the water. It's calmer here, the cliffs cutting this spot off from the larger waves. "Are you ready to see the coolest thing EVER?"

"Uh, sure, kid—"

Eddie doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence when he starts yelling.

"STEVE THIS IS EDDIE I BROUGHT HIM TO MEET YOU I PROMISE IT'S SAFE!"

"Jesus Christ," Eddie hisses, covering his ears. The lungs on this kid! "What the fuck dude— WHAT THE FUCK!!"

Because when he looks down, there is a face in the water. Eddie falls back on his ass, uncaring of the water soaking his jeans, and screams when the face in the water rises up out the ocean.

It looks pissed.

"Dustin," it says, glaring at Eddie. Eddie screams again, because it—the guy—the mermaid lifts himself fully onto the rocks, and he doesn't have any legs. Because he has a fucking tail.

A fucking fish tail.

"Steve!" Dustin cheers. "You came out."

"You sure?" the goddamn mermaid asks, finally taking his piercing, alien eyes off of Eddie to look at him. "Sure it safe?"

"Absolutely," Dustin says hastily, crouching beside Eddie to put his hands on his shoulders. "Eddie just screams a lot, I promise you, he's totally safe."

"R-Right," Eddie says, because he does not want to be eaten. Maybe Dustin's been dragging unsuspecting victims here to feed his pet goddamn mermaid instead of a serial killer. "Totally safe, that's me."

Steve, the goddamn fucking mermaid, looks him up and down doubtfully, and it's terrifying having those eyes on him, unnaturally yellow surrounded by black. His face is distressingly human, nose and mouth and ears with a mop of dark hair on his head. He has these bright shimmering scales across his cheekbones that dot down his jaw and neck, iridescent and glimmering in the afternoon sun. Eddie can't bring himself to look down further, scared and enraptured all at once.

Steve is terrifying and beautiful to look at.

"Fine," says Steve and pushes himself gracefully back into the water, disappearing into the dark depths.

"What the fuck," Eddie breathes. He looks up at Dustin with wide eyes. "Dude, what the fuck."

Dustin just grins down at him. "Isn't he the coolest?!"

[osamucide]

⊹ PUT ME IN A MOVIE

IF HE LIKES ME, TAKES ME HOME . . . ft. Nikolai Gogol

wc: ~5.8k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT—PLEASE READ ALL TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING, snuff film maker!nikolai, alternate universe—no abilities, gn+afab!reader, 2nd person pov, siglai easter egg if you squint, stalking, implied/referenced dissociation, substance use/abuse, intoxication, drugging, abduction, choking, filming, restraints, graphic depictions of violence and gore, graphic noncon elements, mindbreak(?), spanking, object insertion (knife handle), knives/cutting, murder, reader.. dies(?)

reid: brilliant idea courtesy of my friend @berryzai thank u for planting this thought in my little freak brain. this was a fun little practice in suspense building and i would love feedback <3 .......if anyone would be tickled by a gross and gratuitous part 2 lmk lollll

It would happen to you.

At what’s felt like your goddamn lowest, too. There’s been a distant echo of a warning in your brain—perhaps from your mother or your father a long while ago; it rings now, still—that you hadn’t been heeding from the second the alluring silver-haired man placed himself with grace next to you at the bar. Be aware of your surroundings. Don’t go out by yourself. Don’t let your guard down. Sentiments you know to arm yourself to the teeth with—or, knew to, at some point, anyway.

You’re vigilant, always have been. Maybe aside from the going out by yourself part, but you could hardly help that living in a new city, sans friends and family, would prove more exhausting and isolating than you could’ve imagined in the technological age. No amount of text messages or FaceTimes or stupid Tiktoks sent to you from familiar, faraway fingers has translated into anything other than bitter little reminders that you’re really on your own this time.

Your social life has fallen completely by the wayside in light of your frantic work schedule. You’re never off the clock for more than twelve hours at a time, what with how criminally expensive your shiny, brand-new rent is—you could laugh to yourself right now if you were less delirious, thinking about paying so much for a room where you slept three feet from the shitter—and even if you did have friends, or nice coworkers, or a day off, would you even be able to muster up the dignity to bring anyone to your excuse of a place? You doubt it. You can barely stand being cooped up in there as it is, which is why, so often, you find yourself waggling your empty glass for the fourth time each evening at some bartender who by now recognizes you better than you recognize them.

And who could blame you? You have never felt so fucking alone.

You’ve been feeling caught in the spiraling downstream with all the other excreta Yokohama pushes from the pipes in the slums out into the ocean. It’s probably why you so eagerly welcomed the not-so-subtle curiosity of the man who introduced himself to you as Nikolai, proclaiming himself an avid drinker of your cocktail of choice—whiskey and whiskey—and commenting with enthusiasm on the glow of your skin even in the stale light of the bar. The apology for the awkwardness of such a compliment that followed it was just as bubbly; it was perhaps the first thing in weeks, if not months, that had made you crack a scoff of a laugh and raise your eyes to another human being outside the pretense of a monetary transaction.

He was stunning, really. You’d even felt lucky, momentarily, to have your attention stolen from your sorrows by this man whom you learned was visiting from Ukraine, was a filmmaker and photographer, was blind in one eye—it was true, it seemed, as his own skin was unblemished, perfect and not unlike porcelain, aside from a vertical scar plunging through his right eyebrow to below, just above his cheek, which did not detract from his beauty one bit, by the way. His teeth gleamed, wide and often, in low-contrast to his pale complexion when he tangented about his artistic endeavors which, according to him, explored the depth of the soul and the capabilities of the mind. He was fascinated with people, he told you. Fascinated, to a spiritual extent it seemed, with the billions of different possible human conceptions of the word freedom.

Freedom. It felt ironic now.

He could tell you had a certain depth, he’d said—one he liked to find and study in people. His testimony went like this: he’d have drinks and movies and a double bed for you to crash in, and it sounded a world more appealing than drowning your organs in liquor alone another night before slumping to your abominable makeshift-cell of a home before throwing up your hangover, sleeping a half-hour over the toilet, and heading in for your morning shift.

So, you agreed, on behalf of the fact that you’d felt fascinated by him, too. You noticed he’d gone on blabbering so long that you’d sobered up adequately enough to nod and accept, in what you assumed was your right mind, his invitation to go back to his place with him. In retrospect, he could’ve asked you to come over and do this—whatever was happening right now—and you’re not sure you wouldn’t have just laughed and resisted only playfully.

You’ve been so desperate for any interruption in the mind-numbing, feet-dragging routine that’s consumed your pathetic life that if you weren’t a dose of sedative short of completely panicking right now, you’d probably still be thinking this isn’t too bad.

But that’s silly, of course. You do, above all, feel like an idiot through your haze. You’d done everything right—everything except the going out by yourself thing, and that's how you've wound up in this man's dingy apartment, cuffed to the radiator with no less than three layers of tape wrapped around your head and ankles respectively. Alone. Alone is what you're used to these days, and it’s looking like it’s all going to come to a screeching halt the very same way.

You have no idea where he's gone. You just hope he’ll save the mutilation for after you’re dead.

Hey, you can forget about paying rent for that shithole of yours, at least.

His own's not a sight to behold, and you've gotten pretty familiar with it since you've woken up. He was showing you pictures before he left—before he knocked you unconscious, cleanly and with whatever he obviously slipped in the homemade whiskey and whiskey as far as your memory serves, but the throbbing, sore patch at the back of your skull that's obviously bruised when you lean it against the wall says otherwise. He must've hit you. But maybe he didn't. At your brightest and most alert, you can't say you'd be able to differentiate between blunt-force fog, roofie brain sludge, or the mixture of both.

The photographs started out elegant, really. Men and women alike posed solo, side by side, or in small groups, with knives and guns, mostly—pretty lines, sharp contours, silhouettes that prompted you to ask if he was a student. No, he'd replied, here for work; this is just a hobby. More men and women—a few recurring ones, including an androgynous-looking person with the most artful pastel split-dye you'd ever seen and a side profile to die for—in intricate shibari. A coworker? you'd asked; you could say that, he had replied with a wink. You'd drawn your legs up into yourself onto his bed where you leaned into him closer than could be considered friendly and you fawned. You weren't sure you'd met anyone like him. You hadn't met anyone in a very long time, it felt like.

The photos got strange rather quickly. Same photoshoots, same models, same weapons—but with blood. Bullet holes and brain matter and exposed bones. He has a passion for practical effects, he'd told you. See that little bit of brains there? he'd pointed out. Wet cauliflower rubbed with food coloring. Just like that. Easy! Blown-off skin was exceptionally simple to recreate using deli meat, you learned. You remember ogling a particularly convincing pile of innards with half-disgust, half-astonishment. He had photos of similar nature pinned up, collaged, ripped and repieced all over his water-damaged walls, all taken by him; there must've been hundreds. He’d love to do a shoot with you, if you’d be up for it, he said. He’d make sure you’re comfortable—show you just how simple it is to create such images with practical, do-it-yourself effects.

It hadn't started to sink in until too late just how practical the effects in those pictures might've been.

But by then, you were seeing two of him. When did he grow another trailing, milky braid? You'd reached out drunkenly to touch it, take it between your fingers, and there was two of your one hand, as well; there had to be, for when you looked down at your glass, now empty, there were two of those, too. You had four hands, and his two smiles were as charming as ever when he giggled and asked if you liked his hair. Yeah, you're pretty sure you'd slurred, maybe once, maybe twice, but after that, it's all dark. 

You should've scalped and strangled him with it.

Your guess is as good as anyone's how long you've been here, how long he—Nikolai—has been gone, if or when he's coming back.

But there's no room for guesses when you're hyperventilating manually through your nostrils just to keep yourself awake. You've been searching frenetically, yanking uselessly, screaming into plastic for at least a couple of hours now—long enough to be reduced to whimpering, rocking, and absent surveying of your surroundings. A fridge with the handle duct taped on. An unmade bed with black and white striped sheets stretched over it. Cutlery all over the countertop. Laminated floors curling up beneath the cupboards. A birdcage, tipped over and with no bird in it. Smoke stains on the ceilings. Boxes. Boxes. Cardboard boxes piled up next to the dresser and spilling out of the meager closet, among other trash. A video camera silent on a tripod in the far corner. A distinct and hollow smell that reminds you, for some reason, of your elementary school. A small analog television. All those photos, everywhere.

You've cried enough in your life to know the taste of tears. It's odd when they run, like raindrops down a window, across the tape and you find the salt inaccessible.

Please, succumb to dehydration, or starvation, or let the will just leave my body—who hasn't wanted to drop dead a time or two in their life? You just never expected these prayers of yours to be so immediate. So visceral.

You think back to the pile of innards in that photo. Gelatin, he'd told you. As if to prove himself, he bounced over to his kitchen cabinets and produced a tin mold that looked readily liver-like.

So much trouble, just to get you here. Inevitably.

The last words you remember him uttering to you—quiz time had preceded them—while he tucked your hair behind your ear and grinned toothily, don’t haunt you as much as they feel like drying cement in your stomach.

“At what point tonight did I start lying to you?”

Even now—especially now—you can’t say.

You’re rather annoyed with the squeaking, wheezing sound that pulses through the space until you remember it’s coming from yourself. Your lungs and throat. It’s getting easier to slip out of your body like that, the longer you sit here.

You hope the dissociative blessing will find you again at the right times.

It would be nicer—not to be so aware of everything right now. The metal digging into your wrists, your elbows and knees knocking against the humming radiator, the absurd way your cheeks puff up like a squirrel’s before your airways can remember you’re not allowed to draw breath in through your mouth anymore. You’re aware of the ache at the base of your neck and the nail marks you dig into your own palms and loads of other physical stimuli, in the form of nothing, barraging you from inside this apartment where nothing, dreadfully, happens. Nothing.

But again, your awareness does not reach your sense of passing time.

So, when he does come back, it might’ve been an hour since you’d woken up—or it might’ve been a few, or it might’ve been longer.

You don’t know.

“Oh, my friend! Terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” he chirps, as if you’re lounging on the couch with the next episode of your favorite show loaded up and ready to watch.

The tears come fresh when he walks over and squats down in front of you, at your eye level, muttering hey, hey like you’re a small dog, smiling the smile that was once charming—now it makes your jaw tighten, your breathing quicken, your back hit the wall.

“I promised movies, didn't I?”

You could mistake his tone for warm if you closed your eyes. You want to. You can't.

After regarding you and finding some satisfaction—you're not sure what in—Nikolai hops up, whistling. Your gaze follows him, dutifully, as if watching him will keep him at bay. That white braid swishes out of time with your breath as the little television crackles to life.

His rifling through one of the boxes produces a stack of DVDs in telltale white paper sleeves, each with its own permanent-marker-scribbled identifier like a love letter—you see these, make these out when he kneels back down in front of you, still whistling as he fans them like a deck of cards, like he wants you to pick one, any one.

But then he clicks his tongue.

“So impolite of me.” He seems to remember the predicament he’s placed you in. Setting the discs aside, he digs in his pocket. “Let's try something, okay?”

On its own, your head shakes side to side. No, is what the tape keeps in your mouth.

But it's a small key, and he's reaching for your cuffs—some sick part of you feels ready to forgive him if he just unlocks you and lets you go. Maybe he'll let you go. You would've stayed for movies had he not done this to you, you swear, unintelligible in your mewling—you’d been so lonely, he could’ve shown you anything and you would’ve stayed. Just let me go, you think now. Just let me go.

Before the tooth of the key slides in—so close—he tells you, "Nothing funny, now. This hand—" he taps the one closest to him, "—is for picking only, got it?"

He's frozen; you realize he's waiting for an answer. Your sight has never wavered from him, but you feel like you're zeroing back in on him and his expectancy from behind closed eyes as he tilts his head forward, toward you. Yes begins to form on his lips, like he's speaking it into you. You nod harshly. It hurts your neck.

But when the key clicks, a caged animal cannot be expected not to pounce.

Your free hand flies up to claw at his face, hard, unforgiving and without knowing what exactly you hope to accomplish. Nail tracks and fingertips find purchase as quickly and comfortably as they can into an eye socket. If your mouth was free, you'd be spitting. Shouting.

But he just peels you away and twists your arm in a way that forces your torso to follow and you screech into the tape; he twists, toward your chest and then down, and you're no match for him and his manic clenched teeth and the way he rises up to plant his foot upon your wrist, in the middle of your back.

Your chin hits the floor.

Something in your shoulder tears loose with a nauseating crack.

You scream. It's not loud enough.

“It's only gonna get worse if you don't just listen to me, sweetheart,” he growls, leaning down, grinding your carpal bones to dust beneath his heel.

Sweetheart. The first time he calls you anything other than friend is when it's really started. He's hurting you and the gutting certainty that he won't stop here is washing over you like a frigid wave.

Those pathetic, annoying sounds again—whining, whimpering. It's harder to remember it's coming from you when your eyes are screwed shut. If you close them tight enough maybe you can pretend this is all happening to somebody else.

“Obviously, that won’t work,” Nikolai says more to himself than you, yanking you back up, putting you back together off the radiator in a few motions you can’t keep up with before he lets you fall again.

You ragdoll.

You would like to think you might’ve had more fight in a situation like this one. But a steady ache is spreading from your shoulder down into your back and the angle at which he presses you into an arch reminds you your dignity is not something of his concern. You ragdoll.

“No, no, baby, we’re gonna get up now.” He drags you up by your wrists and hair and you groan and ache and try to ragdoll yourself into a bag of sand but he kicks your bound ankles and the negative spaces your knocking knees cut out until you’re sitting on your ass on the edge of his bed, in front of the buzzing TV, tears aglide in a new wave when he threatens you, with so little as a bruising grip on your face, to stay upright. “You’ll be okay,” he purrs emptily.

You’re past the liberty of choice, so the thin stack of DVDs hit the dresser with a papery thwack—all but one, which he jams into the slot before he crawls behind you on the bed. 

It wouldn’t have been so difficult to turn you into a lover, really. You wish you could tell him this while he sets either thigh on each side of your own, slides his arms around your middle, beneath your arms, the dishonesty of his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt so welcoming. You still wish he wouldn’t have lied to you. You wish he wouldn’t have put drugs in your drink. You wish he’d take the tape off and let you wake up from the pain careening parallel to your spine and in your hand and you’d cover his arms with your own and tell him thank you, you’ve needed this, it’s been so long since you’ve felt physical affection from a human being that you think you could cry. His fingers wander between your legs and away again and you are crying. 

But Nikolai doesn’t want to turn you into a lover. The staticy screen hosts a shaky frame trained on where a cracked alleyway swallows up the foot of a brick building in shifty evening light and when it pans up to a window, there you are, impossibly, between a sliver of blinds. When you turn your head away—hearing those suffocated garbles from someone else’s throat—he creeps back up to your jaw, hard, like he wants to leave his fingerprints on the teeth they’ll use to identify you.

You watch yourself get undressed. You watch yourself wrap a towel around your waist and step halfway out of sight behind the frosted glass of your shower door. 

He gets up, periodically, to change the disc. Whistling, leaving you shivering in your bones, glaring sharply at you when you writhe until he guides your wet eyes to another film of yourself. And another. And another. And another. Ones where you’re on your way to work, on the bus. Ones where you carry groceries. Ones where your back faces him, on that barstool of yours. Ones where he gets close enough to touch you and then retreats. Ones where he’s picked up the convenience store receipt that slips out of your pocket. He uncrumbles it for the camera and scans the text and discerns your fate between your case of wine and bag of chips, laughing to himself. He’s a filmmaker. You’re his muse and we’re going to make the best movie ever, you think you hear him whispering to you or shouting at you with vigor when the television finally zaps dead beneath his touch. It’s going to be an exploration, he says, and he’s so lucky it’s you, who did everything right, sweetheart.

“How many days,” he begins, moving you like a mannequin to face him on the bed, your legs curling up uncomfortably as if they’re one, “did I follow you, do you think? Give me your best guess.” 

You desperately don’t want to vomit behind the tape, so you don’t make a sound.  

But he’s looking to you like he’s waiting for you to take your turn in the game, most likely unwilling to give you a leg up after your little outburst earlier. The tiny red crescents between his brows, barely visible beneath his snowy bangs, do not miss you. 

Chain link clicking, you lift up your one ten-fingered hand—no more four hands for a wider array of guesses—and present six shaky fingers. You think about going for his neck. 

Nikolai shakes his head as if he’s pleased to be winning. “Try again.” 

You spare a middle finger. Without looking at your seven, he shakes no once more. You don’t have to cast your eyes down to his arms, filling out the sleeves of his plain white shirt, to remember how strong they were around you without even trying to be. You’d have to be quick and you’d have to squeeze hard. 

Your thumb pokes out. 

No. 

The rest of your planning time rests like a marble between your last two fingers and when your ring finger flicks up you feel it slipping—slipping because what will you do after? You’ll have to choke him until he’s out cold. You’ll have to be certain he’s subdued before you’ll be able to waddle on your bound feet to his door to undo the latch and deadbolt—forbid you shouldn’t have enough time before you can make it out, pound on a neighbor’s door, get to a phone so someone, anyone can help you get out of here. 

Happily, Nikolai shakes his head once more. 

And you’re uncurling your pinky, making your way to a mockery of jazz hands. 

But before you get there, you lunge at him with everything left in your body and shattered hand—your ridiculously stringy reserve of willpower, funneled down through your dislocated shoulder and hours of frantic breath and trembling next to that radiator so that when your nails land this time in half-moons around his throat you groan; you get his jugular with two palms, one assured, one numb, insistent knuckles, and vengeant fingertips and his eyes widen so sweetly, his mouth twists down in the first and only displeased expression you’ll see on his angel-white face and you grit your hidden teeth and squeeze. You can taste the outside air and the blood from inside your cheek.

Frowning and flailing backwards, Nikolai gives you the privilege of a little performance. 

You think you could kill him before he kills you. You want to see the blue rise up his pretty skin. You grit your teeth. Your groan becomes a shriek. You squeeze. 

And when he’s on his back he pries you off. Does you one better. 

He’s grinning before he can get you off him—you’ve lost. You’ve lost a long time ago—when are you going to believe him? Does he have to spit it in your tear-streaked face? Surely you’ll understand, after his knuckles ripple into the space between your upper and lower jaws, now that he stamps his knee into the back of your neck in another choreography-perfect motion you never stood a chance against. Jazz hands against your chest, elbows jabbing your stomach. 

“It was thirteen, anyway,” he growls like he’s angry with you for guessing incorrectly. “Thirteen days. Feisty one.” You had no extra hands or mouth to make such a speculation, and now his heavy leg bears down on you. Hand on your back, grappling toward the curve of your ass, almost soothing. Almost. Your eyes are pressed into a blur of black and white stripes. 

Smack. 

It’s one of the kinder touches, still. 

“I don’t like having to discipline my subjects into submission, you know.” Nikolai almost sounds regretful. “If you’ll just—” Smack— “trust me to do my work, I can trust you to be good for me.”

Your spinal cord could snap like the head off a flower and he just smacks your ass, over, over. All your permission to make sound is trapped between his kneecap and his mattress, him and his rough hands, one of which knots in your hair and yanks, yanks until you can’t pretend this is nice anymore. You should’ve struck faster, gripped harder, shaken him with all your might but you should’ve done lots of things prior to now, and he’s the disappointed discipliner and you’re sorry, alright—you’re sorry you caused either of you all this trouble and you just want to go home. You just want to go back to your shithole apartment and let your chafed wrists heal and allow the long-term pain of a few dodged medical bills remind you that this wasn’t quite a dream, but at least you’ll be alive. 

At least you’d be alive. 

“Don’t fucking move,” he doesn’t bark at you. He’s not unkind. It’s a simple instruction. All the air rushes back in when he gets up, off you. Moves somewhere in the room to make a soft clatter. 

At least you’d be alive. But for what? To slog back to the machine? With all this added weight on you?

Would you want to be? You hadn’t begun with much when you crossed the threshold of the bar into the night he swept you up in. You had the stifling promise of work, home, work, home, feel alone, drink yourself to sleep, and you would be dumbly hopeful—no, pitiably lying to yourself to think anything more, anything different would be waiting for you on the other side of this. 

Another clatter, dull and short, sounds on the bed next to you and you dip with the weight of him following. From the clatter he chooses scissors—you know this because your shirt goes first, the cotton ripping, before your pants which too rip, rip, rip in places all over before he shucks it all, undergarments too, off you like the skin of a fruit.

At least you’d be alive. But what is it you’d aim to become after being Nikolai’s pretty little victim? A work of his art? Surely this isn’t something you want to carry with you, you think in the margin between rationality and ruin—between you and the door you’re not certain you’ll ever reach again. Certainly, not in one piece.

You roll over, exposed. He’s so pretty, biceps flexing, jaw clenching while he situates a body that is not yours into an adequate position where he can sever the duct tape binding the ankles with a few back-and-forth flourishes of his serrated knife like it’s a saw. This is a hobby, you remember. You wonder if he’s a butcher or a mortuary scientist or what he does to make his living and if he looks just as beautiful doing it. You’ve been granted the point-of-view of specimen. You can’t think of a perspective you’d rather watch him splay himself across your thighs from.

Your feet twitch to kick. Your brain doesn’t follow through.

“I told you you’d be comfortable, didn’t I?” He’s back to grinning that grin you’re holding onto. You can be a pretty model if you keep reminding yourself that if you weren’t weakened and restrained in his bed, that grin would look so inviting. His joy and passion are what drew you into him in the first place, after all. He talks to you, looks at you so softly while you feel broken. Isn’t that all you’ve been craving for someone to do? “Let’s get you comfortable, dovey.”

He kisses you—not rough, especially gentle in fact—over the tape as he’s tucking the same knife between your bodies. The kiss of an angel, the kiss of death. 

It’s not comfortable when the stainless steel handle finds its way inside you. You can’t even get wet, looking at him, seeming so patient now that he’s got you bending nice and far, and his teasing from earlier has done nothing; he’s so pretty and you would’ve wanted him before this. He didn’t have to do this to you. 

It’s uncomfortable, too, when he fucks you with it, slow at first—gradually faster. You don’t think you even moan, or whine. You just watch him, silky braid fallen in the crook of his neck, as he alternately studies your face, the knife, how you don’t react. When he fucks you faster, risking cuts upon his own hand, you let your eyes flutter shut, your fingers curling and uncurling subtly like they’re the only part of you that registers what’s happening. You don’t want to watch him anymore, going to the trouble. For you. 

He pushes it so deep for you, so deep you start to feel the serrated teeth. Your toes echo your fingers and finally, you give him sound in the form of a cry. 

“Oh, that’s good,” Nikolai tells you. A laugh bubbles through the words. 

Stop, you think you’re saying. Don’t. It’s anyone’s guess and his guess is more. 

So you leave. You remember this is all happening to someone who isn’t you—you have to feel it, but it’s not happening to you. You leave and you pretend it’s two of his fingers in you—they’re cold, that’s all—pretend the tape and the cuffs are some kink thing you were thrilled to indulge him in. Pretend you’re not concussed. Pretend your faculties can come back to you anytime you want in this little daze of yours—he’s just making you comfortable, he’s just making you feel good because your life isn’t so sad that you don’t deserve even that. 

He’s just making you feel good. 

Your tears have no end. They unravel out of you like string. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” his voice shakes with the speed. You jostle with his pace but you pretend you’re floating. “Don’t cry, pretty thing.” But he’s cutting you open from the worst place and when he grabs your chin again, his hands’ slick with his blood or maybe yours and you jolt back home into your body to find him again and the knife is still inside you. 

You hurt all over. He’s just making you feel good. 

Your sobs come loud and violent, withheld only by tape. He’s patient with you. He’ll be patient with you while you purge it, surely. You blur over, the string undoing faster and faster and he’s wiping your tears away, replacing them with something else, something red. It gets in your eyes. You miss his grin this time but if you were to see it, you would not think it the same one from before. 

When your body rejects the knife he scoops it up, licks the handle clean of all you’ve given him so far, with care. 

And he hushes you. 

“It feels good,” he reaffirms to you. “You’re doing so good.” 

You’re doing better than you ever have. You’re good—you must be. It’s the first time you’ve heard that in what feels like lifetimes. You’re good beneath his touch. He smears your blood or his blood down your cheek, down the tape, and you cry for him. Stop. Don’t. Be cruel to me again. It’s what I know. It’s easier to die when burning hatred is the one burying you. His affection makes your stomach turn. You loll into the palm cupping your face. You’re doing so good. 

And he’s grinning, sharp and wide, when your eyes roll back and forth. Back into your skull, forward onto him. Nikolai grants your wish when his fingers worm beneath, between the tape and your skin, while he’s telling you don’t scream or I won’t be so nice anymore and when he tears it away your face feels cold and you scream anyway—you scream for your crumpled arm and the violation and the knife life’s held above your throat come to materialize now in the third strike against him and there is a thick, flowing gash that leaves you feeling waterboarded as it seethes and gurgles its way through your teeth and around your shoulders all at once like a crimson harness to keep you flat on your back while Nikolai looks at you like you didn’t learn. 

“Ultimately—” His cloud-colored eyes burn as he towers over you like a god. Your god. The only one that can set you free, now. “—you made such easy little snuffbait,” he quips, running the blade once, twice along the cloth of his shirt before turning it on the thin, tender skin keeping him from your sternum. You and your first-floor housing and your melancholia. “Too caught up in your woes to notice the man following you around each corner for—god, weeks now. So little to live for anymore, sweetheart—it wouldn’t be so much of a shame to put you out of your misery now, would it?”

The look you give him must be delirious and begging; you swear a flicker of the most genuine sympathy you’ve ever seen crosses his face until he’s laughing, softly, rumbling to your ears like a fan’s whir.

“Oh, it would be such a waste of you,” he waves away. “Besides, I’ve already given you my artist statement.” 

His artist statement. From the bar.

Freedom.

His work—work, the word is bitter and foamy mixed with your blood—explores different conceptions of freedom.

Freedom. What could it possibly have to do with an innocent person, bound and drugged with their throat slit on film? What exploration is being made? What endeavor toward enlightenment are you when your mouth is too full of blood to ask him to stop?

Freedom. He’s been following you for weeks, if all he’s said is truthful, while you’ve been swirling in that downstream like a helpless fucking bug. And like a kid looking for an insectile test subject, Nikolai plucked you right up, splayed out your limbs, and stuck you beneath the microscope. Next he’d pin you, dry you, feed the story of your mortality to someone—his next victim, an empty roll of film, his own reflection, some god that wasn’t listening to you—and you would be another nameless face, a decomposing body, a snapshot demonstration of how well deli ham apparently mimics peeled-back human skin. A lesson in deliverance.

You haven’t been free in a long time. Perhaps, even, since before you moved to Yokohama and all your shit uprooted itself to the forefront of your mind and landed you on your back in the Devil’s bed.

“You should know well by now I’m interested in more than just seeing you bleed.”

Your hands reach out, trembling for his face like it’s salvation, while he leans to rest with his chin above yours. The Devil traces white heat, a bullseye for where he’ll stab into that tender skin on your chest, drag down, cut you open for him to begin the messy part of his project. 

You tilt ninety degrees and the red light of the camera winks at you. At least you’re not alone.

“I told you, I’m going to set you free.”

[spikedfearn]

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter V

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

a/n: bjorn fucks you seven ways to Sunday. that's it, that's the chapter. also, I don't know why it took me five chapters to realize I never mentioned the title of the fic is from the song "small doses" by bebe rexha lol, the lyrics inspired the story, it's worth a listen if you've never heard it before.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, nsfw, non-linear narrative, trauma bonding, resolved sexual tension, praise kink (both ways), oral (giving/receiving), loss of virginity, dirty talk, shower sex, falling in love

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty @3arthtoeden @barnes70stark (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 5.1k

Masterlist Next Chapter

It was meant to be a one time thing—sleeping with Bjorn.

Something that neither of you would ever bring up, not to anyone, not to each other, a silent pact of secrecy you mutually understood but, like everything else that's happened since your transfer to sector six, things don't go as planned. 

Kay nearly lunges at you when she sees you again, having barely been extracted from the ruins of that specific section of the man made tunnel you’d been down in. Her fingers create wrinkles in the fabric near the shoulder blades of your grimy tee you haven't gotten a chance to change out of, face wet with tears, arms coming up to return her embrace, the first time you've actually ever done so. 

She'd been crying ever since she heard the news, word having traveled fast about what had happened after you went looking for Bjorn in the mines. Kay and the others had immediately rushed over to the accident site only to be met with heavy yellow tape and traffic cones policed by armed guards, roping the area off to the rest of the colonists that had gathered there. 

According to the reports, you and Bjorn had been trapped for just over six hours, which doesn't seem accurate, not when it felt like an eternity to you, throats tight from the fumes while you found comfort in each other. 

Speaking of, you glance over to see Tyler and Navarro taking turns bear hugging Bjorn, squeezing him a little tighter, holding him a little longer, undoubtedly over the moon to have him back alive. 

Navarro buries her face in his chest to hide her tears, never one to show her emotions just like her brother, though the shakiness in her shoulders gives it away, the flat of his palm running over her back to reassure her. 

You turn the other way as soon as you realize Bjorn is craning his head to look in your direction, his gaze burning into your profile with the intensity of it, fighting the urge to look over and meet the icy blues of his irises. 

While you keep your eyes trained elsewhere you can't help but wonder what Bjorn is thinking while he stares at you, if he's thinking about what you just did together. If he's remembering how you sounded crying out his name, the way you looked desperately bouncing on top of him, how it felt to be inside of you with nothing in between. 

You suppress the shudder threatening to run down the length of your spine thinking about it, not wanting Kay to notice, even if you could theoretically write it off as a side effect from being trapped for hours.

That’s when Tyler makes his way over to you and Kay, who's just barely let you go, swapping places with her to hug you next and apologize profusely, feeling guilty for what happened, like he's trying to take responsibility for sending you in after Bjorn, like it's his fault.

“Tyler—Tyler listen,” you insist, hoping to assuage his remorse, finally getting him to pull back and look at you, holding you at arm's length by your biceps, “I don't blame you like—at all. How could you've possibly known what was gonna happen? Besides, it was probably a good thing, Bjorn and I talked it out and we're…okay now.” 

Thing is though, you honestly don't know where the truth lies in that statement, having no clue where you and Bjorn stand at the current moment. 

Yeah, you hooked up and yeah it was incredible, best lay of your life—which isn't saying much considering you were hammered every other time—but you have no idea how it'll affect your dynamic going forward, what parts of it will inevitably change and what will remain the same, if anything at all. 

And that scares you, the uncertainty of it all, downright terrifies you. It's the entire reason you chose to isolate yourself from other people after your transfer, wanting to be left alone, a type of peace that can only be forged within yourself, finding solace in its predictability. 

But you've been flirting with danger instead, ever since you accepted Kay's invite to hangout, telling yourself—lying to yourself—that you won't get too close as you were integrated into the group, so slow and imperceptible you didn't even notice until you were in too deep, up to your shoulders in a bottomless pit of quicksand. 

Once the medical team on standby clears you and Bjorn you're free to go, watching Tyler sling his arm around Bjorn's shoulders and ask if he and Navarro would like to have a sleepover at his and Kay's, “yanno like when we wuz little,” he laughed, patting Bjorn's chest with an added layer of enthusiasm, Bjorn accepting the invite with an easy little smile and nod. 

You part ways soon after, promising Kay you'll talk to her later after you've showered and gotten a good night's rest. Going home to clean off the dirt and debris and dry come, scrubbing extra hard between your legs, scrubbing your thighs until they're almost red and raw, like you're trying to erase what happened, washing the evidence down the drain by your feet. 

Though it does nothing to get rid of the finger-shaped bruises sitting just under your hips or the hickey halfway down your neck, examining them while you stand naked in the mirror you have hanging in your bedroom, a gradually fading reminder of what happened between you and him. 

A structural defect in the support beams, that's what you're told the day after the cave-in while you're clocking in for another sixteen hour shift, something that had resulted in a disastrous domino effect leading to the collapse. An accident waiting to happen, blamed on the colonists who first erected the area rather than the corporation that had them go into the mines in an unsturdy environment in the first place.

The rescue mission wasn't about you and Bjorn, you worked that out on your own, why would they care about two low ranking miners that were referred to by numbers anyways? It was about the valuable resources that could still be extracted, saving you was a byproduct of retaining that tunnel before it could bury it all under rubble and wood. Fucking figures.

After work you stop by a convenience store and pick up a variety of pregnancy tests from different brands just to be sure, rushing back to your apartment to take them in the privacy of your own home, holding the plastic bag close to your chest so anyone passing by can't possibly see what's inside. 

The fifteen minute wait is eating at you, feeling longer than the time you spent trapped underground, leg jiggling impatiently while you sit on the closed toilet lid with your fingers loosely steepled together, one elbow resting on either knee. 

You slump back against the porcelain tank, eyes rolling up to the plaster-ridge ceiling the same time all the tension in your body drains when they all, by some miracle, come back negative. Thank fuck. That's one less thing you need to stress out over. Now you just have Bjorn to worry about, which is significantly less terrifying.  

There's a knock at the door, startling you, immediately sweeping your arm across the laminate counter to trash everything, yelling over your shoulder to, “hold on a fucking second!” when the knocking persists. It can't be Tyler this time, he isn't this impatient. Or annoying.  

Although you wish it had been, your eyes meeting striking blue ones as soon as you answer the door, your heart plummeting to your feet like a runaway dumbwaiter in an elevator shaft. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You hiss, looking left then right then left again to check if anyone is around, slightly relieved when you see no one—only slightly though, because Bjorn is standing on your doorstep like he just—belongs here. 

“Whoa, calm ur tits love,” he responds, holding his hands up in front of him, “want me ta’ suck on ‘em again?” he smirks right after, causing your blood pressure to spike through the roof. 

You curl your fingers into the loose fabric of his shirt, Bjorn letting you roughly yank him inside, using his back to slam the door shut behind him, still wearing that smug, shit-eating grin on his dumb face. 

“The fucking nerve of you just showing up here unannounced!” You don't yell, not wanting the neighbor you share a wall with to overhear but you get pretty close to it. 

Outwardly you're fuming, his shirt still twisted up in your clenched fist but inwardly—inwardly you're trying not to buckle under your own weight, inhaling the familiar scent of tobacco and winter gum rolling off his warm breath, remembering the taste of it, knees feeling a little weak and strange because of it. What the hell is wrong with you?

“And how exactly would I announce it? S’not like I got ya’ digits princess,” he reasons, punctuating his sentence with an annoying little chuckle. 

“Even if I did I would've blocked your dumbass immediately,” you fire back, a bit harsher than usual, wanting him to take the hint and get the fuck out of your home. You don't even wanna look at his face right now, still coming to terms with what you'd done while under duress. 

Because seriously—who fucks in a mineshaft when you're about to die? It kinda makes you wish you did, hoping for a sinkhole to open up from under your feet right now and swallow you whole out of sheer embarrassment. 

“Ma’ point,” he says, tipping his head at you, making you huff, “whatever,” lacking a rebuttal, letting his shirt go to take a step back and tightly cross your arms in front of you, “why'd you come here anyway?”

“Well innit obvious,” Bjorn answers, taking a step forward, then another. And another. And another. And you freeze up, Bjorn close enough now your bodies are almost pressed together, gently placing his thumb on your chin while the rest of his fingers curl under your jaw so you have no choice but to look at him, “for a round two princess.” 

Your eyes go wide in surprise and your lips goldfish apart—you don’t know what you were expecting him to say but it definitely wasn’t that. “I only did it in the first place because I thought we were gonna die!” 

Bjorn rolls his eyes, leaning in to whisper into your ear, voice like coarse velvet, “don’t act like it wasn't tha’ best screw o’ ya’ life, princess. The way ya’ were moaning ma’ name and tha' heavenly way you wuz squeezin’ around ma’ cock. Haven’t stopped thinkin’ bout it since.”

So he was thinking about what happened in the mine when he looked over at you during your little reunion with the others. You briefly wonder how often he's replayed it in his head, if he lay awake last night while everyone slept around him, remembering how it felt to have his fingers inside you, his cock. If he dreamt about it, hearing your whimpers and pleas to a vivid degree, the sensation of his hands touching the most intimate parts of your body, burning hot like fire ants across your skin, just like you did. 

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, bringing your attention back to him, his touch gentle—barely there, like he's handling porcelain, staring into your eyes for an incredibly long, drawn-out moment. 

Then his lips are on yours again, soft and hesitant, like he's testing the waters and you just melt into it, powerless to quit while you're ahead, your eyes falling close as you open your mouth, letting his tongue slip in. 

It's easier to find the rhythm this time around, having gotten more than acquainted with Bjorn's style of kissing, the slick sound of it permeating through your tiny apartment, heat already gathering in your pelvis knowing what’s to come, where this is leading to. 

Bjorn chuckles into the warm, wet cave of your mouth, thumb running over your now spit glossed lips, eyes roving over your face, seeming to like what he sees, “who knew I jus’ had ta’ stick my tongue down ya’ throat to get ya’ ta' shuddup? Woulda done it tha’ first night i met ya’ if I'da known.” 

“Fuck off—hold on,” you pause, spreading your fingers apart with your hand on his chest, feeling his quickening heartbeat against your palm, “I'm not about to let you fuck me raw again,” you follow up, firm in your stance this time, thoughts wandering to the pregnancy tests sitting in the bottom of your trashcan. You were so fucking lucky not to get knocked up the first time around, you're not about to risk it a second time. 

A smirk stretches across his face, reaching into the pocket of his tan quilted lined work jacket to fish out a box of condoms, “bought a pack on ma’ way ‘ere. And I hope ya’ know I plan on usin' every. Single. One o’ ‘em. These fuckers are bloody expensive.” 

You exhale a breathy moan, nodding your head in return before you curl your fingers into his shirt again, except, instead of pushing him backward you yank him forward, smashing your lips back together. 

It's intoxicating—making out with Bjorn, maybe that's why you're so utterly weak when it comes to his advances, whimpering so needy and eager in response to him slipping his hands into the back pockets of your jeans to roughly squeeze your ass through them. 

The kiss you're tangled in is somehow more desperate than the one you shared in the mines less than forty eight hours ago, like you're both testing to see if the first time was a fluke or if it'll be just as incredible on the second go around.

“Ya’ gotta call tha’ shots last time princess, this time I wanna,” he tells you, more confident this time around, his eyes softening anyways, “if thas’ okay with ya’?”

The smile you give him is equally as soft, genuine, squeezing his wrist where it's still resting against the denim of your jeans, “what do you want baby?” 

“Wanna eat ya’ out. Make ya’ come on ma’ tongue then fuck ya’ nice and deep,” he groans thinking about it, arms circling your waist to keep you close, moaning back just as weak and strained. You've never had someone care about your pleasure the way he does, never had anyone go down on you. 

So you're pretty sensitive when he does, needy and pliant in his hands when he has your hips pinned down to your bed, jaw going slack as he licks up between your folds, following your breathy direction. 

It's hard telling him what to do, a broken moan escaping you on every other word, legs quivering under him, repeating, “good boy,” like a scratched record every time his tongue finds your clit, able to pinpoint it after so many praises whimpered, circling his tongue around it, spurred on by the pet name.

Cupping the underside of both thighs, his nails bite into your skin, drawing them up so your knees are pointed to the ceiling, wearing them like a pair of earmuffs while he sucks on the bundle of nerves his lips are curved around. 

“Mmm, yeah just—fuck that feels so good, you're doing so good, keep going just like that. Good boy,” you keen, high and pretty, your hand going between your legs to find the sweaty mess of his hair and yanking on it, making him growl in response. So, he likes his hair pulled too. 

Bjorn settles his upper lip just above your clit, careful to cover his teeth, his bottom lip just above your opening before he licks into you, pushing his tongue in, causing you to grind down onto him, pulling on his scalp a little harder.

He spells his name out on your clit, like he owns it, says he read up on it just to make it good which turns you on all the more, knowing he cares enough to learn what to do and how to do it, how to get your thighs closing around his head and grinding down on the warm wet muscle penetrating you. 

He shallowly fucks it in and out of you, the spit naturally produced on his tongue aiding in the slip and slide, warm breath wafting over the cooling trail of spit causing you to shiver even more.

It's when Bjorn's pushing his fingers in alongside and curling them over your g-spot that has your abdominal muscles spasming, coming on his tongue just like he wanted, licking you into hypersensitivity. 

Bjorn looks just as drunk on it as you are, despite being completely sober when you pulled him into your apartment, lids droopy and his eyes glossed over, crawling over you to fuck you nice and deep just like he promised. 

You go through three condoms that night. After the bed you make your way into the shower next, sliding up and down the steamed glass door as he fucks you up against it, your hands and tits leaving sweaty imprints for several seconds from behind because of it. 

He has his shin resting against the lip of the low square tub to keep his balance, the warm water washing down over you with his fingers resting right over the bruises he left from before. Bjorn thrusts up into you, spearing you hard and fast, like he's trying to knock your pelvis out of its frame. 

It feels so good, beyond anything you've ever felt before, grunting into your ear that you're, “jus’ as wet n’ tight as before’ and that you're a, “littla’ fuckin’ tease ain't cha’ princess?” 

This is all under your command, something you told him to do after you soaked through your bedsheets, needing another spot to absolutely ruin, one hand curling over the lip of the glass door to keep it shut tight while he erratically fucks you up against it from behind, still learning how to channel it all in his hips so he can rail you that much harder. 

Strands of hair are sticking to your face, trying not to swallow any of it as you cry out from the force of his thrusts, rattling the glass in its frame. There's no fucking way your neighbor doesn't know what's going on now, not that you really find it in you to give a shit at the moment. 

He trashes the condom when you turn off the now cold water and get out, leading you back to the ratty futon you use as a sorry excuse for a couch, sucking another huge hickey into your neck just above your collarbone, like he's claiming his territory. 

Bjorn's refractory period is incredibly short, already getting hard again as he's toweling off, rearranging you on all fours, ass up face down, his palm flat between your shoulders blades, fingers spread out over your still wet skin while he hits it from the back. 

“Good—ah, good boy. You're doing so good, fucking me so well,” you keen, a high and needy pitch when your words have the desired affect and he plows into you that much harder. Work is gonna absolutely fucking blow tomorrow but you don't give a shit about that either, hoping to feel that ache between your legs every time you have to bend down and retrieve something or pick up the drill after a regulated break, vividly recalling everything he did to you. 

“Fuck ur pussy’s so addictin’ princess, can't get a ‘nough o’ it,” he growls, adding to the bruises he's already left on your thighs to your hips this time, the wet slap of skin and your moans echoing off the walls of your tiny apartment. 

Your fingers claw at the sheetless mattress, trying to cling onto something as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train, the imprint of your wet naked body left behind for the cotton drill fabric to absorb. 

Bjorn grunts when he comes again, nearly collapsing on top of you, his gloved cock still inside as he slowly softens, peppering little kisses all over your back. 

“Fuckin’ amazin,’” he sighs, sharing your sentiment. You've both proven your hypothesis correct, both times were just as mind blowing as the first, maybe even better, your bodies in tune now that you know what the other likes, what gets each other off. 

You hum in agreement, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “Gonna have to go to bed soon. You know, for work.” 

He groans in annoyance, rolling off your body to lie next to you, loosely steepling his hands behind his sweaty head, “right—work.” 

“What, did you forget?” You snort, crossing your arms to rest your cheek on your stacked wrists while you look at his profile, from his pretty lashes down to the plush of his lips. Sometimes you forget just how attractive he is. 

“Yanno,” he says, making eye contact with you then, holding a warmth you've never seen before, affection blossoming inside your chest as a result, “fo’a moment—I did.” 

“Oh,” is all you can say in response, burying your face directly into your arms so he can't see how pink your cheeks are. You're not used to this, someone being sweet on you, at least not someone you're actively sleeping with, everyone else just faceless nobodies you met at a bar or in a liquor store. 

Bjorn fucks you one last time before he leaves, this time with you on your back so he can look you in the eyes while he pushes in slow and deep, so deep it feels like his cock is brushing up against your pelvis. 

There's no dirty talk this time around, just Bjorn whispering hushed praises like, “ur so fuckin' stunning it's unreal” and “ur so good ta’ me, ma’ good girl.” Kissing over your chest, your neck, your face, every one of them feeling like a thank you, your heart feeling strange inside your chest. 

It's so incredibly intimate and foreign, something you've never experienced before, his hand finding yours so he can weave your fingers together, holding it up by your head while he thrusts inside, taking his time in taking you apart. 

He kisses you when you come together, no tongue, no desperation, just an endlessly soft press of his lips to yours, kissing your forehead as he pulls out, cleaning you up with a wet washcloth after you tell him where to find them, boneless and tired against your futon. 

You exhale into the quiet air as soon as he leaves, gaze tracing over the ceiling, like you're searching for an answer that isn't there. What the absolute fuck have you gotten yourself into? 

After that night, instead of blowing off steam in the mines, Bjorn blows his steam off on you, coming around every night to fuck you once, twice, sometimes three times if he's feeling particularly frisky, having gone through three and a half boxes of condoms. That's like 140 condoms. Jesus he's so fucking horny all the time. 

It's to the point you give him your door code to avoid any unwanted questions if anyone passing by just happened to see him waiting alone on your doorstep, sometimes coming home to him already naked on your bed if his shift ends before yours or hustles down the short hallway to tackle you if yours ends before his. 

It's supposed to be casual, just something you do to work through all the pent-up tension you build while tearing down the rock in the mines, a way for you to forget about it all if only for a few hours. You want it to stay like this, easy and uncomplicated, so you keep it a secret from the others, something Bjorn ultimately agrees to when you insist on it. 

He seems displeased by your request which takes you by surprise, figuring he'd be just as on board with it as you are but he doesn't argue, just nods his head while looking up at your ceiling, settled back against your upright futon still fully-clothed, chewing his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You decide not to pry, even though you really, really, want to, itching to pick his brain and decipher why he doesn't seem to like it but a part of you, the majority of you, doesn't want to know the answer, afraid of what it might be, so you just don't open that can of worms.  

You're at a bar with everyone, knowing full well Bjorn will find his way into your bed soon after—like he always does. It's the only sure thing other than the zero percent chance of sunlight LV-410 gets.

It's been two months since you and Bjorn started fucking on the down low. Kay is waddling now, very, very round and puffy. It's cute, she has that pregnancy glow about her, especially since the group's been splitting her shifts up amongst everyone so she can kick her swollen ankles up and relax, something she is endlessly grateful for. Promising to name her baby boy after every single one of you, but you don't think, “Tyler Bjorn Navarro Rain,” followed by your name then Harrison makes for a very good one.

You're nursing your cold beer in your hands, knocking back another swig as Tyler goes on another long-winded speech about giving capitalism the middle finger if he wasn't a cog in it, already drunk. 

“Whoa,” Navarro whistles, looking at the side of your neck, at the fresh hickey Bjorn gave you last night, sitting too high up to hide under the collar of your shirt, like this was his plan all along, “who gave you that?” 

Everyone turns to look so you slap your palm over the purpling bruise, flinching at the slight sting. God you're getting sloppy, you should've told him to suck somewhere you could hide, that bastard. Now you're flaming red, the intensity of your blush and the way your floundering for an answer confirming their suspicion. 

“Oooo,” Kay joins in, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, giggling, “is there something you’re not telling us? Someone perhaps?”

“I uh—well. It's nothing. Just tripped is all,” you lie, very lamely you might add. It's too perfect and round to be anything other than what it is and no one's buying it, not even Andy. Andy.

“Yah n’ fell right into tha' jaws of a hungry shark,” Tyler cracks, slapping his knee over his own joke, like it's the funniest thing in the fucking world. It isn't, it really, really fucking isn't. You feel caught, like a fish in a casting net, out of breath and fighting for your life. This is the worst possible scenario, the absolute last thing you wanted to happen.

“Yah,” Bjorn smirks, torpedoing through all the noise, immediately lifting your head to glare at him, hand still over your neck, sending a flirty little wink your way, “why don’tcha share with tha’ class princess?” 

“You’re the absolute last person I wanna fucking hear from jackass,” you seethe, biting his head clean off his shoulders, angry and embarrassed. He falters, picking up on your tone, looking sorry for saying anything. Good. He fucking should be. He isn't the one being grilled right now, even though he's the cause of it all. 

“I gotta go,” you announce, rushing out of the bar despite everyone calling for you to come back. You'll never live this down, feeling like the talk of the town all over again, just like you were back in your old sector. 

You don't let Bjorn leave hickeys on your neck anymore, making him swear that he won't do it again if he wants to keep fucking you so he obliges, apologizing between filthy, wet kisses which you appreciate. 

No one asks you anything else about the guy you're sleeping with, aware that you'll just clam up and leave, which you appreciate even more, pretending like the whole bar incident didn't happen in the first place, denial your only way to cope. 

Bjorn usually leaves after you're both fucked out and spent but then—then he starts to stay. Starts to hold you in his arms when you're done, tucking your hair behind your ear, kissing your scalp, telling you something along the lines of, “even assholes like me like a good cuddle every now n’ then.”

It's warm. Safe. Your head is pillowed against his chest, your ear pressed to his left pec, listening to the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, the even rise and fall of his diaphragm. It's comforting, tangling your legs with his, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion. You could stay like this forever, just you two. 

But you don't want that. Can't want that. You've already allowed yourself to get close to people again but this—this is something else entirely, getting close to someone on an extremely intimate level like this. You're playing with fire and you know you could get burned at any moment. Will get burned. Emotions are the worst thing to have in a place like this, only producing pain when the inevitable happens, and it always, always does. 

You just can't help but want to know how he's doing, if he's doing well, if he's thinking about you. 

You don't just wanna see him at night when you're casually hooking up, you wanna see him in the morning too. Want to cook breakfast just for two and hold hands under the table while he makes fun of your terrible cooking but eats it anyway because you made it just for him. And you don't just wanna hold his hand in the privacy of your apartment, you wanna hold it when you're with the gang or walking around in general. 

You wanna do stupid mundane shit with him like grocery shopping or folding laundry, washing dishes while he dries them or cuddling under the blankets while you enjoy a movie night, sitting in his lap or on the other side of the futon with your legs tangled in between while he tickles you even though you fucking hate being tickled. But you might not totally hate it if it's him. 

And you wanna be greeted by him at the end of every night because these four walls are just a shitty space you reside in, you wanna come home to him. 

Because Bjorn feels like home.  

Your heart is so full and warm yet light and airy at the same time, like a swollen helium balloon wanting to float up and away into the atmosphere watching him sleep, a sort of peace on his face you don't get to see often.

Oh. Oh—fuck no, you think as the realization starts to sink in, utterly disbelieved that it's taken you this long to notice, to make sense of it.

You're falling for Bjorn. 

[ambrosiagoldfish]

HI! Can I request Vox, husk or anyone else with a s/o who has an addiction problem?

Yes I know my Grammar and punctuation is out of line 🙏🏽

Hazbin Hotel x Addict!Reader

(Vox, Husk, and Angel Dust)

Viewer Discretion is Advised!

Warning: Drug/Alcohol Abuse, Gn!Reader, Reader being defensive, happy-ish endings.

Request Box: Open

Word count: 1170

A/n: Hi! Thank you for the request! This is my first time writing both Vox and Husk so I had to do some research (and by research, I mean reading 2+ hours of how other write them) to get an idea of their main characterization.

I really enjoyed writing this as I personally have my own experiences with addicts and how it’s affected me as a person. So this was also a little bit of a vent post if anything. I also added Angel cause I think it fits the theme but also he’s one of my comfort characters and writing for him made me happy.

Hope you enjoy <3

Proofread like once so sorry for any mistakes!



Vox

He’s used to being friends/knowing addicts. I mean one of his closest allies (And TOTES not previous hook-up buddy) Valentino, is also an addict who also employs many as well. So he’s not a stranger to it.

So mostly he’s indifferent to it, almsot desensitized to it. He doesn’t really see a danger to it, I mean we’re in hell and you can’t exactly OD and die

But of course, death isn’t the only thing that can happen when you're an addict. The breakdown of you as a person often happens, as well as you being reckless with money. And this is where Vox starts to have a problem.

If you’re in a relationship with Vox, then clearly you mean a lot to him, he may not be the most expressive about it but he does. So to see the partner that he has opened up to and grown attached to deteriorate slowly in front of him is something he refuses to accept.

So one day he cancels a meeting with his staff and calls you to his office so you two will be alone. When you get there he gives you a cup of coffee and you catch up a bit. How was your day? Have you ate yet? Those kinds of things.

Until finally he decides to just break open the floodgates with one simple statement.

“Darling… I think you should get clean”

You were caught off guard at first

“It’s fine, What’s the problem? we’re in hell”

He then comes out with his honest opinion

“*Sigh* I know it’s hell and you can’t die… but surely you can see how it would make me a bit… worried for you.”

He paused

“I mean even last week you spent all the allowance I gave you on it and you would have starved if I didn’t buy you food, surely you can see why it’s a fucking problem!”

Eventually after talking and depending on how it goes you either agree to go clean or it ends with an argument and he’ll just try again later.

If you agree, he’ll make sure he’s with you ever step of your sobriety. Considering he’s one of the top rising Overlords and owns VoxTech he’s got money so He’ll higher the best people to help you go clean(Do therapist exist in hell?)

“Thank you dear, you have no idea how much this means to me”

Husk

Similar to Vox in a lot of ways but also really different. He himself is an addict with alcohol so he clearly understands the struggles of it.

He has lots of walls up but for someone who “lost the ability to love” he sure does care a lot for you. I don’t think he would try a get you to go clean, at least not right away (or even at the beginning of the relationship) simply cause he thinks he doesn’t have a right to judge. So in all honesty he might just let you be.

That is until he realizes that you do it to forget things and ignore your problems/past. He knew first hand that drowning your sorrows away with your choice of addictive vice did nothing but harm you.

Then when you two are alone at his bar he’ll talk to you about it in a similar way he did with Angel. Perhaps a bit more softer than he did with Angel but even then “softer” is a bit of an overstatement.

“Look, I know you got a lot of shit that you don’t want to think about… but doing this *sigh* it’s not going to work, at least not in the long term.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

He laughs. I mean, you were right. He was single handedly the worst person to be judging you. But surely you can understand his point of view, right?

Either way though, he leaves it alone again. Occasionally bringing it up when you’re both alone. He expresses the same sentiment about it each time hoping that eventually, hopefully…you’ll come to see from his perspective.

When you do finally see that he’s worried for you and understand why, you agree to go clean. Which, for once in a long while, made his supposedly cold dead heart melt.

“Glad you finally came to your senses… Seriously, I’m glad…”

Angel

He is THE addict of the show, so obviously he knows what you are going through and THEN some. Now,. Here’s the thing, how he handles it depends HEAVILY on when exactly you got with him/when you started having you addiction problem.

If you started dating him when you already were an addict he most definitely wouldn’t question anything about it. Hell, chances are you both might have taken part in it together. And it’s only when he starts making progress in the hotel (post EP4) is when he starts realizing how bad of an influence you both were on each other.

If you started sometime AFTER you both started dating then this boy would honestly feel terrible about it, ESPECIALLY after EP4 when he actually started being sober more often. He’d feel like he was a bad influence on you and that it was his fault you turned to your addiction.

Either way though, he will eventually realize that he doesn’t want you to be/continue to be on the same path he was. He’d talk to Charlie about arranging you to stay in the hotel, either in your own room or you guys could share one (he would honestly prefer the latter) and then after the preparations are made he would finally ask you too

Angel wasn’t expecting it to be easy, he gets what it’s like to suddenly be asked to go clean. And he knows how addicts act when they don’t get there vices, how he acts. So he mentally prepared himself for the worst first before asking you to come over and talk.

“Uh… Y/n can I talk to you about somethin’?”

You nod your head

“I’ve been thinking and… I think you should crash here at the hotel with me… and’ go clean.”

You only laugh “Angie I’m glad this hotel thing is workin’ for ya but that’s not really my style. No- I mean, I’m fine!”

Angel knows he put you on the spot, so he lightens off a bit but continues pressing on. He explains how he feels and how he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you, to end up where he is. The poor boy starts crying honestly with how much he’s worried. He rarely opens up to people so this was a big step for him.

Seeing how much he cared and worried about you really put into perspective how important this was to him. So you agreed after some thinking.

“*sniff* thank you Baby, I’ll be there with you every step of the way… I love ya’ you know.”

[lanawinterscigarettes]

hi!! i absolutely love the layout of your account <33 i was wondering if i could request a joe goldberg x fem! reader where you’re as obsessed with him as he is with you and you manage to get him into a situation similar to the ending of season 3? like you drug him. but he REALLY doesn’t expect it. so you’re planning on keeping him for yourself and he’s trying to figure out a way to escape?? you can decide the ending <3

aw, thank you so much! you're the very first person to request something for joe, which makes me unbelievably happy <33

All Tied Up (Joe Goldberg x fem reader)

Warnings: the reader is obsessed with Joe to an unhealthy degree, swearing, restraints via rope, drugging, kidnapping, mentions of murder, brief mention of Joe being a bit of a pervert, drinking (wine), manipulation/blackmail, kissing that could technically be seen as dubcon since Joe's drugged/tied up when it happens

Shit, this wasn't supposed to happen- that's where his mind immediately went when he woke to find his arms and legs restrained to a chair with some rope, his vision blurry. You'd drugged him. Great.

When Joe met you, it was like a dream come true. You were so much better than Candace, or Beck, or any other girl he'd ever been with before in the past. You were perfect. Or so he thought.

He really should've known it was too good to be true. After all, he'd been down this road before so many times, always expecting a different outcome, but there never was. Excuse him for being optimistic.

The problem was that you weren't a bright-eyed, innocent good girl like Beck. Not like he'd thought. Instead, you were obsessive, almost like a leech with the way you latched onto him so quickly.

At first, he was flattered. He liked not having to be the one to iniate everything. He liked being taken care of the way he took care of you. And he like all the time you spent together.

What he didn't like, however, was your obsessive nature that rivaled his, and even Love's. In fact, she paled in comparison to you.

He really should've learned after what happened with her. If something seems too good to be true, it's most likely because it is. But alas, he did not, which is why he now found himself to be tied up in your kitchen.

Why did he have to go and mess everything up by confronting you with the bloody shirt he found at the very bottom of your laundry hamper? He could've just put it back and you would've been none the wiser, then none of this would've happened. (Of course, if he wasn't poking around your dirty clothes like a creep in the first place he wouldn't have known about it at all, but it was a little too late for that.)

You insisted the murder was only a one time thing, that the girl you killed had gotten too close to him and he hadn't realized it. For one thing, he didn't believe you in the slightest, and for another, he was offended by the implication that he was unaware of other people's actions.

He obviously knew that she liked him, he just didn't think it was that big of a deal. Not big enough to address, certainly not big enough for her to be killed over.

Apparently, you disagreed, which naturally led to a huge fight. God, it was like Love all over again. Except you did something she'd never done, which was apologize. That certainly threw him for a loop, one that was big enough for him to let his guard down.

You even offered to cook dinner to make up for it. No problem, right? Just the two of you, spending some quality time together. If only he'd known you were going to spike his glass of wine, and maybe he wouldn't have been so quick to agree.

It was partially his own fault, he could admit that. He should've been more suspicious with how easily everything seemed to get cleared up and how quickly it took for you to calm back down.

But that would've been making comparisons with you to his past girlfriends, and he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to compare you to Beck. He didn't want to compare you to Love. It felt like an insult to your relationship for him to do so.

God, why did it always have to be the perfect ones who ended up being crazy?

The sound of your footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up the best he could, his gaze foggy from whatever it was that you put in his wine.

"Oh, Joe," you sighed as you knelt down on the floor in front of him. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to have to hurt you."

Then untie me, you psycho bitch, was what he so desperately wanted to scream at you, but the alcohol combined with the drugs in his system made his mouth dry and tongue heavy, and because of that it was difficult for him to speak.

"You always look so pretty, especially when you pout." If he could, he would've moved away from your hand when you reached out to touch his face, but there seemed to be a disconnect between his brain and his body, causing him to stay still.

"I have to go check something really quick, okay? I want you to behave while I'm gone." He watched as you stood, gently running your fingers through his hair before leaving him alone again.

He had to get out of there. He couldn't be stuck with you the same way he almost got stuck with Love. He needed some sort of plan to escape.

Unfortunately, whatever the hell you used on him to keep him immobilized was doing a pretty damn good job of it. Even without the ropes keeping him tied up, there was no way he'd be able to get together the strength to move.

Maybe if he closed his eyes for just a second, he'd snap out of whatever sort of haze he was in and wake up to find out that this was all just a bad dream. You weren't crazy, you hadn't murdered anyone, you were just a sweet, normal girl who he happened to be in love with.

He must've fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was being jolted awake by the feeling of his body being moved around without his control, which was followed by a sharp jab to the back of his head.

Blinking a few times, he opened his eyes, realizing he was no longer in the kitchen and was instead in the basement to your house, laying on the floor as his head throbbed. You must've accidentally dropped him at one point when transporting him from one place to another, which certainly explained the welt he had forming, not to mention the headache.

He looked around, still a little groggy from a mixture of sleep and whatever you spiked him with. You weren't there from what he could see, and the rope you'd use to tie him up with was loose. Maybe this was the opportunity he so desperately needed to escape.

It took several tries, but finally he was able to untie himself. After a minute or so of trying to get over the light-headedness he felt, he got up and slowly started to make his way over to the steps that led back upstairs.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Your voice suddenly cut through the air, causing him to freeze in place. Looking up, he saw you standing at the top of the steps with your hands placed on your hips, watching him with a stern expression. He was screwed.

Unfortunately for him (and luckily for you) he was still feeling a little disoriented and dizzy, so it wasn't very hard for you to get him tied back up again. "I knew I should've used a better knot," you muttered to yourself, ignoring his fruitless attempts of squirming free. "Stop that. I gave you some more of the stuff I put into your wine while you were asleep, so I wouldn't waste your energy."

"Now-" You began as you stood back up again, staring down at where he sat on the floor. "-I want you to know that I really didn't want to have to do this. Nor did I want to have to do this, either."

He could only watch as you took out your phone and pulled up a collection of evidence- all of the evidence that directly linked him back to his string of several murders, including that of his wife, Love. Joe was speechless. How did you manage to get all of this stuff?

"Where I found this isn't important," you said casually, as if you could tell what he was thinking. "What is important is you knowing that the account where all of this information is kept needs to be logged onto at least once a day, or else it'll automatically send to the nearby police department, and the local news, and whoever else could make good use of it. And you don't have the password, so you can't just murder me and delete it all yourself."

Safe to say, he was in disbelief, too stunned to say anything. His past girlfriends may have provided some difficulty in getting rid of, but they were nothing like this. And now he was really screwed.

You looked smug, clearly proud of yourself for being able to outsmart him. "Now, I'm going to give you a choice. You can either leave or kill me, both of which will result in the information I know about what really happened to your past girlfriends and belated wife to be released. Or, you can stay, and no one will have to know but us. Choose wisely."

It was then he realized what he had to do meant he was never going to be able to be truly free. He was going to be stuck there with you, forever. Was prison really that bad that this was the choice he had to make?

Swallowing thickly, he opened his mouth to speak, uttering out one little sentence that was only two words. "I'll stay."

He could tell from the giddy look in your eyes that you were excited by his answer. "Good choice." You knelt down on the floor next to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned in to give him a brief kiss. "Oh, baby, we're going to be so happy together."

His past caught up with him in a way that he never thought was possible, and now he was stuck in a trap of his own making. At this point, he truly did only have himself to blame.

End notes: idk if the bit with the evidence makes a lot of sense but I just thought it was a fun idea so 🤷 some artistic liberties may have been taken but that's okay

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MINE FOREVER | wc: 1.1k

BONTEN! SANZU HARUCHIYO x GN! READER

₊˚⌗ after a bad argument with sanzu, you try to leave him. he doesn’t take it very well. or sanzu’s yandere awakening

⤷ cw : general yandere themes, violent thoughts, violent outbursts, threatening violence, choking, mentioned murder, possessive behavior, a lot of cussing, reader is in love with sanzu but vv scared of him, sanzu doesn’t really understand his emotions, comfort??? maybe??? it’s up to interpretation i guess, somewhat soft sanzu

"haruchiyo, you're being mean," you say while looking up at him through your tear-soaked lashes. your voice sounds so raw when you speak his full name, cracked and broken from all of the crying you've been doing, but no doubt the way he's been treating you attributes to the defeat in your tone.

he looks at you with an indecipherable expression, but inside of his head he's overwhelmed by thoughts assaulting him all at once at full force. mean? he's being... mean??? something about the word catches haruchiyo off guard. he's used to you screaming at him that's he's an asshole, a heartless monster, and anything else that dehumanizes and villainizes him in the worst ways, but you've never called him fucking mean before. what the hell does that even mean, and why does it hurt so fucking much to hear that coming from you? his hand reaches up hesitantly to rub at his chest where his heart is, irritated that it won't stop thumping painfully against his ribcage.

"what did you honestly expect from me, angel? i'm a murderer. murderers aren't exactly fucking nice you know," he spits, rolling his eyes. he immediately regrets it. why does he regret it?

a weak noise falls from your lips and the pang in haruchiyo's chest thrums faster, harder; he's now digging his nails into his skin with an angry growl, uncaring of if he starts to bleed. no wound, not even ones from knives or bullets, hurt as badly as whatever the fuck it is that he's experiencing right now. it's excruciating, and annoying.

you laugh, dry and bitter, "yeah, what did i expect?" you whisper under your breath just loud enough for haruchiyo to hear. you aren't agreeing with him, that much haurchiyo understands. you're questioning why the hell you're even with a crazy bastard like him.

he wants to strangle you for being so snarky, watch you struggle and beg for his fucking forgiveness for causing such a big fucking problem for no fucking reason; you should expect only bad from haruchiyo by this point, so why bother bringing up all the things he does wrong? but... sanzu doesn't move to put his hands on you even a little bit—something is stopping him. he doesn't know what.

"haruchiyo," you call, sniffling and biting back a sudden onslaught of tears, "this isn't working out."

another pang, and now a sudden feeling of restlessness itches at him along with it. shit, did he take a new drug and fucking forget about it or something? what the hell is going on with him?

"what?" he growls, finally taking a step towards you. you flinch, closing your eyes as you look away. haruchiyo ignores it despite the fact that, again, his heart aches and pounds and practically cries out in pain with the way it's beating so fucking loudly that the sound rings incessantly in his ears. 

he takes three more steps before he's right in front of you, bending down a bit so that he's face to face with you sitting on the couch. "you wanna fucking repeat that for me, sweetheart?" he hisses. you flinch again, leaning back a little bit so that he's not so close to you. you're shaking, which almost makes him smirk, but he's honestly too pissed off to really find any sort of amusement in your fear right now.

"this isn't working out, haruchiyo. i can't do this anymore," you whimper pathetically. a sob slips past your lips when haruchiyo slams his hand on the couch beside you.

"that's really too fucking bad. you're not leaving me," he snarls, pushing you down onto the couch and crawling over you to pin you under him. you whimper again when you feel his hand on your throat, right at the juncture of your neck and jaw, squeezing with enough force to be threatening, but not painful. he watches as you sob uncontrollably, hiccupping and choking on tears that slip between your pursed lips.

"haruchiyo, please," you barely are able to say through the scratchiness of your voice that cracks under each word, "you're scaring me. you always scare me, i—i can't live being scared all the time." you try to reason with him, but haruchiyo isn't a reasonable person in the least bit. he clicks his tongue.

"you're fucking mine. you belong to me; do you understand me? you don't get to leave me because of a stupid fucking reason like that. you don't get to leave ever." he squeezes on your throat tighter, still not tight enough to hurt you, but your hands instantly shoot up to grab at his wrist anyway. he doesn't try to push you off because you aren't a threat to him; he can easily overpower you and for that reason he lets you have your semblance of security.

"i asked you a fucking question, y/n, you better fucking answer me," he urges, leaning down closer to you to you to nip at your cheek in warning. you gasp and whine at the feeling and clamber to muster up a reply that will satisfy him in your fearful, anxiety ridden state.

"mhm, yes– yes, i understand, haru," you manage to get out, and you hope the nickname you always call him will help you to soothe him, reassure him enough for him to ease up and let go of your neck.

he looks down at you for just a few seconds that feel like hours under his intense gaze, and then, "good. don't you ever try to pull that shit with me again or i will break your fucking legs so you can't even dream of leaving me," he warns, letting go of your throat. he doesn't move off of you though; instead, he dips down and his tongue presses into your skin to tenderly lap at the tears that are still pitifully slipping down your cheeks, humming at the salty taste. you breathe out a sigh of relief and lay limply under him, allowing him to do with you what he pleases.

when he's done, haruchiyo lowers himself onto you all the way and wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer into his body. he kisses at your cheek and jaw sweetly, and you hate to admit that the action lulls you, calms you down and makes you feel safe again—haruchiyo has that effect on you, unfortunately.

the pain in haruchiyo's heart has dissipated, and he feels at ease knowing you no longer wanna leave him. he realizes he would die if he ever let you go and he's going to make damn fucking sure that you don't.

© 2023 by kolyasobsession━all rights reserved. modification, reproduction or plagiarism of my works and theme are strictly prohibited. likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated.

[soluversworld]

Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!- Solivan brugmansia x Yan!G.N Reader! (Part 6!) Final (Rushed)-(Sfw!)

The kid at the back is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-(new tws)

Words: 10000

Genre: Yandere-(Self aware yandere won the poll)

(Reader is G.N)-(This part is Sfw!)

Summary: You’ve become consumed by your obsession with Solivan Brugmansia. What started as innocent curiosity quickly spiraled into a fixation. He started it and you began to stalk him, learning every detail about his life. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction in making Sol’s world safer while growing increasingly delusional about your connection with him. Your love for him deepens as you fantasize about the future, convinced that you are the one who truly understands him—better than anyone else. Despite the line between reality and obsession blurring, you remain certain: Sol is yours, even if he doesn’t know it yet.. You’re his and he’s yours…

Trigger Warning: This content contains themes of obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, mental instability, and delusional thinking, Drugging, Yandere?, Hopeless in love for attention Please read with caution.

Obsessive behavior: The reader becomes dangerously fixated on someone, bordering on stalking and delusion.

Manipulation: The reader engages in schemes to control or harm others, often through deception.

Mental illness: Delusional thinking, possible dissociation from reality, and unhealthy fixation on someone.

Violence: There are references to bullying, physical harm, and emotional manipulation.

Emotional abuse: Both in terms of how the protagonist manipulates others and how they might internalize toxic behaviors.

Stalking: The reader watches and follows the person they are obsessed with.

Dubious Consent: Themes of physical closeness and intimacy while one party is incapacitated or pretending to be.

Dark Romanticization: Romanticizing toxic and unhealthy dynamics, including possessiveness and dominance.

Control and Power Imbalance: One character exhibits significant control over the other’s vulnerability.

You worked on preparing something in the kitchen, your focus wavered, and before you knew it, you accidentally called out to Sol the way Hyugo always did—“Sunny.”

He blinked, his expression shifting to one of mild confusion as he tilted his head. “Sunny?”

Realizing your slip, you quickly clarified, chuckling nervously. “Sorry, it’s just… Hyugo calls you that. I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could finish, Sol interrupted, his curiosity piqued. “If Hyugo gets to give me a nickname, why can’t you?”

The suggestion made you pause. A nickname for Sol? That felt… oddly intimate. But you couldn’t deny the idea was a little exciting. Your mind raced for something that felt fitting, something uniquely yours to call him.

“Pumpkin,” you blurted out, testing the waters.

Sol’s lips twitched into a soft smile, his crimson-orange eyes lighting up at the suggestion. “Pumpkin, huh?” he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue. He seemed pleased at first but then placed a finger under his chin, his gaze turning thoughtful as he studied you.

“But,” he began slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, “don’t you think that nickname suits you better?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

He nodded, his tone calm and resolute. “Yes, it suits you.”

Your cheeks warmed as you processed his words. “It’s the nickname you want me to have, huh?” you asked, trying to sound playful, but the warmth in his gaze was almost too much to handle.

“It fits you,” he said simply, smiling as if that was all the explanation needed.

Your heart skipped a beat as his words lingered in the air. Of course, you knew exactly why it felt so familiar. Pumpkin. It was the name he whispered when he thought you were asleep, the name he muttered under his breath during those nights he lingered too close for too long. You bit your lip, trying to push the thought away before it consumed you entirely.

“…I always hear this nickname in my dreams,” you muttered absentmindedly, immediately regretting it when you saw Sol’s eyes widen in surprise. You quickly waved your hand to dismiss it. “Ah, it’s nothing, really.”

But Sol’s reaction was something else entirely. His face softened into a look of pure adoration, as if the idea that you might dream of him made his heart burst. That realization seemed to make him… happy. Dangerously happy.

You coughed awkwardly and tried again. “Alright, how about… babygirl?”

The moment the word left your lips, Sol’s eyes widened like saucers before he let out an uncharacteristic snicker. His shoulders shook as he tried to stifle his reaction, but within seconds, he broke into full laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubled over.

“Ahahahaha!” he laughed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Bitch! I’m serious! Stop laughing!” you exclaimed, your face burning with embarrassment. “You’re so cute—ahhh…” That last part slipped out in a mumble, but you couldn’t take it back now.

Sol wiped at his eyes, his laughter finally settling as he caught his breath. “I have no idea where you got that idea, but I’m clearly far from being a… babygirl.” He snickered again, shaking his head. “It’s cute, though.”

“Husband?”

Sol choked on his breath the moment the words left your lips. His head snapped to the side as he desperately tried to hide the deep crimson blush spreading across his cheeks. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t suppress the ridiculously goofy smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, god,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking slightly. “You… want to… ahaha—”

You grinned at his flustered state, deciding to push him further.

“Are you sure?” he stammered, glancing at you nervously. “Don’t you think people are going to, you know, take it the wrong way if you start calling me your husband, Y/n?”

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand with a teasing glint in your eyes. “I don’t care,” you said with a shrug, smirking at how his blush deepened. “But I think you’ll die of shyness before anyone else says anything.”

He inhaled sharply, his eyes darting everywhere except at you.

“I mean, you do give off husband vibes,” you continued with a giggle.

Sol’s gaze immediately dropped to his lap, his fingers nervously fumbling with the edge of his sleeve as he mumbled under his breath, “You’re killing me…Y/n”

You giggled harder, relishing his reaction. “Alright, alright! I’ll think of something else. But hey—‘husband’ would be so cute, wouldn’t it?”

His ears turned an even darker shade of red as he tried to compose himself, but he was clearly losing the battle.

“This is the final one then!” you declared with a triumphant smile. “Love.”

Sol froze, his entire body stiffening at the sound of the word. A visible shiver ran up his spine as his wide eyes finally met yours.

“L-Love?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, grinning like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse.

The tips of his ears practically glowed crimson as he quickly looked away again, twiddling his thumbs nervously. His leg began to bounce under the table, betraying the nerves he was desperately trying to hide.

“I’m… I’m alright with that,” he finally murmured, his voice unsteady but undeniably sincere.

You couldn’t resist leaning closer, teasing him further. “You sure people won’t take that the wrong way?”

Sol’s lips twitched into a shy smile as he took a deep breath. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “I wouldn’t mind, though… let them know. Let them all know that you only belong to me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your face heating up despite yourself.

You prided yourself on being observant—sometimes you thought it was a curse, noticing every little thing about him. But now? Watching the way his shy smile betrayed the possessiveness simmering beneath the surface?

It felt like a blessing.

“Should I think of something else?” you teased, tilting your head as you watched his reaction.

Before you could even finish the thought, Sol sat up abruptly, almost standing, his hands raised in a halting gesture as if to physically stop your words from escaping.

“No—‘Love’ is perfect,” he said, his tone firm but laced with a flicker of surprise. His expression was serious, almost too serious, but the intensity in his eyes spoke volumes.

A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. “Alright, Love,” you said softly, drawing out the word just to see his reaction.

Sol froze for a moment, his breath hitching, before leaning back against the couch. His body seemed to relax, but his eyes told a different story. They were heavy-lidded, clouded with a lovestruck haze, as if the nickname alone had sent him spiraling into a daydream he didn’t want to escape.

His gaze never wavered from you, his lips slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. He looked utterly intoxicated, like you’d just become the center of his entire universe—and you savored every second of it.

Your gaze locked with his, the lovestruck look in your eyes mirroring his own. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken emotions that threatened to swallow you both whole. Realizing how deep you’d fallen into his stare, you quickly turned away, heat flooding your cheeks.

“I-I need to cook!” you stammered, desperate to break the spell.

You turned toward the kitchen, fumbling with your phone before pulling up a how-to-make-curry video. “Hey, Sol,” you said without looking back, “could you teach me some food art? Like those fancy lunches you used to make for Hyugo?”

Sol tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at your request before a soft, amused smile broke across his face. “You want me to teach you, huh? Sure… But only if I can help.”

“No!” You spun to face him, waving a finger in protest. “You’re injured! Just sit there and be cute.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, his lips forming a perfect pout as he leaned back against the counter. “Fine,” he grumbled, crossing his arms, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

After a moment of gathering ingredients, Sol perked up and began listing off what you’d need for the curry. His voice was calm and instructive, guiding you with ease.

When you finished washing the vegetables, you grabbed the knife, determined to show him you could handle it. But before you could make the first cut, Sol was suddenly beside you, his hand gently covering yours as he slid the knife away.

“Let me,” he said smoothly, picking up the knife and turning to the cutting board with an air of effortless confidence.

“Sol, you’re supposed to be resting!” you scolded, but he ignored you, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

With practiced precision, he chopped each vegetable into perfectly equal pieces, his movements fluid and almost mesmerizing. He finished quickly, setting the knife down with a smug grin.

“Showoff,” you muttered under your breath, narrowing your eyes at his cocky expression.

“Oh?” His grin widened, and he leaned closer. “You asked for my help, didn’t you?”

Before he could say more, you reached out and grabbed his hand, your fingers brushing over his bandaged knuckles. “You’re hurt,” you reminded him softly, your voice filled with concern.

For a moment, Sol froze, his confident facade cracking as his expression softened. His gaze fell to your hands holding his, and something tender flickered in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. But he didn’t pull his hand away.

You held his hand a little tighter, looking up at him with a mix of exasperation and affection. “No more sneaky knife tricks, okay?”

He smiled—soft, genuine, and utterly disarming. “Okay,” he said, but the glint in his eye told you he was already planning his next move.

Sol sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible. But fine, if you’re going to be stubborn, let me at least guide you so you don’t chop a finger off.”

You grabbed the knife, determined to prove yourself. “I can manage just fine!” you huffed, setting the carrot on the cutting board and trying to carve it into a petal shape. The result was… less than perfect.

Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you—warm, close, and undeniably suffocating. Sol’s hands gently covered yours on the knife, his chest brushing lightly against your back as his breath fanned your ear.

“You’re too tense,” he murmured, his voice low and coaxing, like honey dripping into your thoughts. “Relax… I’ll show you how.”

Your breath hitched. Relax? How am I supposed to relax when you’re this close?

He adjusted your grip, his hands guiding yours with expert precision. “See? Like this,” he said, his tone a little too soft, a little too seductive.

You wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in your throat. The warmth of him pressed against you, the way his fingers curled over yours… it was overwhelming. You felt your cheeks heat up, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Does he know what he’s doing?

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” Sol said out of nowhere, very seriously.

Your heart skipped a beat. “W-What?!”

He paused, confused, then smirked knowingly. “I mean… I do know my ways with knifes.“

Can he read my mind?

Somehow, under his guidance—and despite the mess in your head—you managed to cut a carrot petal perfectly. You stared down at the result, momentarily stunned.

“Well done,” Sol said, his hands still lingering over yours. “Should I show you again, or—”

You practically jumped out of his grasp, spinning around with a sheepish smile. “Nope! Got it! Thanks! All good here!” you blurted, waving your hands frantically.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind helping you again.”

“Nope! I’m fine!” you squeaked, your voice higher than usual.

Sol chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, pumpkin,” he said, stepping back with an air of victory.

Your mind raced as you turned back to the cutting board, gripping the knife tightly to ground yourself. Does he know what kind of effect he has on me?

You groaned internally, deciding then and there to never let him cook with you ever again.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “No! It’s fine! I got it!” you blurted, jumping up with a Mickey Mouse-like squeak, hands flailing as if trying to prove a point. “I got it right! See?” You turned toward the sink in a panic, trying to wash your hands to do something, anything, to distract yourself from his lingering gaze.

But the thoughts swirled around in your mind like a storm. What was it about him? Why did you feel so… lost in him?

Why was everything he did, every word he spoke, making your heart race like this?

Sol tilted his head, frowning as you adamantly refused to let him help prepare dinner. “I’ll just do something easy then, okay? Like juice. No knives, no heavy lifting—safe and simple.” His tone was calm, but his persistence was unyielding.

You sighed, cornered by his determination. “Fine. Orange juice. That’s it. Nothing else,” you said firmly, though your heart raced for an entirely different reason.

Sol moved toward the counter, pulling out oranges and the juicer, you couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion creeping into your thoughts. Why does he want to help so badly? It wasn’t that you didn’t trust his skills; you knew he was competent—better than you, even. But the darker part of your mind whispered something sinister: He’s going to drug it. That’s what the sleeping pills in his pocket are for, right?

You shook your head, trying to focus on the curry simmering on the stove. Still, your thoughts kept wandering back to the juice. What if he’s planning to make me fall asleep just so he can…

Your pulse quickened. The idea wasn’t entirely unpleasant, which disturbed you even more. Stop it. You’re the one with the upper hand here, you reminded yourself.

Minutes later, Sol handed you a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a proud smile on his face. “Here. The least painful job, as promised.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, setting it aside on the counter. The curry was boiling hot, nearly ready to serve. You turned off the stove, setting the pot on a trivet. But your mind was already spinning with plans.

“Hey, Sol,” you began, keeping your tone light and casual. “Could you call Hyugo and let him know you’re at my place? You know how he gets if we don’t keep him in the loop.”

Sol raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Your phone’s dead, though.”

“Yeah, but yours isn’t,” you countered smoothly. “Just tell him I dragged you here for dinner. I don’t want him thinking you’re in trouble or anything.”

Sol hesitated for a moment before sighing. “Alright. I’ll go step outside and call him.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, you grabbed the glass of juice he’d prepared, a sly grin spreading across your face. Maybe drugged, maybe not, you thought, shaking your head. Doesn’t matter. Not taking chances.

You poured the juice into the sink, washing the glass thoroughly before retrieving a fresh batch from the fridge. You poured the untainted juice into a clean glass, you added a few ice cubes to ensure it would be cold enough to mask any suspicion.

“Let’s see who gets played now,” you muttered under your breath, giggling softly at your own cunning.

The curry was ready, the table set, and the replacement juice sat innocently in its place. You had one last card to play, though—a small vial of medicine you had tucked away. It wasn’t a sedative exactly, but it would mimic the effects, making you feel tired without fully knocking you out. Perfect for your plan.

You dropped a dose into the “safe” glass of juice you’d prepared for yourself. You needed to stay just awake enough to watch Sol’s reaction, to see the cracks in his perfect facade when he thought you were asleep.

Let’s see your demons come out, Sol.

The door opened, and Sol returned, his expression softening as he saw the table set. “Hyugo says hi,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Great,” you replied, motioning for him to sit.

The warmth of the curry lingered on your tongue as you took another bite, humming in delight. Across the table, Sol chuckled softly, savoring his own meal with a small, content smile.

“You should write down the spices you had me add,” you said, swirling the remnants of your curry around with your spoon. “I didn’t think this would turn out so good.”

“Really?” Sol’s eyes sparkled. “You did most of the work. I just pointed a few things out.”

He leaned back, his movements relaxed, yet there was a subtle tension in his frame—like a predator watching its prey.

The conversation drifted to food, and Sol offered casually, “I could send you some of my favorite recipes if you ever want to try making them.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you murmured, smiling faintly.

As the room fell into a quiet rhythm, your thoughts wandered, drawn to him. His presence today had been… overwhelming. From the moment he protected you to cooking beside you in the kitchen, Sol had wormed his way into your life in ways that felt far too intimate. It wasn’t just comfort; it was something deeper, darker.

It felt domestic.

It felt… right.

The thought sent a twisted thrill racing through your veins, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. You glanced at Sol, who was casually sipping his juice, his eyes flicking to yours every so often.

You tilted your head back, chugging the last of the orange juice in a single gulp. Sol raised an eyebrow at you, amused, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something that made your pulse quicken.

Your breath hitched. The room seemed warmer than before.

What if he did drug it? The idea had been lurking in the back of your mind all night, and now, with every sluggish beat of your heart, you were almost sure.

And yet…

You didn’t feel fear. You felt exhilaration.

Your mind spiraled. Would he take care of me if I passed out? Would he carry me to my room? Or would I wake up to something… darker? Would I see that beautiful, unhinged side of him fully unleashed?

The weight of your eyelids began to drag, and you couldn’t stop the lazy smile creeping onto your lips.

“What time is it?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“8:45,” Sol replied, his voice smooth but low—almost teasing.

You blinked at him, your vision blurring slightly. Your heart raced even as your body started to betray you. You had overdone it on the dose; the sleepy effects were hitting faster than expected.

“I’ve taken too much of your time, Lo—Sol.” You let out a yawn, barely able to hold back a crazed little laugh at how this was all unfolding. “You… should go home. Right? There’s class tomorrow.”

Sol’s expression softened, his smile laced with something… dangerous. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your stomach twist—half fear, half desire.

“No need to worry about me,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I’m happy you let me in. Happy you trusted me enough to treat my wounds, to share dinner.” His words dripped with sincerity, but his gaze… his gaze was anything but innocent.

You tried to lift a hand to his face, to cup his cheek, but your vision swam. There were three of him now, all staring at you, all wearing the same soft, deranged smile.

“You seem tired, pumpkin,” Sol whispered

Your heart stuttered, a crazed, heady feeling overtaking you. This is it. This is what I wanted. Show me more of you, Sol.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, your words slurred. “Just let me get you… something. You need to g-go home, right?”

The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering against the floor. The sound was distant, muffled, like it came from another world.

And then you saw it.

Sol’s smile stretched wider, darker, and his eyes gleamed with an obsession so raw it almost brought you to tears.

God, I love this. You thought, the corners of your lips twitching into the barest of smirks as your body gave in to the drowsiness.

Just before your vision faded, you caught the glint of his teeth as he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out.

It didn’t matter.

You wanted it.

Beyond your hazy, blurred vision, you caught the faint movement of Sol’s smile—serene, calm, yet undeniably dark. His hand pushed away the untouched glass of orange juice, his fingers lingering as if mocking your little game.

You sly bastard, your mind whispered, every word tinged with a delirious, obsessive warmth. God, fuck you… fuck you… I love you.

Your senses still clung to you, though your body betrayed the act. You were awake—barely. Every sound, every tiny motion, was amplified in the fog of your mind. You could hear him move closer, the scrape of his chair on the floor, the soft crunch of glass underfoot as he stepped toward the sink.

You wanted to laugh, but you couldn’t. He knows… maybe not all of it, but enough. Oh, Sol… you brilliant, twisted soul. Take me.

He turned toward the pitcher of orange juice and the abandoned glass, his gaze unreadable. The slight crunch of a packet in his pocket caught your ears, the sound piercing through the fog like a whisper meant only for you.. those pills. So that’s your game. Were you going to play me, Sol? Or were you testing me?

The thought burned into your chest, clawing its way into your obsessive thoughts.

It doesn’t matter. You stayed, didn’t you? You’re still here… with me. God, I’ll let you win this game if you want, just don’t stop playing with me.

You felt his hands—steady, firm—on your shoulders. His touch was everything. Comforting. Possessive. Sinister. His breath, warm against your neck, sent shivers down your spine.

You’re tasting me already, aren’t you? Savoring me.

He inhaled deeply, the sound deliberate, almost indulgent, as if he couldn’t help himself. The soft tremor that followed made your heart leap even in your lethargic haze.

You wanted to moan. But you couldn’t. All you could do was feel.

His voice broke the silence, soft and low, dripping with tenderness and control.

“Let’s get you to bed, pumpkin.”

Your thoughts spiraled. Pumpkin. That name again… it’s mine, isn’t it? Yours. Ours. Say it again. Say it when you think I’m not listening. Say it while you’re watching me.

He slipped an arm beneath your legs and the other behind your back, lifting you with a gentleness that made your skin ache. His strength surprised you, even through his bandaged wounds. He carried you like you were precious. Fragile. His spouse

Your heart hammered, your chest heavy with a love so twisted it felt like it would tear you apart.

This is what I wanted. This is what I fucking dreamed of. Take me, Sol. I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t leave. Don’t leave me alone. You’re mine as much as I’m yours. I’ll make you see that someday. I’ll show you… no one else can give you this.

You felt the rhythmic sway of his steps as he carried you toward your room, his lips moving softly—words you couldn’t quite catch but that you knew were meant for you.

What are you saying, Sol? Sweet nothings? Promises? Confessions? Tell me. Tell me everything. Tell me while you think I can’t hear. I want to live in your darkness… drown in it. You’re perfect. You’re mine.

He laid you down gently, his hands lingering just a little too long as he adjusted you on the bed.

Sol, Sol, Sol… touch me more. Just a little more. Show me everything. Don’t stop now… don’t ever stop.

You felt the covers pulled over you, the fabric brushing against your skin. His fingers brushed against your temple, lingering, soft but firm.

“Heh… Hahaha… Hahahahaha.” Sol’s laughter rang out, soft but unhinged, dripping with the kind of madness that sent chills down your spine and heat rushing to your cheeks.

Oh god, you whispered in your mind, trying to steady the storm of emotions coursing through you.

You didn’t know anymore—was it his broken, chaotic soul you loved, or was it just him, the entirety of him, darkness and all?

“Oh, my darling Y/N,” Sol purred, his voice a velvety mix of affection and possession, “I feel so flattered that you trust me so, so much.”

You giggled silently to yourself. Trust? Oh, Sol… if only you knew the truth. You’d watched him for months, hadn’t you? Studied him from afar, noted every habit, every nuance. You’d been drawn to him long before this moment, long before he thought he had won you.

“Despite meeting me yesterday,” he continued, his tone softening but not losing its edge, “isn’t this proof enough? Proof that you’re meant to be mine, as I was always meant to be yours?”

Your breath hitched. God, the way he spoke, the way his words dug under your skin and coiled around your heart like a vice. You were his… but oh, Sol, how little he knew. You were already more his than he could ever realize.

Your thoughts betrayed you. I want to drown in you, Sol. Kiss you until we’re both breathless. Draw your face over and over, photograph every moment of your obsession, and immortalize it in my mind forever.

He shifted closer, his wicked grin evident even without looking. You felt his breath against your neck, hot and electric, his arms tightening possessively around you. His head rested against your chest, and your traitorous heart thudded faster. You could feel him smiling against your skin.

“Your soul resonates with mine,” he whispered, his voice a low hum that made your blood race. “I can hear it, feel it, see it in the way you linger even in your dreams.”

God, you were burning alive. You could barely keep your thoughts contained. Sol, you’re driving me mad. How can I keep pretending? I want to turn over, look at you, and devour the chaos in your eyes.

Sol snuggled even closer, practically merging with you as his body molded against yours. “I love you so much, Y/N,” he murmured, his lips brushing faintly against your ear. “I want you to realize it, deep in your soul. I want your heart to sing mine’s name. I know it’ll take time… but I’m growing impatient, sweetheart.”

You nearly whimpered, biting down the sound before it could escape. Your pulse betrayed you again, hammering wildly in your chest. He heard it. Oh, you knew he heard it.

His voice dipped lower, as if to himself, but you caught every word. “When will you realize?”

You almost broke then and there, your thoughts screaming. I do, Sol. I do realize. I know exactly what we are, what we’re becoming. You’re chaos and obsession, and I’m the fool who craves it all.

But instead, you stayed silent, pretending to sleep, letting him believe you were entirely under his spell. All the while, you simmered with a deranged kind of love that mirrored his own. You wanted him. God, you wanted him. And soon, you’d let him know just how much.

Your body lay still, but inside, you were burning with a dangerous desire. You had to keep pretending, keep playing this game of sweet dreams and soft whispers, while your mind spun in wicked thoughts of Sol and everything you wanted to do to him.

“Sol… Sol…” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, your voice soft and dreamy, like a confession in the night.

He froze, his heart leaping in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips. His breath hitched as his mind scrambled, unsure if you were truly asleep or if this was some kind of delicious tease. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and you felt the sudden heat of his body pressing into yours.

You let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, as if lost in a dream. “Sol…” you whispered again, dragging it out just enough to make him crave more.

His face was burning now, the heat of his blush almost suffocating. He couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his lips, the kind of smile that was both pure adoration and a little bit dangerous. He believed it — every word you said, every whisper. In his mind, this was confirmation, this was what he had been waiting for, that you truly desired him, just as much as he desired you.

So cute, he thought, watching your lips curl into a peaceful, dreamy expression. It was enough to drive him wild with longing. The way you whispered his name — you were playing, teasing him, and it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever heard.

“God…” he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. He felt a tremble run through his body as his grip on you tightened again.

You could hear him, feel his heartbeat picking up as he fought to keep his composure. But you could tell. His weakness was your touch, your words, your presence. The way you acted like a dreamer in his arms, how you whispered his name as though you were lost in the warmth of him.

It was all too much for him to bear. His face burned with a blush that he couldn’t hide, his breath growing shallow as he fought against the overwhelming urge to pull you even closer.

Sol’s breath trembled as he watched your peaceful expression, your lips softly parted, whispering his name again, and again. His chest tightened with something deep, primal, like a yearning that refused to be ignored.

“Dreaming about me…” he murmured, his voice thick with longing, almost trembling with the raw emotion he couldn’t hide. His lips quivered as if they couldn’t contain the truth he felt deep inside. “Ah… Darling, do you love me too?”

His words were low, quiet—he thought you were still asleep, your body gently relaxed in his arms. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to force an answer. But deep down, he needed to hear it. He needed confirmation that you felt the same way he did.

His heart pounded as he looked at you, as though you were everything he could ever dream of. He felt weak under the weight of his own desire and affection. He whispered again, voice barely a breath, “I need you to know… I love you so much, Y/N.”

The tears that welled in his eyes were a sign of how deeply he cared, how completely he was consumed by you. It was more than obsession. It was devotion, twisted with a dark desire. He didn’t realize that he was slowly losing control, his emotions getting the better of him.

He pulled you a little closer, burying his face in your hair, his breath hitching. “You’re mine, Y/N. No one else.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his possessiveness, but also with a tenderness he only allowed himself to feel in this moment with you.

he held you tighter, his lips kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment, his tears mixing with his whispered confession. “I just want you to know… You’re everything to me, darling.” He paused, his voice shaking as he waited for a response he didn’t expect, but desperately craved.

Sol’s breath hitched as he rifled through your closet, his hands trembling with excitement as he pulled out pieces of clothing he planned to steal some clothing… A piece of you he could keep close, something only he could touch. He grinned to himself, the thought of having you so wrapped around him, even in your absence, sending waves of pleasure through his chest.

He leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your cheek, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered, his voice thick with affection, as he turned to continue his search.

You lay there, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, feeling the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The warmth of his embrace was comforting, but you knew what he wanted—what he always wanted. You felt your thoughts swirl in that dangerous, delicious obsession, but you couldn’t stop it. Not now.

Sol’s arms clung to one of your oversized sweaters as he nuzzled his face into the fabric, inhaling your scent like it was his lifeline. His smile was lazy, lovesick, almost deranged in its intensity. After kissing your cheek and whispering, “I’ll be right back, darling,” he slipped into your closet, leaving you lying there in feigned sleep.

You barely moved, too torn between exhaustion and the thrill of what you knew he was doing. Sol rummaging through your things was almost too perfect a scenario, one you’d dreamed of before, but tonight it was real.

Inside the closet, Sol’s hands moved with almost reverent care as he touched your clothes, holding each piece as though it were sacred. A gleam of mischief lit up his heterochromatic eyes when he decided to “borrow” one of your hoodies. for him to hug.

Then, something caught his eye. A box tucked into the corner of the closet, partially hidden beneath a blanket. Curiosity burned brighter than caution as he crouched down and pulled it into the dim light. His hands were trembling as he opened the lid.

And then… his world shifted.

Photos of him—and Hyugo. Some candid, others blurry as though taken from a distance. Sketches, endless sketches of his face in varying poses, from loving to enraged to serene. Notes and details scribbled in the margins, every single one obsessively accurate.

Bandages. A pencil he hadn’t even realized you’d taken—one he’d lost just days ago. A button from his sweater.

And then there was the journal.

Sol’s fingers brushed over its cover, his breath uneven as he opened it. His name, written over and over again in feverish handwriting. Doodles of hearts, sketches of his profile, and words—declarations, fantasies, phrases that mirrored the chaos in his own mind. It was uncanny. It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

He felt his lips curl into an unhinged look as he flipped through the pages, faster and faster, his eyes devouring every stroke of the pen.

But then, a sound—sharp, sudden, and chilling—broke through his thoughts.

A creak. Like the groan of floorboards or the protest of something heavy shifting. Sol froze, his grip tightening on the journal. Slowly, he turned his head toward the closet door.

“…Y/N?”

The moment Sol turned his head, you were already moving. Before he could react, you were on him, pinning him to the floor with a force that sent the box scattering. Pictures, sketches, and your deepest secrets spilled across the floor like a dam breaking. Sol’s back hit the floor, his wide eyes staring up at you, his lips parted in a silent gasp.

You hovered over him, your hands trembling as they gripped his shoulders—not his neck, not his hands. Not the places that screamed at you to touch. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

“I can’t hold you by your neck… because you hate it, don’t you?!” you hissed, your voice breaking, a venomous whisper mixed with something almost tender. “And your hands—I can’t touch those either! Because these hands saved me! They’re too… precious! I know all of this because I saw you too!” Your words were frantic, your breath uneven as your emotions clawed their way out of you, raw and desperate.

His eyes were locked on yours, his mouth slightly agape, but he didn’t move, didn’t resist. His blush deepened, spreading across his pale cheeks, but he stayed silent. Watching. Listening.

You felt your resolve crack further, a sob hitching in your throat as you leaned closer, your voice trembling. “Y-you weren’t supposed to see that! None of that!” You gestured wildly at the journal, the photos, the sketches. “Why couldn’t you just—just stay there? Just lay with me? Why are you so goddamn greedy, Sol?” Your words were sharp, accusing, but your expression betrayed your own obsession, your own twisted love.

“You’ve already stolen so much from me. My heart, my thoughts—hell, a dozen of my clothes! And now, this?!” You gestured to the box again, your voice rising before it cracked into a broken whisper. “You greedy, disgusting bastard… And me? I’m no better. I’m just as bad. Look at us…”

Your words faltered as your gaze met his, and you froze. His face mirrored yours—exactly. The wide, crazed eyes, dilated pupils, blush streaking his cheeks like war paint. His lips quivered, caught between a nervous smile and the urge to speak, but no words came. He just stared at you, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

You were paralyzed by the intensity of it—the horrifying, beautiful realization. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t angry.

He was just like you.

A sick laugh bubbled out of you, breaking the silence. “Look at us… Look at how disgusting we are, Sol! You—stealing my clothes like some lovesick thief. And me? God, I’m worse. So much worse. Hiding this box, drawing you like some obsessed freak… We're—” You choked on your words, tears threatening to spill, but the manic grin on your face remained. "We’re both so fucking far gone. It’s sick. We’re sick.”

And yet… there was something so horribly, perfectly satisfying about it.

Sol lay beneath you, his eyes wide and unblinking, his breath caught in his throat as your words tumbled out in a chaotic symphony of revelation. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came. His silence was deafening, his body frozen, his face betraying that strange, terrifying cocktail of shock and… acceptance.

“You… you’ve been stalking me, haven’t you?” you whispered, your voice sickly sweet as you leaned closer, lips brushing just past his ear. “You watched me, didn’t you? Followed me home… went through my things. You even drugged me—or almost did. Almost.” Your laugh was low and breathy, sending shivers down his spine. You could feel it, the way his body tensed and trembled beneath your touch.

And then, with a sudden, wicked grin, you asked, “May I?” Your lips hovered near his neck, the words dripping with teasing affection. He didn’t answer, only inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling rapidly. That was enough.

You pressed your lips to his neck, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered under you. His arms moved almost instinctively, wrapping around you as if to anchor himself. His breaths came heavier now, his hands gripping the fabric of your clothes.

“Sol, Sol, Sol…” you murmured against his skin, giggling softly as you pulled back to look at him. His face was a mess of emotions—blush spreading across his cheeks, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with something primal. “Look at you… My beloved, my sweet, sweet Sol.. Is it shocking to see me this crazey?!”

You tilted your head, studying him like an artist admiring their own masterpiece. “I can’t even decide if I should kiss you again or just… hug you forever.” Your laugh broke out again, louder, unhinged. “Ahahaha! Oh, God, I can’t even choose! You make me want everything, Sol! Everything you are!”

Your grin widened further, almost painful, your voice sharp and cutting even as your tone stayed sweet. “That smile of yours… That’s the one, isn’t it? The one that blinds me to everyone else. Like a bright, burning sun that drowns out the whole world. God, you’re so good at pretending to be sweet, but I see you, Sol. I see what’s behind it!”

You pressed your forehead against his, your grin softening, but your words still carried that playful, mocking edge. “You’re a little liar, you know? Just like me. And you know what?” Your voice dropped, almost reverent, as you whispered, “I love it. I love you.”

You paused, giggling again, shaking your head as if you couldn’t believe it yourself. “But let’s not pretend I’m better. Oh, no.” You gestured wildly at the scattered contents of your box. “I’m just as bad as you. Worse, even. Look at all this! I’m a walking red flag, and you—” You leaned back slightly, giving him a once-over, your smile turning teasing. “You’re waving me around like you’re proud.”

Your laughter echoed again, filling the space around you, almost hysterical. “What a pair we make! The obsessed and the obsessive… No, wait—who’s who again?” You tilted your head, smirking. “It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re both disgusting, both broken… and God, isn’t it just perfect?”

Sol’s wide-eyed stare softened just slightly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. A fragile, deranged thing that mirrored your own.

And as you leaned closer again, your voice dropped to a whisper, still playful, still sharp. “I’ll trash-talk myself all day, darling, but don’t think for a second you’re off the hook. You’re mine, Sol. And I’m yours. So, go ahead…”

You cupped his face again, your grin never faltering. “Say something. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m not exactly what you wanted.”

Your fingers curled into Sol’s shirt with trembling force, clutching it so tightly that your knuckles turned white. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, tears pooling in your eyes as you stared down at him. The words spilled from your lips before you could stop them, each syllable laced with frustration, desperation, and something raw and terrifying.

“Why? Why aren’t you saying anything?!” Your voice cracked as you shook him slightly, your grip relentless. “Why aren’t you telling me anything?! I know you feel it—I see it! You’re just like me! You’re the same as me!” Tears streamed down your cheeks, but your voice only grew louder, more frantic. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Sol! You—”

You froze mid-sentence, your eyes locking with his. His expression hadn’t changed. Those eyes of his… they were the same as yours. Wide, shimmering, and brimming with something overwhelming—something obsessive. They mirrored your own crazed love-stricken gaze so perfectly it stole the breath from your lungs.

He was silent, utterly still, and yet… there it was. That unshakable devotion, that desperate yearning. It was written all over his face, in the way his lips parted just slightly, the way his breath hitched, the way he clung to you as if letting go would shatter him completely.

Sol’s voice came out almost as a whisper, unsure but laced with a tinge of fear. “How—long have you known…?”

You tilted your head, an innocent smile playing on your lips, though your eyes were anything but innocent.

“What…?” you asked, feigning confusion.

Sol’s gaze dropped, his fingers twitching at his sides. “That I was…watching…you.”

You couldn’t hold back the giggle that bubbled up from deep inside you, the sound light but eerie. “Oh, honey… the correct word is ‘stalking.’ But you know, since a few months now… I knew exactly what you were up to. Every little thing. The way you’d slip in and out when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. The food you tried to drug… oh, how cute it was. But, don’t worry. It wasn’t the first time I noticed.”

His expression faltered, surprise crossing his face, but you could sense a mix of pride and discomfort swirling within him.

“How—and you don’t hate me?” His voice trembled slightly, cracking for the first time.

You leaned in closer, almost toying with him, your voice gentle as you whispered, “No. Not at all.”

Sol’s eyes widened in disbelief, his lips parting as if to say something but then stopping himself. His brows furrowed. “What? I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you hate me?” He asked again, but this time, there was more clarity, more strength in his tone than before.

You smirked, tilting your head to the side, as if you were finally offering him the answer he so desperately wanted. “I don’t have a ‘choice,’ Sol.”

A flicker of confusion danced across his face as his grip tightened slightly around you, as though searching for more answers in your gaze. “What?”

You paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. A soft, almost eerie smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “It’s just that I didn’t have any other choice but to love you.”

His expression faltered, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something almost human—something fragile—cross his face. A flush crept up his cheeks, though his eyes remained sharp, guarded.

“You basically own me now, Sol,” you said quietly, your voice unshaken. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride in the way the words fell from your lips. You weren’t afraid. You were comfortable in this.

And then, softly, hesitantly, he finally spoke. His voice was fragile, almost trembling, as if the question itself might break him. “Do you… love me?”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. His words hung in the air, heavy and vulnerable, cutting through your spiraling emotions like a knife. For a moment, you were stunned into silence, your grip loosening slightly on his shirt.

That’s what he was worried about? After everything—after the stalking, the stealing, the obsession—that’s what he cared about? Your mind raced, trying to process the absurdity of it all.

But as you stared at him, at the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes, something shifted. All the anger, all the chaos inside you seemed to pause, replaced by a single, undeniable truth.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper as you answered, your own vulnerability slipping through. “Sol…” Your hands trembled against his chest. “Of course I love you.” Your voice cracked on the last word, tears slipping down your cheeks. “How could I not? You’ve consumed me. You’re all I ever think about. All I ever want. All I ever need.”

His lips quivered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he searched your face for any hint of deceit. But there was none. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

“I love you,” you repeated, louder this time, your voice breaking as you clung to him. “And I hate it, Sol. I hate how much I love you. I hate what it’s turned me into. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

His arms wrapped around you suddenly, pulling you against him with a force that stole your breath. His body trembled as he buried his face in your shoulder, his voice muffled and shaky. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “So long…”

You didn’t need to say anything more. Just the way you looked at him spoke volumes. There was a darkness to your smile, a chilling calmness that matched his own twisted nature. You leaned in slightly, your voice low and almost pleading, but still with an air of authority, “Don’t ever leave me, Sol.”

His breath hitched. He froze for a moment, his hand instinctively reaching for his head, his fingers gripping it tightly, as though he could escape the weight of the words you just laid upon him.

“That won’t happen,” he murmured, voice thick with a promise that both scared and thrilled you.

Before you could respond, before you could even process what was happening, Sol closed the distance between you, his hand coming to the back of your head. He pulled you in closer, his lips crashing against yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

There was no gentleness in it, only a raw, desperate need—a desire to consume, to possess, to claim. His kiss was demanding, as though he couldn’t wait any longer to have you all to himself. It was everything you wanted, everything you needed.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room, but neither of you seemed ready to face it. The silence was comfortable, the weight of your shared night still lingering in the air. Sol’s steady breathing against you was soothing, and it made it hard to even think about moving. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if he feared you’d vanish if he let go.

You lay there, with your head resting on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. Everything felt so surreal. After everything—the madness, the obsession, the twisted love—you were here. Together. And for a brief, beautiful moment, you couldn’t find a single reason to pull away.

Sol shifted slightly, his voice a soft whisper in the stillness of the room. "Is this… is this the first time I’ve slept well in a while?”

You paused, taking in his words, unsure how to respond. He had told you things, bits and pieces of his own brokenness, but this was different. This was the side of Sol that you never really expected to see—the one that wasn’t in control, the one who needed something, someone.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “After everything… with you, it feels… different.”

The quiet lingered between you, but neither of you rushed to fill it with words. The kiss, the emotions that came with it, and the truth that had been laid bare—none of it was easy to digest. But somehow, it felt right. Neither of you had to say much. The bond was there, thickening around you like an unspoken promise.

For once, Sol wasn’t the one in control. For once, he just wanted to stay there with you.

You lightly brushed a strand of hair from his face, gazing down at him, trying to make sense of the situation. It was strange, how the person who had been stalking you, watching your every move, could now look so… innocent. After everything you’d gone through together, after the craziness of the past few days, here he was, holding you like you were the one thing that could keep him grounded.

Your fingers brushed his cheek gently, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, Sol,” you whispered, “the soul you are…”

Sol didn’t respond immediately, his arms tightening slightly around you, pulling you in closer. He wasn’t saying anything, but his presence spoke volumes. His usual intensity had faded, replaced by a softness, like he was content. Almost like he was at peace for the first time in a long time.

It was funny. You’d expected so much resistance, so much chaos between the two of you. But instead, Sol had become… almost like a puppy. Gentle, needy, and completely devoted now that you’d given him what he wanted—a relationship. The storm inside him had quieted, and now he just wanted you. All of you.

He nuzzled his face against your neck, letting out a small, contented sigh.

The morning light streamed through the window, but neither of you seemed eager to face the reality outside. You could feel Sol’s arms tightening around you, his grip almost possessive, like he didn’t want to let you go—not now, not ever. His presence was soothing yet consuming, and despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away. He simply held you, content and silent.

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of your thoughts press down on you. “Sol,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, “We have school today.”

But even as you said it, you didn’t move. Sol didn’t either. His gaze shifted to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that you had come to recognize all too well. Then, that damned smile of his—bright and blinding like the sun—spread across his face. He closed his eyes again, nuzzling his head into your neck, as if the world outside didn’t matter.

You smiled in return, that same small, knowing smile, as you closed your eyes. Skipping a day doesn’t matter, you thought, feeling your heartbeat steady as you lay there with him, cocooned in the quiet warmth of the moment.

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know if it was the obsession, or just the way Sol had slowly wormed his way into your heart. Part of you wondered if you were truly in love with him, with his darkness, or if you had fallen for something else—his childlike, innocent need for you, perhaps. But one thing was certain. You were in love with something dark.

Something inside you whispered that it didn’t matter what it was, as long as you had him. You felt yourself sinking deeper into him, losing track of what was real and what was just a product of your twisted desires.

The day could wait. Everything could wait. You were here, with him, ad that’s!

……………………

………………………………………..

……………………………………………………………………

Your thoughts twisted in a way you hadn’t fully expected. Sol’s warm body pressed against yours was all you could focus on, as his steady breathing filled the space between you. His presence was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you’d fallen into this spiral.

Is this what love feels like?

You couldn’t stop the question from swirling in your mind, but you weren’t sure if it was love anymore. Not the kind they talked about in fairy tales, not the kind people dreamt of. This felt different—darker, somehow. The way he clung to you, the way he needed you, it was suffocating yet strangely comforting.

It’s like I’m his obsession, his world, and I can’t escape it. But I don’t want to.

His grip on you, though tender, felt possessive—like he was marking his territory. Your heart fluttered, but not from nervousness. There was something wrong with the way you craved his touch, the way you wanted him to tighten his hold on you.

You tried to brush the thought away, but it lingered like a haunting whisper in the back of your mind. What if this is all I’ve ever wanted? To be owned, to be the center of his world?

You looked down at him, the boy who had slowly seeped into your life, becoming the very air you breathed. His face, soft and serene in sleep, looked almost innocent. But you knew better. He wasn’t innocent. Not with that smile. Not with that darkness lurking in his eyes whenever he was awake.

Do I want to be the one to tame him? The thought came unbidden, a dangerous curiosity taking root. But you weren’t scared. No, you were… enthralled.

He stirred slightly, his breath tickling your neck as his lips brushed against your skin. You felt that familiar thrill course through you, the dark and twisted desire that you couldn’t stop. You wanted to taste his madness, wanted to pull him deeper into the abyss with you. You both were tangled in this web of obsession, and it felt like the only thing that made sense.

God, what is wrong with me?

The question was fleeting, a mere afterthought to the way your heart sped up when he pulled you closer. You didn’t care anymore.

You’re mine, Sol. I’m yours. Forever. The thought was clear, possessive, and there was no escape from it. You smiled to yourself, knowing deep down that you were just as tangled in this as he was.

And that was exactly how you wanted it.

Thank you for everyone who read this series, TBH the ending is rushed. I wasn’t able to write it much any longer I wanted to end it. I’m sorry if the ‘ending’ is bad. I was just pointing out two things Reader only started to love the side of his true self than himself. It has to be messed up. I hope i didn’t ruin anyone’s day with it. I wanna thank to everyone who supported me it was really fun to write…I guess it’s time to wrap up! Please send comments I like reading them and replying I’m so sorry Comments make me happy.

A important note too, Please tell me a review of this fic if you can! It has to be truth! I don’t mind some tips I WANT THEM. It’s also okay if you didn’t like it. That’s exactly why I did what I did. If you cringed even one time, Just know that it was a trap by me.

[batshitferalejsimp]

can i ask for jtk short scenario prompts or general headcanons

(OF COURSE YOU CAN!!!1!! I love requests! \o/)

Jeff the Killer General Headcanons!!

(Well well well, it's time to talk about everyone's favorite crashout)

Minors DNI !!

Now to start I 100% subscribe to angry problematic emo boy Jeff the killer. he's tall, hes thin and he's a little bit of a bitch

Honestly I think he'd be around 6ft1 and rail thin while somehow eating way more than he should, like ribs still showing after eating 15 cheeseburgers a day for a month(with sides).

He's surprisingly strong for his size, not like impossibly so, but enough to take someone off guard, which adds to how hard it is to predict what the fuck he will do in any given fight

His voice isn't especially deep and it's VERY raspy hoarse, like he just spent an hour screaming before he talked to you, it's just like that all the time.

Jeff is the number 1 asshole in any situation, like going out of his way to make sure everyone is having a worse time than him, He'll go easy on you if he likes you(romantically or not), but your not escaping his pranks, he just won't try to hurt you.

He is always fighting someone, or recovering from getting his ass beat. Honestly though, he doesn't hold grudges from fights unless he already hates you, its like fighting people is the only thing that keeps this skeletal asshat alive alive. He's the kind of guy to go to a bar just to get into a bar fight. He is gonna be laughing even if he's got broken bones and he lost.

He somehow has short man syndrome even though he's tall??? blame EJ or something

He gets a sick satisfaction whenever someone is shorter than him, makes him less likely to pick a fight with you though, unless your beefier than him, then it doesn't matter

He gets all his pocket money by stealing from the houses of his victims, going as far as to break open piggy banks. He knows this one pawn shop owner that won't ask questions or narc on him

Jeff like's to gift people the stuff he stole, especially if he REALLY likes you ;)

He uses Reddit and 4chan.

On Reddit he's your garden variety troll, saying whatever will piss people off (he doesn't believe half the bullshit he spews, but it's VILE)

on 4chan, he BRAGS and shows pictures of him with dead bodies, animals. He also posts to a board about Knives, and there he's creepy, but no one connects the dots and just thinks he's a poser

He listens to almost exclusively problematic/fucked up artists (luckily he's emo so he don't gotta look too hard)

being called "Jeff the Killer" makes him geniunely giddy, and if you wanna be friends(or more) the fastest way to do that is to use the title every time you talk to him

he knows how to pickpocket, lockpick and hotwire and will use that information for evil(stealing and crashing cars)(also like... the murder)

He believes he can't get addicted to anything so he's done most of the well known drugs and gone into withdrawal several times(it pisses EJ off)

He likes to game, but has horrible gamer rage

He believes in equal rights equal fights(and no you can't convince him how it's wrong)

He is surprisingly thoughtful when he likes you(except for when he isnt), like he will not go too far(atleast for you), and if he does he almost always apologizes. And as for gifts, he does what he can and ALWAYS remembers birthdays(A reason to go have fun)

As he's grown, he's somehow become less of a loner and more social(not to say he has any social grace, but he has fun around people)

He will kill for the people he likes, and it would be flattering, if he didn't get off on it

EXTRA!!!

It was a foggy night as Jeff dragged you through the streets, laughing his ass off you stumbled trying to keep up with him. He seemed especially excited tonight, having climbed through your window to wake you up, barely letting you get dressed before shoving you out the door and dragging you out onto the streets. "Come ooooOOOOoon, hurry up." Jeff whined as if he was trying to be annoying, which he probably was knowing him.

"where the hell are we even going?" You asked for the umpteenth time, not expecting an answer. "Not telling, but trust me, you'll love it." Jeff replied excitedly. "This is the last turn anyway" It was only a few minutes of that same song and dance before you found yourself in front of a VERY big house, in a VERY affluent neighborhood. It was a comically expensive home, which made you nervous to see the opened door and cameras as he shoved you through the door. "Jeff! What the hell!? You're gonna get me arrested!" You protested, trying to fight against him as he covered your mouth.

"RelaaAAAaax, I cut the cords to the cameras days ago." Jeff teased, shoving you into the house before shutting the door behind him. "Now come on! This place is fucking awesome, there's a pool and you can steal whatever you want."

As you stared up at him from the floor, mouth agape, he grinned.

"Aren't I the greatest?" Jeff paused for a moment, "Avoid the 2nd floor bathrooms though, I forgot which one I put the bodies in."