#but I'm pretty frazzled still

[darkmatters-ghost]

update: the reason my house flooded (someone broke a sewer pipe) isn't the only reason. Apparently there's at least 8 different houses in my neighborhood that got hit with water damage one way or another. The city is gonna have a fun time trying to pay for all that.

Still. My house is up there in terms of the who suffered the most severely from this game.

So... My house flooded. At least my basement, where my room is.

I'm not going to go into details, because Internet privacy and all that, but the fanfics I'm working on, I'll either publish faster, or much, much, slower. I'll do my best to keep you updated :(

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

wavy hair pericles save me..... wavy hair pericles. save me wavy hair pericles

[snowballseal]

Them as supernatural creatures (LaDS)

Summary: This is my take on what supernatural creature each guy would be. They're pretty long, and either a fic where reader discovers what they are or a domestic moment they share together.

Rafayel - kitsune

Zayne - vampire

Xavier - guardian angel

Sylus - demon

Word Count: all roughly 1500 words

Note: These honestly came out soooo much longer than I expected. I might add a fic for Caleb, cause honestly, I'm really warming up to him. What supernatural creature should he be?

I'll probably come back and edit later, so let me know if you catch any mistakes!

---

Rafayel / Kitsune

“Rafayel…” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“What?! They deserved it,” Rafayel defends himself as he flops down onto the couch. 

“That doesn’t mean you can screw with people whenever you want,” you chastise softly and sit next to him, “You’re supposed to keep your identity a secret.”

Rafayel gives you a pout. Letting out a dramatic huff, he falls over into your lap, stretching out lazily instead of giving you any kind of response. You bite back a laugh, his weight pressing you into the couch, effectively trapping you as he makes himself comfortable. It takes everything in you to not give in to his usual cute tactics, the concern gripping your chest not quite letting go.

“Seriously, Raffie, it could be dangerous,” you continue, worry seeping into your voice.

“It’s fiiine,” he sighs, ocean eyes glinting up at you with amusement, “You worry too much, cutie. You wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t told you.”

“Still-”

“Nope, no more worrying,” he cuts you off quickly, reaching up to pinch both your cheek with a teasing, cheshire grin, “Miss Bodyguard is off duty now. This spirit wants his girlfriend to cuddle with him.”

Swatting at his hands, you can feel a blush creeping up your neck. Sometimes it still surprises you how care-free he is, like nothing could ever touch him. Which maybe he’s right. And you know he’s never going to stop his antics. Still, you worry. It’s a part of your nature, wanting to protect people, especially the ones you love, especially him.

But Rafayel is persistent, coaxing you to relax with playful touches and banter. He knows exactly how to unwind you, and how to rile you up, every button, every nerve. You feel almost powerless to resist, to hold onto your lingering doubts. And it’s not even his powers, it’s just Rafayel, your Rafayel.

And of course you give in. With a weak sigh, you settle into the couch, your fingers finding their way into his curls to calm what’s left of your frazzled nerves. Rafayel hums, low and content, his eyes flickering shut as he arches up into your touch like a cat.

“Do you want to stop hiding your ears?” You ask quietly, something warm and tender winding through your ribs.

Rafayel lets out another low rumble, eyes opening a fraction to look up at you suspiciously, “You know, sometimes I wonder if you like my ears more than you like me. That wouldn’t be true, now would it, cutie?”

“Of course not,” you tease, ruffling his hair, “I just want you to be comfortable.”

“Mhm, sure.” A small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, because of course he knows that you do truly love him for him, but the fox does love his games.

It’s almost unnoticeable, the way he dismisses his transformation magic. Every time you can’t help but watch, fully enraptured by the change. A pair of soft ears flicker up from his hair, as if they were simply hiding in his curls the whole time. And his tails. You blink, and suddenly they appear, fluffy and plush, the same color as his hair. They curl around you, as if seeking out your warmth, the same way Rafayel turns to nuzzle into your stomach. The spirit gives a happy rumble when you rub his ears, pressing impossibly closer.

“You have no idea how irritating it is to hide them all the time.” His voice comes out  muffled by your sweater, his ears flicking back before pressing to your fingers again. “I imagine it’s how you humans feel when you wear itchy clothes.”

“That doesn’t sound fun,” you agree, “I’m glad you don’t have to hide them around me anymore.”

“You’re the first human I’ve allowed to see my true form in a long time, ya know.”

Your heart flutters a little at that. It’s a fact you’re well aware of, and one you try to never take for granted. It had taken a long time for Rafayel to share this with you. 

Ever since you met in the park, you knew something was different about him. He was beautiful, after all. More beautiful than you thought a person could be. And there was always something about his smile, something that set you on edge but also drew you in. The mischievous glint in his eyes never wavering, the almost unnatural grace he moves with, even the way he talks, as if he remembers times long gone by.

It all clicked when he finally told you. When he showed you his true form. A fox spirit. Everything made complete sense, but also no sense at all in that moment. First, you couldn’t comprehend it. Wanderers, yes, those you could wrap your head around. Mystical fox spirits? No. No, that took a few days to really settle in.

Still, it was Rafayel. It was always Rafayel. And the moment he came to you after those few days of distance, tentative and quiet in a way you had never witnessed from the artist, you made your decision. 

A life without him wasn’t possible. Not for you. Not with how you had fallen in love with him.

“So, tell me again why you tricked those guys into thinking a bear was chasing them?” You ask, tone fond as you continue to rub the soft fur on his ears.

Rafayel huffs, rolling on his back to meet your gaze more easily. The swirling colors of his eyes gleam with that familiar mischief, his canines flashing sharply in a dangerous grin, “They were hunting for sport, so I showed them what it’s like to be hunted.”

He really is scary sometimes, you think to yourself, biting back a smile.

“I’m sure they’ll think twice about hunting in your woods again.”

“They better,” he snips, “If I catch them again I’ll send a real bear after them.”

“I’m sure the forest thinks you’re quite a good guardian, mister fox spirit,” you tease, ruffling his hair fondly.

Rafayel suddenly shifts, and in the blink of an eye he’s leaning over you, his arms braced against the couch on either side of your head. You freeze, eyes going wide as you look up at him, pulse racing in your ears. The fox spirit leans down, nose brushing yours, that same dangerous smile pulling at his lips.

“And what do you think, miss hunter?” He asks, breath warm against your lips.

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, to even breathe with him this close. And Rafayel can tell, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He lifts one hand, fingers tracing delicately along your cheek so you feel the faint edge of his claws.

“What? Fox got your tongue?” He all but taunts, leaning closer. His eyes slowly trail down to your lips, his grin widening. “I could show you what that really feels like if you want.”

…

Heat flares across your cheeks. You gape at him, shock mixing with embarrassment mixing with something you don’t want to admit to. Did he just say what you think he did?

Rafayel keeps his cool facade for only a few more seconds before he cracks, bursting into a fit of laughter. You stare at him, blinking wildly, brain slowly catching up with it all. And then you’re shoving him.

“Rafayel!” You squeak, and he only laughs harder, which in turn, makes you more flustered. “You’re such a- I can’t believe you! God, you’re insufferable.”

The artist catches your hands when you go to hit him again, his ocean eyes crinkling along the edges. Snickering softly, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your angry pout.

“Sorry, my bride,” he hums unapologetically against your lips, pressing a scattering of chaste kisses along your pink cheeks. “It felt like the best way to change the subject.”

“My lover is such a sadist,” you grumble, trying to turn away from him. It’s difficult to keep pouting when he showers you in such soft affection. “My poor heart can’t take this, you know.”

Rafayel cups your face, drawing you back to face him so he can press another kiss to your lips, this one tender and gentle and slow. And just like before, you’re powerless to resist him. Your fingers brush against his neck as you return the kiss, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you. Everything about him is so addicting, so enthralling, like you could get lost and never find your way out. It almost scares you, how much you’re willing to lose for this man.

Eventually Rafayel draws away, if only to let you catch your breath, still teasing you, “Now do you forgive me, cutie?”

“Hmm, I guess so,” you sigh, pretending to be appeased. Your fingers trail innocently up into his hair, until you’re close enough to give his fluffy ear a playful pinch. Rafayel squawks and pulls away, giving you the most dramatic look of betrayal. Grinning, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Okay, now I definitely do.”

Rafayel whines, reaching up to rub his ear, “Who’s the sadist now?”

“Watch it, or I might just pull your tail.”

“Okay, okay, we’re even…Now can we cuddle?”

---

Zayne / Vampire

You’ve known Zayne practically your whole life. Well, all of your life that you can remember, at least. He’s always been something constant, if not distant at times. And while you never assumed you knew everything about the doctor, you thought you knew more than most.

That is, until you wander into his office one day to find him passed out on the floor.

“Zayne?” You freeze in the doorway to his office, eyes blowing wide. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t show a single sign of life. Fear sinks deep into your bones, wraps around your lungs like a noose. And then your legs are moving. Your shoes desperately try to grip the tile as you dash across the room, panic dulling the throb in your knees as you drop to the ground beside him.

Pulse. You need to check his pulse. And his breathing.

Hands shaking, you press your fingers below his jaw, only to inhale sharply at the shock of how cold his skin is. Like ice. Too cold. No one should be this cold. And you can’t find a pulse. You skim your fingers down his neck, looking, looking, but still nothing. 

Leaning over the still doctor, you press your ear to his chest and wait. Your lungs start to ache from how you desperately hold your breath, but it’s nothing compared to the terror gripping your heart. Because you hear nothing. Nothing at all.

You draw back, lips parting, ready to call out for someone, anyone.

Until a hand clamps firmly over your mouth.

A surprised scream escapes you, muffled by cold fingers, as you find yourself flipped, a hand holding the back of your head to prevent it from hitting the ground. Chest heaving, you draw a fist back, ready to fight back against your attacker, only to freeze when your eyes meet a pair of hazel ones.

Zayne.

Relief washes over you. Quickly followed by confusion. You quickly push his hand away, brow knitting together.

“What the hell, Zayne?” You bark, pushing yourself onto your elbows.

The doctor quickly backs away, resting back on his haunches. You take a moment to look him over, worry still clinging to your bones. He’s pale, somehow more pale than usual at least. Dark shadows rest under his eyes, which appear almost bleary as he gazes back at you. He looks exhausted. 

Dead, even.

“You weren’t breathing,” you whisper, getting to your knees so you can check his temperature again. “Your heart wasn’t beating. I checked. What happened? How are you awake right now?”

Zayne grimaces, flinching away from your touch, and you freeze.

A deafening silence fills the office. It’s an odd stand-off, you staring him down, confusion burning behind your gaze, while he does everything he can to avoid it. For a split second, though, you see something you’ve never seen in the doctor. Uncertainty.

“Zayne?” You call again, voice going soft, “Talk to me. Please.”

Zayne hesitates, seemingly debating in his head before he speaks, his voice a low rasp, “I apologize for scaring you. That must have been startling to walk in on.”

“I’m fine,” you dismiss, slowly making your way closer to him, “I’m more concerned about you right now. You were dead. At least, I thought you were. So what happened?”

Another beat of silence.

“I must have lost consciousness from exhaustion. I haven’t slept much the past few days,” he tries, but even to your ears, it sounds like a weak excuse.

“Zayne, your heart wasn’t beating. You-” You press a hand to his chest, perhaps to prove a point, perhaps to knock some sense into him. To do something.

Except his heart still isn’t beating.

You're paralyzed. Eyes locked on his chest. Confusion creeps over you, like tendrils of ice spreading through your chest. Sharp. Suffocating. This isn’t right. This can’t be real. It can’t.

Zayne lets out another sigh, this one resigned and tired. Like he’s finally given up. His cold fingers gently cover yours. He draws your hand away from his chest, though he never lets go of it.

“I suppose there’s no hiding it anymore,” he murmurs, voice stiff, like how he speaks when he’s working. “Come, let’s sit on the couch. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

You don’t say a word as he helps you to your feet. You can’t. Your tongue feels like a dead weight in your mouth. And even if you could talk, you don’t know what you would say. A million questions rush through your head, so blurred that you can’t pick out a single one, except-

“What are you?”

It echoes in your head raucously as you take a tentative seat on the couch. Zayne’s lips press into a tight line, and he clears his throat.

“That depends. There are many names for my condition.” His leg bounces ever so slightly as he continues, eyes still not meeting yours. “Though I suppose the most common term is vampirism.”

Vampirism.

You blink. 

And blink and blink.

Vampire. He’s a vampire.

A vampire?

“Those aren’t real,��� you immediately breathe out, mind racing.

A humorless smile pulls at the doctor’s lips, “I assure you, it is. I’ve suffered from the symptoms for as long as I can remember.”

A vampire. He’s a vampire. Your childhood best friend is a vampire.

“How did I not notice?” You all but squeak, examining him with this new information. 

Sure, he’s pale, but Zayne’s always been pale. And it’s not like he avoids the sun. Aren’t vampires supposed to be weak to the sun or something? Plus, he’s aging, isn’t he? A million new questions race through your mind.

“Wait, do you have fangs?!”

Before you can stop yourself, you’re touching his face, basically making him open his mouth. Zayne startles, brow raising at your brazenness, but he does nothing to stop you. At first, his teeth look normal, the only thing worth noting being the excellent care he’s given them. But then you notice it. His canines seem to sharpen, just a touch longer than they should be.

And that’s all the proof you need.

“You’re a vampire,” you breathe, fingers settling along his jaw.

Zayne watches you carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. Horror. Fear. Anger. All of those would be appropriate. But you don’t show any of them. Instead, you look at him with a mixture of disbelief and…curiosity? 

Brow knitting together, Zayne reaches up to touch your wrist, just to check your pulse to make sure you haven’t gone into some sort of shock. Your pulse is steady though, if not a little accelerated.

“You’re not…frightened? Of me?” He asks slowly, confusion gleaming in the depths of his eyes.

You shake your head, a smile threatening to break out across your features, “No, Zayne, I’m not scared of you. I probably should be, but hey, I fight wanderers for a living. Do I have a lot of questions? Yes. But if you’ve really been like this since we were young, that means you’re not going to suddenly do something to me now, right?”

Your lack of concern should be worrying, but Zayne finds the tension is his shoulders slowly dripping away. Of course you would surprise him like this. You’ve always been too trusting, in his opinion, though he’s not about to correct you now.

“So, do you drink blood? I’m guessing you don’t hurt people, considering how strictly you follow your oath.” Head tilting, you give him a questioning look, eyes wide and almost innocent in their curiosity. “So where do you get it from? Blood bags? I’ve read that in a few books. Or animals? I’ve read that, too. How accurate are all those stories?”

“I could answer your questions if you slow down,” Zayne murmurs, fighting an amused smile. “I assure you, we have plenty of time.”

You flush, biting off the rest of your questions. Right. You’re not really giving him an opportunity to answer, are you? So where do you start?

“What is your first question?” The doctor prompts, thumb brushing calmly over your pulse.

“Hmm. The blood question. Do you have to drink it?”

“Yes,” he answers, though his voice rings with distaste, “I have to consume some form of blood every few months to keep my senses about me. I’ve perhaps waited too long this time.”

“Do you need some right now?” You press, brow furrowing.

Zayne hesitates. His lips pinch together again, a sign you recognize.

“No.”

“Liar. That’s why you passed out,” you accuse, though you keep your voice somewhat gentle.

He says nothing for a long moment, a mixture of guilt and discomfort crossing his features. Sighing softly, you give his cheek a light pinch.

“Zaaayne.”

“I’ve tolerated longer periods than this between feedings,” he murmurs, trying to sound dismissive, though you can hear the exhaustion creeping back into his voice, “My body must simply be enduring higher levels of stress due to the season. As long as I rest more, I’ll be fine until my next supply arrives.”

“Oooor,” you hum, hesitating only a moment before you offer, “You can draw some of my blood. Just enough to get you through till then. We know it’s clean since you always run so many tests on it, so that shouldn’t be a concern right?”

Zayne blinks in surprise. Even if you were taking this all well, he certainly wasn’t expecting you to make such an offer. But you meet his gaze, unwavering, expectant, mind already made up.

If his heart were beating, he’s sure it would stutter.

While he hates his condition, hates what he has to do to appease it, he can’t deny that the smell of your blood has always been tempting to him. Cloyingly sweet, like the sweetest dessert. 

He should say no. He should just endure, as he always has. 

But the determination in your eyes makes him waver. And Zayne is a weak man when it comes to anything related to you.

“It’s not advisable…” He starts, jaw tightening.

You perk up, not actually expecting him to consider it. It was a crazy idea after all, but you want to help. You hate the idea of him suffering by choice when you can do something about it.

 “But…?”

“But I am not completely opposed to the idea,” he concedes, almost looking ashamed.

“Good,” you chirp, a smile lighting up your face as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. “Then let’s get to work, doctor.”

God, you would be the death of him.

Well, if he were fully alive, that is.

---

Xavier / Angel

“How is it that you seem to find danger wherever you go?” Xavier murmurs, voice as even as ever, yet cradling a hint of exasperation.

Biting back a smile, you keep your attention focused on his fingers. They work with a practiced precision to bandage the laceration on your arm, adept from the years of dressing your wounds. It has become a near weekly occurrence because of your work. Getting hurt is an unfortunate side effect of being a hunter.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so reckless if I didn’t have such a sweet angel to take care of me afterwards,” you hum, tone bordering on teasing.

Xavier’s ears flush a soft pink, his wings ruffling in some kind of indignation, which only makes your smile stretch wider. He’s always so easy to fluster, and his wings give him away every time. It makes you want to tease him even more, but when you go to do exactly that, all that escapes you is a low hiss when he swipes a pad of alcohol across another of your cuts.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing tenderly along your knuckles.

“S’okay,” you sigh, taking a deep breath, “Just stings. I hate the shallow ones more than the actual cuts, you know?”

Xavier gives a low hum, neither agreeing or disagreeing. You’re sure he would prefer you avoid all physical injury, but that is an argument the angel lost a long time ago, not long after you first met. And what a day that was.

Xavier came into your life in a flash of light. Literally.

You remember the day with quite a bit fondness despite how horrible it was. Everything had gone wrong that day. Exams were kicking your butt, as was training for the Association. To say you were down in the dumps was an understatement, which is why you had been out in the woods, trying to enjoy a bit of silence. 

That is, of course, when a wanderer decided to appear.

You did your best to handle it, but you were still just in training at the time, and it was clear you were outmatched. Things would have taken a turn for the worse if Xavier hadn’t shown up.

All you really remember is seeing a blinding light, almost like a flashbang, and then there he was. Ethereal, face set with stone-cold focus, hair silvery white like a star, but most striking were the large wings stretching from his shoulders, impossibly white, the edge of each feather glinting like a knife. With a flourish of his sword, he clashed with the wanderer, killing it in seconds.

In that moment, you were convinced you were dead. That made a lot more sense than what you were seeing, after all - an angel. Sure, he didn’t have the halo, but what else could he be? And how could you be seeing an angel if you weren’t dead?

It took him kneeling down in front of you, eyes sharp with concern as he scanned your entire body for injuries, for you to realize you were, in fact, not dead. And that’s when the questions started.

“Who are you?”

“What are you?

“Where did you come from?”

Xavier being Xavier, he danced around each answer. And you being you, you didn’t relent until you got the answers you wanted.

Not only is he an angel, he’s a guardian angel, and you’ve become his charge. And since he revealed himself to you, he can’t go back to his realm without getting in serious trouble.

That’s how you ended up here, with an angel as your roommate. What else were you supposed to do with him? The man was like a lost puppy with wings. Sure, he can take down a wanderer like it’s nothing, but ask him to work a toaster and he’ll sit there for about an hour just staring at the thing. You couldn’t leave him to fend for himself.

And it was the best decision of your life, really. Not only has he become your best friend, but maybe something more.

“I do wish you would stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger,” Xavier rumbles suddenly, pouting a little bit as he examines your now bandaged hand.

“It’s not unnecessary,” you chime softly, slipping your hand from his to poke his cheek playfully. Satisfaction curls in your chest at the blush that spreads across his beautiful features, his pout only growing cuter. “If I don’t put myself in danger, then other people will, and then innocent people can get hurt.”

“Being so selfless could get you killed,” he sighs, rising to his feet, wings flaring behind him.

Your eyes follow him, steady and warm, head craning up to hold his gaze, “I’m perfectly capable of staying alive, Xavier. And if I’m ever in trouble, I know you’ll be there to help me.”

The angel huffs. You’re not wrong, as much as he’d like to argue. What was once just a job to him, a responsibility, is now something more, something carved deep into his soul. Every fiber of his being longs to keep you safe, even if it means breaking every rule he once followed. Even if it means he must fall some day.

Ignoring that thought, Xavier settles onto the bed next to you, letting out a heavy sigh as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. His hair brushes your neck, soft and ticklish, drawing a light giggle from you as you curl your arms around his shoulders.

“You really shouldn’t worry so much, starlight.”

“You make it incredibly difficult not to,” he grumbles, voice low and muffled, “I just want to keep you safe…”

“Hmm, such a sweet angel,” you hum and card your fingers through the feathers at the base of his wings.

Xavier holds back a shiver, his body arching into your delicate touch. His wings have always been sensitive, especially when you’re the one touching them. You don’t miss the way his blush spreads down his neck, or the way his wings instinctively curl around you, as if they can block out the rest of the world, as if to make a space just for the two of you. The smile that pulls at your lips is overwhelmingly fond, just like your touch.

You love the feeling of his feathers under your fingers. At first glance, they look almost sharp, but they’re surprisingly soft, downy and warm to the touch. Without thinking, you trail your fingers along the curve of his wing and fix any out of place feathers with the utmost of care. Xavier lets out another, shaky sigh, his eyes flickering shut.

It’s a soft moment. Everything else is muted, the only sound being that of your steady breath and his lazy, content hums. Xavier nuzzles even closer to you, his body impossibly warm, his weight too much for you to support. A giggle escapes you as you lean back onto the bed, the angel settling on top of you without an ounce of shame in his expression.

“I swear, sometimes I wonder if you’re actually a cat disguised as an angel, “ you tease, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his lips. He leans into your palm without hesitation.

“Being a cat wouldn’t be so bad,” he murmurs, as if he’s given the idea some thought before. “I’d get to sleep all day and eat whenever I want instead of chasing a certain, reckless hunter around.”

He nips at your finger lightly, but your smile doesn’t waver.

“I think you’d get bored eventually.”

“Is that so?”

“Yah. I think you enjoy chasing me around, you just don’t want to admit it,” you chirp, tilting your head innocently, “And you’d miss me horribly, don’t you think?”

Xavier hums, turning his face to nuzzle into your palm. His lips brush your skin, a whisper of some kind of promise, making your heart flutter unevenly.

“I suppose I would…and would you miss me?” His eyes flicker back to you, narrowed, an undeniable spark of affection kindled in their blue depths.

You both know the answer.

“I’d miss you more than anything, angel.” Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his cheek. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “Then, I guess I’ll have to stay by your side.”

“You better.”

“Of course, my lady.”

---

Sylus / Demon

“What does your real form look like?”

You perch on the edge of his bed, feet kicking in the air as you watch Sylus get ready for whatever meeting he’s about to go to. Something to do with one of the other head crime bosses in the N109 Zone, you’re sure. One certainly down on their luck and looking to make a deal.

Sylus glances at you through the mirror, long fingers slowing as he fixes his cufflinks. His eyes bore into you, glinting with something violent, something vicious and bloody that should unsettle you to your core, but you don’t flinch, you don’t even blink.

Such a brave kitten, the demon thinks, amusement curling his lips.

“Curious, sweetie?”

The smile he gives you is sharp, too sharp, and your skin prickles with an instinctive kind of unease. It’s something you’ve grown used to, the way your body reacts to him. Like a lamb cornered by a wolf, everything screaming at you to run, yet you chose to stay cornered. Choose to trust the teeth pressing so gently to your throat, violence and desire so perfectly restrained to keep you safe.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you chime, head tilting ever so slightly. “I just…want to understand you better, you know?”

Sylus hums and turns his focus back to straightening his cuffs, “Is that so? Aren’t you scared of what I might look like?”

“No.” Your answer is quick, unwavering, and Sylus perks a brow.

A brave kitten indeed. He’s almost impressed. The rumors about him are none too kind, and yet here you are, seeking the truth. Without knowing what the truth means.

Giving himself one last look in the mirror, the demon turns to you. He studies you for a long moment, gaze dark, pensive, intense in a way that makes your breath hitch. His eyes darken, something predatory glinting in their cardinal depths. You look at him so innocently, as if you’re not staring down the devil himself, as if you know he’d never hurt you. It makes him want to ruin you, to see that pretty blush stain your skin all over, just to curb the morbid desire burning in his chest.

But you are right, he’d never hurt you. You’re too pure, too good. So he lets himself be soft, to the best of his ability at least.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” he murmurs eventually.

His shoes barely make a noise as he slowly approaches you. Each step is measured, confident, like he always is, and each step makes your heart flutter a little more. You’re all but holding your breath as Sylus comes to stand in front of you. His fingers, calloused and rough from a life of violence, graze your jaw so tenderly, drawing your face up to his.

“Are you sure you can handle it, sweetie?” He asks, voice almost taunting, though his features remain soft, unassuming.

Still unwavering in your decision, you nod, “I want to know you, Sylus. All of you.”

He holds your gaze for another long moment, as if he’s trying to read your soul. Which he very well could be, you realize. But when you look into his eyes, what you see isn’t his usual smug composure. Instead, you see a flicker in hesitation. Uncertainty. And it makes your heart ache.

Lifting a hand, you carefully cover the one Sylus holds against your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his touch, a gentle smile pulling at your lips, “You won’t scare me away, Sylus. I promise.”

So perceptive. Sylus gives a low chuckle, shaking his head, “You really aren’t like most humans, sweetheart. Most wouldn’t want to know me even in this form.”

“Well that’s their loss,” you hum, eyes crinkling up at him, “But that means I get you all to myself, so I can’t feel too bad for them.”

“My, what a selfish little kitten I have.” His thumb brushes lovingly over your cheek as his expression turns more serious. “If you want to see my true form, all you have to do is ask. Your desires are mine to fulfill, and I will do so with pleasure.”

“I want to see it, Sylus,” you repeat, “I want to see you.”

“Alright.” He draws back, that wicked smile returning, “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, kitten.”

You watch, enraptured, as he rolls his shoulders, tendrils of dark smoke curling around his body. It envelopes him completely and the air in the room grows tense, fizzling with a static that has the hair on your arms standing on end. The lights flicker, plunging the room in darkness for a split second.

And when they come back on, you have to swallow down a gasp.

Because there he is. You’re not sure exactly what you were expecting. You had heard the rumors, the whispers about the monster that haunts the N109 Zone, but this somehow seems different from everything you’ve heard.

Smoldering eyes, sharp and cat-like now, stare you down with an apprehensive gleam. A pair of dark horns curl from his silvery hair. Veins of the same color curl around his neck and down his forearms like webs, the skin of his hands bleeding pitch black. His fingers look more like claws, glinting dangerously in the dim light of the room. Your eyes catch on the tail waving behind him, the spade-tip just as sharp. And the wings. They unfurl slightly, ink-like feathers brushing the floor.

What’s most shocking though, is his size. He stands almost a foot taller, his already imposing stature now threatening. The air shivers around his form, and you can feel that familiar, foreboding sensation creeping up your spine.

But the only thought running through your head is that he’s beautiful. Beautiful like a storm. Devastating and destructive, yet you can’t tear your eyes away. And you just want to be closer.

“Are you scared, kitten?” His voice rumbles with an almost imperceptible dissonance, a hint of concern beneath his tone.

You blink, gaze snapping back up to his, “No, of course not, Sy.”

The tension seems to fall away from his shoulders at that, but he still doesn’t dare move, like he’s still worried you might run away. So you, in a bout of confidence, push off the bed and walk right up to him. Sylus watches you carefully, expression reserved. 

“Can I?” You ask, keeping your tone soft as you brush your fingers against the back of his hand. You look up at him questioningly, and Sylus relents, allowing you to take his hand in yours. Your touch is unbearably soft and curious, trailing along the dark tendrils marking his skin. “Does any of it hurt? To change, I mean. Are you comfortable in this form?”

“I used to spend more time in this form,” he hums, tail flicking back and forth, “but to do business in the N109 Zone, one must be able to live in the shadows without being noticed. This form did not benefit me, so I took the form of a human to…blend in, one might say. Humans are more willing to make a deal when they believe they’re on equal ground.”

“That makes sense, but it didn’t answer my question.” You pout, tapping his hand. “Does it hurt to switch between the two?”

A small grin pulls at Sylus’ lips, revealing a sharp set of fangs, his eyes narrowing in amusement, “No, sweetie, it doesn’t.”

“Good.” You nod and brush your thumb over his knuckles. “Then I want you to take whatever form you’re more comfortable in when it’s just the two of you.”

Surprise flickers across his face, barely noticeable, but you catch it. Sylus covers it up quickly, his smile turning mischievous, “I didn’t expect you to be so comfortable with this. Does my kitten have a soft spot for monsters?”

“Maybe,” you hum, stretching up to curl your hands around his neck despite how much taller he is than you now. 

Sylus relents once more, leaning down so you don’t have to balance on the tips of your toes, even though he finds it quite cute. His hands rest tentatively against your waist, his fingers nearly interlinking at the small of your back. The size difference makes you bite the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your neck.

Pushing the thought away, you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, humming happily, “You’re not a monster, though. I think you actually look quite…charming like this.”

The demon huffs out a laugh, his forehead coming to rest against yours, “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll be whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

“You make me happy, Sylus.”

“Well then, I suppose this arrangement will benefit us both greatly.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, “I suppose it will.”

---

I felt most of my choices were pretty expected, but let me know if you guys think they'd be other supernatural creatures! And Happy almost Halloween!

[fushiguho]

hello love 💗

i fear im in dire need of more of your geto… u write him so perfectly i cant get enough….. thinking ab a sweet bf sugu who gradually becomes more & more jealous throughout the relationship when he starts to realize that other people can also find his gf attractive lols

Hi beautiful, I'm blushing. Your wish is literally my command! I present to you… *drum roll please* Jealous!Getou

Content Warnings: Overstimulation, Getou has a filthy mouth, possessive sex, exhibitionism, breeding, spitting

Word Count: 2.5k

What’s worse—a jealous man or a possessive one?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

It started sweet and at first, he truly was kind—smiling gently with a disapproving shake of his head to ward off stray eyes or a reassuring hand resting on your lower back as you stroll the aisles of the grocery store. And sometimes even a fleeting kiss to your cheek with a pang of underlying possessiveness. But it didn't take long for Getou to realize that being kind simply won't suffice for a woman like you. Is his kindness mistaken for weakness? Are you just so irresistible that men can't help but to throw themselves at you regardless of his presence? Why doesn't anyone get it?

He's gotten mean now. The sweet, well-mannered man you once knew who was respectfully handling wandering eyes and catcalls is now getting into fist fights and verbal arguments with creeps in public. In the beginning, Getou swore he wouldn't let it get to this point—swore that he wouldn't allow his jealousy to create lapses in judgment but how can he not? You're just so fucking pretty.

It started sweet. That is until Geotu is reminded of the fact that other people can also perceive your beauty whether he likes it or not. The literal existence of the notion makes him physically sick. He’s definitely not stupid. Unfortunately, he’s blatantly aware of the way men think and stare. They nearly drool in your presence, mouths dry at the mere thought of a chance with you. And soon, his reassuring hands turned into possessive groping and his cordial smiles into verbal threats because no one seems to fucking get it. You’re his. Is that part not obvious?

You gasp at the hand that unceremoniously grips the fat of your ass. “Sugu stop! They’ll see my panties,” You squeal as you bat him away, pulling at the ruffled hem of your mini jean skirt, “can’t get so jealous all the time!”

“Nuh uh, let them see. I should just fuck you right here… give ‘em a taste of what they can’t fucking have.” He scowls, shooting daggers at the imbeciles across the tavern who won’t stop ordering you drinks. “Huh, what do you think, baby? Think they’d like to watch me bend you over this bar, pull your fucking skirt up like this and just fuck you?” His lewd tone makes your tummy knot in arousal and you can only gasp when he sneakily grazes his warm palm along your clothed cunt. Getou leans in close, his steady breaths right against your ear, “They’re staringggggg.” He hums melodically, gingerly taking your face in his hand to direct your gaze on the two young gentlemen whose faces now blush with embarrassment.

“Sugu,” You warn as you attempt to wriggle your way away from him. “be nice, okay? They’ve just never seen such a beautiful, grown woman like myself. You don't see something like this everyday, love.” You jestingly gloat as you bat your lashes at him sweetly, attempting to lull his frazzled nerves. The dramatic roll of his eyes makes you giggle. You tend to give everyone the benefit of the doubt even when they truly don’t deserve it. “Maybe they’re curious.”

“Well, I don’t like their curiosity. It’s rude.” Getou mutters as he’s pulling you off the bar stool to stumble behind him. You hardly even have time to protest as he’s taking you by the hand and dragging you out of the bar, but not before flipping off the two light haired men. He even made sure they were still watching when he pushed up the hem of your skirt, baring your plush cheeks before roughly smacking the exposed skin and sticking out a teasing tongue, serving almost as a sick reminder of his possessiveness and your unavailability.

“What the fuck was that?” You press as the two of you exit the noticeably warm tavern. “You have got to control yourself!”

He stalks closer as his hands reach for you. “I can’t, okay? I can’t fucking help it.” He admits, dropping his arms at his sides in defeat. “You saw the way they stared—the way everyone stares—it pisses me off, baby like they’re fucking with me... I swear I really can’t help myself. My mind—I just… I just get so fucking crazy, baby I don't know why.” He babbles while carding a frustrated hand through his long, sable hair. He's completely succumbing to his irrepressible jealousy and possessiveness.

The sweet, reassuring smile that mars your lips as you beam up at him makes his cock twitch. “I’m yours. You have to know that at least, right?” You question in a hum as you attempt to quell his eminent rage.

Getou nods down at you, pressing his forehead to yours with closed eyes. He exhales his last few breaths of seething anger before briskly taking you by the hand and leading back into the tavern as if an idea flickered to life in his head. You follow closely as he pushes past the blonde men, past the bar, and into the small, dingy bathroom that’s tucked at the end of a drab hallway. You don’t even question when he pulls you up on the sink, his breath ragged as he fiddles to unbuckle the clasp of his belt.

He can't help the painful swell of his balls when he lets his jealousy get the best of him. Despite all of your protests, you love when he gets like this—completely feral, carnal, aggressive. Your heart slams against your chest as he pushes his trousers down his thighs, then goes his dark green briefs, finally baring his stiff, swollen cock. A gasp slips from your mouth when he roughly pulls you toward the edge of the sink, situating himself between your welcoming thighs.

“Public indecency is a crime.” You taunt breathlessly, lolling your head back as Getou kisses at your neck, his sloppy tongue already licking and swirling against your sweet skin.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ve ever cared about that,” He reminds, his warm breath tickling the sensitive flesh of your neck, “I mean look how easily you spread your legs for me already. You don’t think I know when my sweet girl wants to get fucked?” He almost moans when he pushes the sodden fabric of your panties aside, revealing your slick, messy folds. “Fuuuck, look at her.” Two, thick digits are sliding between your slit before sinking inside, eliciting a helpless whine from your gaped mouth. “You get so sloppy for me when I get crazy… you love me like this.”

Your hips are bucking to chase his hand, back arching into his possessive touch. "I love that you're mean to everyone but me," You whisper, lips falling open when he brings his hand to your face, prompting you to taste yourself. A groan drags from deep in his chest when your sweet tongue lolls out, wrapping around the length of his fingers so that you can suck them clean with a pleasureful hum. "love that you're so crazy about me too."

"I'd kill for you, baby. You understand that, right?" He’s pushing the fat head of his cock against your puffy clit as his gaze holds yours crudely. “Anyone you want… you point the finger, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You nod to him meekly, not a single doubt in your mind. Soft breaths drag from your lips as you pant for him, absentmindedly spreading yourself impossibly wider, wordlessly begging for him to take you now. Obeying your silent needs, Getou begins to sink the tip of his cock inside of you with a push of his thumb, watching with hooded eyes as your pussy drools down his length.

“Hah—ohhhh, f— fuck…” his breath catches in his throat as he draws his hips back before slowly pummeling forward, once, twice, “my pretty pussy takin’ me so well, my god… look how greedily you suck me in, baby.” thrice.

“Suguuu!” You mewl as he finally begins to fuck into you, his hips bucking wantonly to meet yours, heavy cock dragging along your soft walls, beckoning your inevitable release. “So deep… fillin’ me up so good, Sugu. Love your cock, hmm—you feel s’good.” Your brain is mush, you hardly hear yourself as you babble.

He mocks you, his voice in a higher pitch as he moans out, “Yeah? Is it so deep, baby? You feel good?” He chuckles darkly, pressing a fat thumb to your clit to rub at the swollen bundle of nerves, ripping a guttural moan from your throat. “Yeaaahhh, baby moan loud for me just like that. Let me hear how good you feel… sound so prettyyyy fa’meeee.” He drawls, cooing sweetly as his contradicting thrusts pull the nastiest little sounds out of you.

You’re getting so sloppy. Tongue falling out of your slacked jaw to hang haphazardly, drool spilling messily onto your supple tits, staining your shirt. Getou wastes no time as he’s leaning down to chase your dribbling saliva with his own tongue, languidly licking across the expanse of your chest before pulling your breasts out of your cropped tank top. Soon, he’s latching his lips to one of your hardened nipples, humming in satisfaction as you succumb to his touch.

A warm hand is slipping under the small of your back to maintain your pretty little arch and now your chest presses against Getou’s. From the abut closeness, you can’t miss his deep hums of pleasure or the way he hisses through clenched teeth at the feeling of your walls pulsing around his drooling cock. You definitely don’t miss the way he slots his lips against yours, his unceremonious tongue immediately pushing inside your mouth to taste you. He kisses you sloppily, guttural moans dragging from his open mouth and into yours. You quickly match his feverish pace, huffing and sighing against his lips with growing urgency whilst he holds you close, bullying his possessive cock deeper and deeper. The subtle exchange of saliva makes your stomach knot, sending you spiraling toward to your sweet release. You hardly even realize the obscene roll of yours hips as you fuck him back, meeting his harsh thrusts halfway.

“Y-yes, sweetheart. Holy shit,” he gapes as he wills himself away from your kiss-swollen lips to admire your fucked-out mien, “yes, fuck me back… take what you need from me.” He’s parting your lips with the pad of thumb, cock twitching at the way your mouth easily falls open for him. You allow him to push the digit into your mouth, eyes fluttering shut as you suck sweetly. “Let me spit on that pretty tongue,” instinctively, your jaw’s falling slack with a loll of your tongue, the two of you sharing a lewd moan as he drops a glob of saliva on the center of your plush tongue with a plap, “swallow.”

His usual dark, round pupils turn into literal hearts when you do as you’re told before sticking out your bare tongue as proof of your resolute obedience. His groan of approval before leaning back down to kiss you like before is what has you gushing down the length of his cock with no warning at all. You’ve always been so obedient. So incredibly willing to do whatever is asked of you. You’re such a good fucking girl for him and he physically cannot get enough of you.

“Such a good fucking girl taking my spit ‘n cumming so hard for me like that… only for me though, right?” You nod to him, eyes screwing shut from pure overstimulation. “No one’s ever gonna have you like this, you hear me? Not those blonde idiots out there… not even your dumb little ex… no one.” He punctuates his points with sharp thrusts of his hips. “And do not just nod. Use your big girl words ‘n tell me you fucking understand the words comin’ out of my mouth.”

“Yesssss—mhm, Sugu baby. Yes, I understand! M’yours, ‘kay? Only yours… there will never be anyone else.” You cry, barely able to make sense of your words, far too brain dead to comprehend anything anymore.

“Yeaaaah, say I’m the only cock that can make you feel like this.” He’s moaning profusely, his already taut grip tightening impossibly as he pummels toward his looming orgasm.

“Only your c-cock makes me feel this good, Sugu! No one else… no one’ll ever make me cum like you do,” you’re whining like a broken record, tears of overwhelming pleasure threatening to spill down your sweat-ridden face.

“That’s right, baby… mhm, m’gonna cum so much—fuuucckk. Where does my good girl want my cum? In your mouth? On that pretty face? Inside of you?” He queries as his pistoling hips grow sloppier. His cock even slips out a couple times and pushes against your swollen clit from his rough, haphazard thrusts.

“Inside…” you blush, your cheeks growing hot with slight embarrassment. He always manages to turn you into this—a cock-drunk slut whose only purpose is to take and take and take. But truthfully, you wouldn’t trade it for a damn thing.

Getou smiles wickedly as he leans in, “Yeah? Is that where you want it? Want me to fill that pretty little pussy up with my cum? Get you fuckin’ pregnant?” His face is mere millimeters as he rasps debauched words of praise and filthy, timbre moans. Getou’s always had a nasty mouth—always been so openly vocal for you, sharing any and every lewd thought that crosses his sick mind. It’s one of things you love most about him—the fact that he’s so unfeigned and candid and frank in every possible facet.

You nod up at him dumbly and his hips stutter, eventually stilling completely before he pulls you close. His fat cock twitches inside of you, releasing several, warm spurts of cum deep inside your womb. His groans are feral. He can't stop himself as he begins to lazily thrust into you again, fucking his seed impossibly deeper. Desperate hands grasp at the fabric of his crewneck sweatshirt, attempting to ground yourself as you hold him close.

You’re not here, not really. Poor head full of cotton as he pummels his cock in and out of your sloppy hole, his cum slowly spilling onto the counter beneath. You don’t even register your second orgasm until your eyes are crossing and you’re babbling incoherent pleads and whimpers of his name.

“M’cumming, S-sugu! Fuck, t’soo much… too much!” You’re crying. Fat, salty tears of rapture sear down your flushed cheeks, coating your face in a pretty sheen. He leans in to kiss them away, savoring the briny twinge of your sweat and tears.

“Aweeee, is my good girl crying so pretty for me from my cock? Is it too much? Too sensitive?” He’s cooing and you nod, wriggling away from his taut grip to push him away with a little more force than intended. He lets you shove into his chest, stumbling backwards as a crooked, toothless grin mars his wet lips. Getou is actually feral. If you don’t tell him to stop, he’ll literally fuck you until the only thing your poor brain can remember is the burning stretch of his cock as it drags along your sticky walls.

“You’re fucking crazy, Suguru.” You breathe, your chest heaving as you eye him.

He shrugs lazily as he tucks himself back into his trousers, his sick grin only growing wider. He knows he’s crazy. You know he’s crazy. So really, are you surprised?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

Jealousy is a disease, get well soon.

Hey, you! Did you like this? Click here for more!

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Sooooo…….how do you think Benny boi would handle being caught half-naked from out the shower by his darling?? He’s showering after winning his match-up she thought he was finished but to her surprise…….. this scenario has been stuck in my brain 💀💀

Adrenaline.

oh baby... thank you for this.

warnings - smut. cursing.

Masterlist. Inbox.

"Ben? You in here?"

You walk through the locker room, looking for your partner as you go. Eventually, when you reach the showers, you hear the water running.

"Babe?" Benny yells from behind the curtain. "That you?"

You pull it back and pop your head around, trying to keep your eyes on his.

"It's me. I'll just wait for you on the bench out here."

Before you can blink, a strong hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into the shower, water drenching you immediately. You shriek, swatting at his chest to try and escape.

His palms find your hips, plastering your bodies together.

"Need you," he murmurs into your ear, brushing your hair away from your face. "Can't wait until we get home."

"I'm soaked," you whine.

"You will be."

"Asshole," you laugh, resting your forehead on his sternum. "I like this dress. Dry."

"Stop worrying," he soothes, rucking the material up and over your head, throwing it onto the tiled floor. "Let me take your mind off it, hmm?"

He pulls your underwear down your legs, chuckling when you step out of them willingly.

Benny places your hands on the wall, kicking your feet apart. Pressing kisses down your spine, he sighs softly, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he goes.

"Fuck, this is what I needed. You, all pretty and pliant for me. So good, baby. Such a good girl."

Benny lines himself up and slides home in one smooth movement, both of you gasping in unison.

"That's it," he coos. "Take it, baby. Like you know you can. Like you were made for it."

You drop your head onto your arm and let him mould you however he likes, clearly needing the outlet. He gets like this, after his fights. He vibrates with the energy of it, looking for a release in any way he can get it.

You've become his favourite solution.

"Ben," you whine. "Fuck, babe."

"Yeah, honey. Keep saying my name just like that, please."

Benny's rhythm is frantic, frazzled, rushed, but he still manages to hit exactly the right spots. He knows your body like the back of his hand, that much is clear.

"Close," you choke out, trying not to swallow the water that still beats down. "Benny."

"Come for me, pretty girl. Give me all you've got. Please. I want it baby, that's it."

His honeyed words send you over the edge, muscles tensing and eyes rolling back. Benny joins you, groaning lowly against the wet skin of your back.

You both try to catch your breath for a moment, Ben reaching over to turn off the water. You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

"Better?"

"So much better," he chuckles.

You're about to respond when you hear the locker room door open, the sounds of multiple heavy footsteps filling the room.

"Benny! Champion! Where you at?"

You look at him with wide eyes, both of you realising the hilarity of the situation. Benny reaches out of the curtain to grab his dry shirt from the bench, tossing it to you and wrapping a towel around his waist. You throw it on and follow him out towards the boys sheepishly, knowing you're not about to get away with what you've just done.

"There you are!"

The boys look between you and Benny, putting the pieces together.

"You two are ridiculous," Frankie laughs.

Santiago winks at you as you bury your head in Benny's shoulder, laughter bouncing off the lockers around the room.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Angel Dust: (smirking) "Ya know toots-"

Vaggie: "You're insufferable. Yeah. We all know. What else."

Angel Dust: "-speaking of teasin' and toyin', ya sure do wear a pretty short skirt for someone who's datin' miss prim and proper. Don't she mind you lookin' like hell's saddest a knock-off halloween party costume hooker?"

Vaggie: "I dress nothing like you."

Angel Dust: "No shit. Ya barely dress at all. Zero effort."

Vaggie: "More like zero fucks given for any opinion other than Charlie's."

Angel Dust: "Oh so she DO like it?"

Vaggie: "Just because she's not the one calling her girlfriend 'sweetie' doesn't mean I'm not eye candy to her."

Charlie: (skidding into room) "-ISN'T IT SO PRETTY ON HER?? THE SKIRT!!"

Angel Dust: "Hot."

Charlie: "I KNOW RIGHT!!!!"

Angel Dust: "I ain't talking about the skirt."

Charlie: "Huh? But, but it is hot-"

Vaggie: "Sweetie, he means your flaming skid marks."

Charlie: "My what? Oh!" (starts stomping out her flaming skid marks) "Oh shit not again- the carpet!"

Vaggie: (smiling) "Got a little fired up huh babe?"

Charlie: "I can handle it! Nooo problem do NOT swap out the skirt!"

Vaggie: "Looks like it might a workplace safety hazard."

Charlie: (taking off jacket and desperately smothering the burning carpet with it) "NO NO IT'S NOT!!! It's, um, a key part of keeping up workplace morale!"

Angel Dust: "Pity it can't make anything wet other than you, huh Charlie Puff."

Charlie: "Not a workplace appropriate topic!"

Vaggie: "Want help babe? I could just beat the fire out with his corpse."

Charlie: "No one's beating anything either!!" (still beating the fire out)

Angel Dust: "Suuuuure ya won't be..." (sigh) "How's it you two disgustingly sweet flaming gays haven't burned down the hotel already?"

Vaggie: "It's fireproof. Mostly."

Charlie: "And after that one time, so's our bed!"

Angel Dust: "The BED?"

Vaggie: (groans) "Sweetie, why."

Charlie: (soot stained) (frazzled) "I'm sorry! I'm all hot and bothered now, okay??"

Vaggie: "Well that I can help with."

Charlie: "O-oh?"

Vaggie: "Easy fix. Wanna go check if our bed's still fireproof?"

Charlie: "Yes." (drops jacket) (flops into vaggie's waiting arms) "Yes, that's an amazing idea!"

Vaggie: (scooping gf up) "I have them sometimes."

Charlie: "Everything about you is ALWAYS amazing, Vaggie." (smooch) "Especially in a skirt. Um...... is this one fireproof?"

Vaggie: "We'll find out."

Charlie: "Should we take it off first then? For safety!"

Vaggie: "If you want, sweetie. It's one option."

Charlie: "Oh."(grins) "And the other one is...?"

Angel Dust: "Get a room!"

Angel Dust: (already alone)

Angel Dust: "... these are some shit work place standards." (yelling after them) "Make sure that skirt's a natural fiber before ya start some kinky hellfire stuff or it'll melt all over ya! If I smell shitty chemical smoke coming outta there I'm barging in with an extinguisher!"

Chaggie's door: (locks)

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Hi please can u write Edward Cullen x sick reader. Where the reader is stubborn and still shows up at school despite being sick. (I’m sick rn and can’t find any Edward fics) hope u have a nice day

Thank u :))

Nurse

Warnings: none really, sick!reader, potentially getting other people sick 😅, stubborn!reader, firm and patient edward, thank you for the request btw and sorry it took so long for me to get to it ❤️

Words: 1307

Edward knew immediately when you sat in the front passenger seat of his car that you were sick.

His brows draw heavy with concern. "You're-"

"I'm fine." You croak and buckle up. Moreso lying to yourself than to Edward. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and you were pretty sure a small fever was beginning to rise on your forehead. Like hell you were missing school that day. You'd studied day and night for your test; was finally confident that you were going to pass.

Reading your thoughts, Edward sighs and leans back into his seat. "(y/n), a test doesn't matter when your health is in question. Your teacher will let you take a makeup test. You need to go back to bed."

There was no energy in you to roll your eyes. "After I take my test then I can rest. I just want to get it over and done with."

"You won't do well if you're si-"

"Edward, please. I know my body. I can survive until second period." Arguing did nothing to help you feel better.

He could just grab you and take you back to your room. Doing that would further enrage you.

"You promise to let me take you home after second period?" The pleading in his voice softens you.

"I promise."

Exhaulting another sigh, Edward nods to himself. "Alright. I'm holding you to that."

A part of you doubts that you'll be able to make it to second period, but you would try to.

Edward may not have fought you more, that didn't mean he was pleased watching you struggle that morning. You were bumping into other students and walls as you lost your balance several times.

Alice pulled Edward aside, her honey eyes narrowed. "Why would you let her come to school like that? She's obviously sick, Ed!"

"I know. Believe me I tried. She promised to let me take her home after her test in second period." Edward lowers his voice, he doubts you can hear him. His gaze is on you as Jasper helps to steady you.

"I don't think she'll make it." Alice frowns and folds her arms in front of her chest. "I don't have to look into the future to see that."

"You try telling her then. See how easy it is."

She wouldn't even try, having experienced your stubborness before. You always wanted to appear tough to the Cullen family as you were selfconcious of being the only human among them. Compared to them you were weak. You compensated by doing whatever you could as a human to appear strong. Including refusing help when you were sick. Edward knew it would wound your pride greatly if he forced you home. So did Alice.

You didn't share first or second period with Edward. He kept tags on you via his mind reading to see how you were faring.

Struggling to stay up in your chair, your eyes were fighting every second to remain focused on the whiteboard at the front of the class. You don't remember much of what the teacher was talking about. Conserving your energy and mentally going over things for your test the following period. You were fading fast. Chugging water helped a little.

When the bell rang, finally alerting of the end of the first period, you were slow to get to your feet. If you tried to move any faster than your current pace, the world would slip from under you.

You use desks to coast your way to the classroom door. Barely making it to the door, there appears Edward. Frazzled when he takes in your flushed face.

Before he could object to you continuing the school day, you stop him by placing a hand on his chest. His mouth closes as he quietly surrenders.

Help me to my next class. Please. You ask him via your thoughts. Doubting you could talk without feeling vomit rise up your throat.

Edward breathes through his nose but doesn't complain about you overworking yourself when you needed rest.

Ever the gentleman, Edward cups your elbow and guides you.

"The moment the class ends, I'm taking you home." He whispers to you as he helps you through the scattering of students running late.

You'd smile if you could. I love you.

You catch the quirk in the corner of his lips and the brightening of his eyes.

It cost you the rest of your strength, but you did it. You fucking did it. All questions answered to the best extent of your knowledge.

There were few steps that were between you and the teacher's desk.

You suck in a breath and stand, hand gripping the edge of your desk for support. Navigating through rows of kids bent over their paper's, you focus ahead of you.

When your teacher notices you, she pauses at the waxen sheen of your face. The moment your test is on the surface of her desk you quietly croak "Can I go to the nurse's office?"

Edward was right outside the door, prepared to take you into his arms. You wanted to laugh.

The thought of a mother hen pops into your mind, making Edward scoff. "If I'm a mother hen so be it." You were unable to protest when he easily scoops you up and dashes to his car. Alice is waiting, rocking back and forth on her feet until she spots the two of you. There's a plastic bag in her hand that looks overly full.

"I'll tell the office." Alice takes Ed's car keys to opening the passenger door for you. Then she places the grocery bag in the back seat. "I googled what made people feel better when they're sick."

"Thank you Alice." You manage to get out as Edward opens the door with just one finger. He sets you down and straps the belt across your chest but not before tossing your backpack into the back seat.

Wondering what Alice had bought you, your forehead presses against the passenger side window, you momentarily fall asleep.

Only waking up when Edward is carefully picking you up from the car's passenger side. He's so careful with you. Always.

You realize when he opens the door that he's brought you to the Cullen house when the front door doesn't match your's.

"I don't want to leave you sick and home alone." He explained while hurrying up the stairs.

And. . .

"Ed. . ." Are you scared?

His jaw clenches. In his room he makes sure you're comfortable with whatever you needed. Water. Pillows. Blankets if you got cold.

Then he settles next to you. His face unreadable. You curl up closer to him and just that mere contact melted him.

"My mother and I. . . we were very sick when I became a vampire." This was something he'd told you a while ago. They'd become sick during the Spanish influenza outbreak. "I know the medical world is much more evolved than it was during my time, but it still terrifies me when you get sick."

"Oh Ed," You sit up even when Edward urges you to lay back down. "I should have-"

He furiously shakes his head. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. Sickness just reminds me how human and fragile you are." Rolling onto his side, you copy him. Head comfortably cradled by a pillow.

Rest.

You could finally rest.

His fingers brush along your brow, soothing your warm skin. You shimmy closer against him. Edward's much larger frame conforms around you.

"I know you won't die from this. Not that I'd let you die from illness." Adding the last part a bit under his breath, you still caught it.

For a second, Edward pulls away from you to retrieve a bottle of medicine from the bag.

"Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

[moonlightspencie]

part 2 of the fake dating!james drabble as suggested by @simp-for-fiction!

part 1 here : part 2

pairing: james potter x reader

——————————

It had been two weeks since the night he kissed you and then proceeded to pretend as if he hadn't. You really couldn't blame him considering that you had also been hesitant to bring it up. After all, it was a part of the act.

But then again, it felt so real.

He was dragging you to yet another event today, telling you to dress nice. You complained, of course, but the second he mentioned that you'd be getting a nice fancy dinner for free... who were you to turn down such a compelling evening?

You showed up at his flat in your sleek black evening gown, feeling quite pretty, and knocked on his door. He opened it a moment later, looking a bit frazzled: his hair was a mess, his tie undone, and his glasses absent from his face.

"...hey?" you greeted.

"Hi," he replied quickly, ushering you inside before scurrying through the flat. "Sorry, promise I'll be done soon!"

"You okay?" you asked hesitantly, following him to his room.

He shuffled through things in his room, spraying himself with cologne and trying to smooth out his hair.

"Fine. Just... maybe, accidentally fell asleep and only started getting ready fifteen minutes ago," he winced a little.

You snorted a laugh. "Alright, that's fine. Do we need to be there right on time?"

"No... I guess we don't, but," he sighed, finally taking a good look at you. "You showed up on time looking... beautiful. The least I can do is get you there when I said I would."

"James, we've known each other for years. I'm not exactly expecting you to turn things around for a girl you're pretending to date."

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess that's true. Still, though."

"Don't worry about it," you reiterated, sitting on his bed.

He continued getting ready, now quite a bit less frazzled, and you were on your way before you knew it. He led you inside some charity event that he'd been invited to. You knew his family was rich, but this... this was something else.

"So... Lily is gonna be here?" you ask in a bit of surprise as he walked you through the ballroom.

"No," he replied simply, bringing you to sit at a table with little place-cards indicating your seats.

You furrowed your brow. "What... then, why are we here?"

"Photos, of course. They go in the Prophet. Evans will see them, and hopefully get jealous."

"Thats a pretty elaborate plan, Potter."

"It'll work," he said, waving off your concerns. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing here."

You snorted, but didn't really feel like complaining the second the food and drinks came out. Even more, you were perfectly happy once dancing began. It felt like a really fancy school ball with a bunch of people who were much more intimidating than your classmates. But... James made it easy.

"And spin," he instructed with a laugh, twirling you around. He caught you, pulling you into his chest again. "See? You're a natural."

"Far from it," you laughed. "If it weren't for you, I'd be tripping over my own two feet."

"Nah. You're great," he smiled brightly, annoyingly charming as always.

"I didn't grow up with this stuff. You dont have to lie to make me feel better."

"I'm not lying. Swear. You're good."

You smiled a little, shaking your head. "You know, we should really hang out more. I think I like hanging out with you when I'm not being paraded around for you to get Lily's attention the whole time."

"We hang out," he said, tilting his head a little.

"Not really," you smiled a little. "I hang out with Remus and Sirius, and... sometimes you're just there. I wouldn't quantify us as friends, per se."

"I would. Per se," he snorted a laugh. "We are now at least."

"Maybe."

"Don't maybe me," he laughed cheerfully.

You chuckled right back, about to respond when a flash went off. You blinked, looking in the direction of the light.

An older man who looked far too happy with himself, held up his camera. "Beautiful young couple! That will make a lovely photo for the papers."

"Oh, we're not--"

James cut you off. "Thank you! We've been told."

"Oh," you nodded a little. Right. This was the whole point of the event.

The photographer gave you another overly-peppy grin, then bid you adieu. You glanced at James.

"You really think she'll see that?"

"Everyone will see it," he shrugged.

"Everyone?" you swallowed. "Ugh. James, I don't know if that's a good thing. For everyone to think we're..."

"What, am I not enough for you?" he teased.

"That's not what I mean, James. It's just that people talk. Do we really need a public break up from a relationship we were never in."

"Eh," he shrugged. "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

"It's supposed to be cross that bridge."

"Either way," he grinned.

"Quit worrying," he kissed your cheek. "Now, come on. We have the whole rest of the night to have fun together, now."

"Right. Lead the way, Potter."

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

It Is Your Birthday, Enjoy

In honor of my birthday I wrote this really self indulgent thing featuring the first two survivors i loved in IDV lolol

Rated: Explicit | Warnings: Based on AoM, BDSM Themes, Virgin Norton, Voyeurism, okay is just horny man

Orpheus and you are writers.

Two different genres yet both understand the work and details needed to create the pieces you both make.

“He agreed!?” Stopping your pen to give Orpheus your full attention as he keeps writing.

“Mr. Campbell did indeed agree provided he is given extra pay for the trouble.”

You do not know the reason why Orpheus hired Norton Campbell, a former Coal Miner turned unemployed Prospector. You only see him when crossing paths after Orpheus pays him. Considering Orpheus is both a secretive man and one who does detective work as if he is solving real cases (you have to wonder though given most of his books are based on old cases), Norton may be hired muscle.

“I… Am surprised. Are you sure he is willing?” Concern about Norton agreeing to this with no hesitation from what your partner explained in his retelling of the event prior to him visiting your room.

The Oletus Manor, Orpheus claims it from a childhood he is slowly piecing together. The manor was in ruins, barely standing even. However, with the funds of a renowned Novelist, the manor looks as if nothing ever burned or looted these walls.

He is quite proud of it.

“Of course,” Closing his notebook, “Mr. Campbell is willing as long as the money flows into his hands.”

You frown, “You make him seem like a prostitute, Orpheus…”

There is a coy smirk on that devilishly handsome face, “Your words, not mine, beloved.” Getting up from his seat at your desk to kiss your forehead as you are lying on the bed writing. “Upon dawn, all that you desire shall be yours.”

The following morning, you go to breakfast thinking about how you rather eat ice cream right now. Oh, maybe there was that chocolate truffle cake Orpheus snuck in when he thought he was being sneaky. You smile as you enter the dining room then see Norton standing over by the window with his arms crossed and a grumpy look on his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Campbell.” Greeting him.

Norton snaps out of his thoughts to see you walking toward him, “Mornin’,” His eyes skim at you over your form dressed particularly nice today, “Suppose you're expecting something from me right now.” He is not frowning but still looks stern.

“Huh? No, I only wanted to be polite.” Oh, he probably has the wrong impression of you, “Uh-hmm, I wanted to ask about what Orpheus—” Cut off by lips on your, hand pulling you in close by shoulders. His lips are not badly chapped. When he stops kissing you, you realize he tastes of chocolate.

“Happy birthday.” Walking away leaving you confused and frazzled.

This will not be the only time he kisses you.

After breakfast, eating alone as Orpheus said he would be busy until the evening, you find out Norton is to be your company for the day.

“You can't just kiss people like that!” Currently outside on this sunny day at the racecourse, “At least, warn me!”

“Where's the fun in that,” Laughing a bit as he oversees the repairs, “Anyway compare getting a kiss to,” Lowering his voice and leaning into your space beside him, “Being told how you want another man inside of you.”

You are grateful to be up on the tower overlooking the racecourse so no one but Norton Campbell can see you embarrassed and fumbling with your words.

“Lucky you, I don't mind letting you wet my dick.”

“Must you be so crude!?”

“Why bother sugarcoating it when your precious Novelist said much worse.” Pulling back to look at his clipboard full of papers, “The man knows how to paint a pretty picture with those words of his… Especially about you.”

“How much…?”

“I'm sure he told you.” Norton glances over at you to see you looking at him, “Understand, I don't mind this arrangement so long as I get paid and I am only touching you.”

You feel shy, “Only me.”

“Only you, Orpheus will have to add more if he thinks I'm going to be his bitch. Even then, I ain’t taking his fucking dick in me.”

You want to tell him that Orpheus would much rather do the opposite but you stay quiet instead.

A few hours in the racecourse before you both start heading down the tower to go back to the manor for lunch. You only stop when Norton tells you to follow him into the stables.

There are no horses, yet, the stables are barren as it is not the priority compared to the rest of the racecourse. You wonder what and why Orpheus is repairing a place with such a dark story. His book brings back to light the fall of Mary Kreiburg, both by family and by the people's hands. You look around the messy area as Norton walks ahead of you.

“Look over here.” Norton pointed to something ahead of him. You raise an eyebrow as you go over in front of him only to see a broken shelf of trophies and pictures of horses and their riders.

“It looks old— Norton!?” Trapped in his arms.

“Relax,” You do as you realize too quickly his intentions when hands are on your breasts, “We have to be quiet.” You shiver as his breath is hot on your ear. You hold the shelf's frame as Norton touches you with the barrier of your clothes limiting the sensation of his hands on your skin.

“Open your legs,” You do, “When he said you would give in easily, I didn't think you would be this easy.”

“Would you rather I treat this differently?” You bite back though you moan when his hand slips down your pants.

A suit. Orpheus picked it for you when you wanted to be more masculine. Though he adores your dresses, he also enjoys the eroticism of suits on you.

“You can fight, your partner told me everything you like,” Norton gets your pants down your ankles, underlings moved to the side exposing your intimate part to the air, “Who would have thought you were such a—”

“Please don't.” Stopping him mid-sentence, “I know what I am… I didn't mean to force you into this.”

He stopped, your head tilted back to look up at him, “(Name), I ain’t doing this by force.” The sound of his pants being undone follows, “I want to fuck you, writer.” You gasp as his cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, “Going to make sure you are screaming my name all night.”

It is a bit difficult for him to grind against your pussy as you are not wet enough, so he stimulates you by touching more. Rubbing your clit, playing with your breasts, kissing you; you get wet and breathing heavily.

His pace is slow, one can say sweet as he guides you close your legs, kissing your neck and ear. When he goes fast you learn Orpheus made a single rule, one Norton agrees to only because he wants to see the way you are at the mercy of another.

“Don't cum. Boss's orders.”

“Norton, please.” Barely able to keep your voice down, “I need, oh God, please!?”

“No.” Slapping your ass causing you to moan louder, “Damn, you are into anything.” Chuckles at your misery, “You can cum but know you're the one facing the consequences.”

You struggle to not crumble as Norton is not making it easy for you, each thrust closer and closer bringing you to the edge.

It is downright a blessing that Norton cums before you fall, his cum on the shelf and dripping on the floor. You whine with frustration, your body trembling as you are going to have to walk around miserably horny.

“Well look at that, you didn't cum.”

You are going to explode.

“Glad to see you two had fun,” Orpheus is in the small living room with a small glass bottle in his hand, one leg over the other as he sits by the unused fireplace. There are pillows, leather cuffs, and a blindfold on the rug, “Were they well-behaved?” Pleasant as if you are not looking in shock at the things laid out so casually. 

“Very. Like a dog.”

Your arms are crossed over your chest your breasts are tender, “This feels like a chapter from 120 Days of Sodom.”

Orpheus' laugh is rich, loud, and pure, “My apologies but my greed for you will only allow for one another to share in such debauchery. All with the participants' permission of course.” Eyes shifting from you to Norton, “Mr. Campbell.”

“Tsk, I already signed the damn contract, what more do you need?” Moving from your side to stand next to Orpheus.

“Contract?” Curious.

“An agreement between gentlemen, my dear,” Waving it off, “Now this is about you, not us. We are merely your gifts this evening.” Orpheus is studying you, “Undress.”

Norton half expected him to be one doing the work or having to put on a show. Instead, you undress with no nervous moments, and when done after placing your clothes on the couch, you stand there with your hands behind your back.

“Kneel,” Orpheus is stern, “Wrists presented.” Norton is not sure what to do but watch the events unfold, this seems odd. Odd because Orpheus is cuffing your hands together with leather cuffs, tilting your head back as the blindfold is placed. Norton had to look away when you were panting from the silk gloves tracing your skin, applying pressure on the bite mark on your shoulder. The side eye he got from the Novelist has malice, it is amused.

“(Name), lay back,” You do as you are told, “Open your mouth.” You open your mouth as Orpheus pops the bottle open and pours gently the thick purple contents into your mouth.

Once done, you lick your lips then smile, “Grape.”

“It took a few attempts but there you have it.”

There you lay naked on a nest of pillows, you fidget in your spot, “Thank you…Both of you.” Beaming as your lover kisses your cheek before returning to his seat.

“Mr. Campbell, it is your turn.”

Norton snaps out of his wandering thoughts and clears his throat, “About time.” Stepping forward until Orpheus cuts him off with his hand blocking the way, “What?”

“Undress,” Spoken with a lighter tone, “We are the gift.”

“Tsk, maybe if you didn't cuff them maybe they could've unwrapped their gift, Orpheus.”

A hum, “Point made.” Norton curses at the way Orpheus, who looks weak compared to him, can also seem so intimidating, “Shall I take responsibility?” The hand moves up and hooks a finger between the suspenders and the workman's shirt.

“N-no,” Shoving passes as he undresses, “What did you give (Name)?”

“A form of aphrodisiac. They wanted to experience it.” Shamelessly watching the Prospector undress, enjoying the seconds of hesitation when Norton catches those brown eyes on his figure.

Feels like a wolf… A wolf in sheep's clothing. It would be disrespectful to call Norton the sheep, a ram perhaps?

“Orpheus,” You were quiet as the drug worked through your system, “I… Can I cum?”

“As freely as you wish, however,” Norton is not fully naked and feast for the eyes, “You should ask Norton for permission now.”

You whimper, “Norton,” Hands are on your knees opening your legs, “I was good. I didn't cum all day.”

“Begging already? Hah, you are like a dog.”

You hate that made you moan, wetter (bad enough you were wet from before still), and needy as all hell.

“B-bark.” You do not do what he wants, “L-like that?” Genuinely asking.

Orpheus snickers from behind as Norton stares in shock, worse that made his cock stir, “Just say my name, fuck.” Grumbling.

You do say his name, loud enough it echoes in the room, as Norton drives in between your legs without warning. Legs arching as he eats you out as if he has been denied all fucking day. All day as if he has not been the one keeping you on edge by randomly touching you until you were begging— And you beg easily.

Another man is touching you, another man is touching you in front of Orpheus, and Orpheus wants to see you fall apart.

Orpheus had been the one who asked your thoughts on Norton Campbell, he wanted honesty. You think the Prospector is handsome, intimidating, but you said too you understand him. Well, you understand what it is like to struggle against the odds against you, the beating life gives is relentless, and you understand the hatred.

You put that hatred into words in a book.

Orpheus watches as Norton is not the brute with you as he had tried to scare him into believing, the Novelist had simply told Norton to look to him if he needs assistance.

The Prospector is a virgin. Plain and simple, the Novelist does not think little of him for lacking experience. It is natural for a distrustful man not to allow him to be vulnerable, the world is cruel. Seeing you understand that, tell Orpheus of bitter feelings, jealousies, and resents… This is as much a gift to you as it is to Norton.

So indulge, seeing Norton explore a body already claimed; fall into the illusion of lust, see Norton consumed by the wonder that is your presence; often nightmares are the sweet dreams that ensnares, you kiss him as the man enters your welcoming heat.

[audliminal]

It's Just a game, Right? Pt 7

Masterpost

It's just a game, right?

Tim turns his head at the soft their of a grappling hook, and a moment later Steph has joined him on the roof of the building.

"Not much happening tonight, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," Tim responds as he watches traffic pass on the street below. She is right; the night so far has been unusually calm. It's a distinct contrast to last week- it seemed like every night some big villain was pulling out some ridiculous plan or other, but somehow they had all been stopped without serious harm. Of course, there are still plenty of rogues still scurrying around Gotham but there's no murmurs of anything coming from any of the big hitters for the moment.

"You don't sound very sure about that," Steph says, stepping up beside Tim and elbowing him lightly.

"Yeah," Tim answers. A flashy silver car cuts someone off and the resultant horn echoes harshly.

"Okay, you're being weird. What's up?"

Tim shrugs.

"Guess I'm just used to emergencies," Tim shrugs. He knows Steph wouldn't be weird about him bringing up Bernard, but he really doesn't need any of his fellow bats thinking he's compromised or overstressed. God knows he doesn't need anyone else pestering him about getting enough sleep, like he's staying up on purpose.

"Okay..." Steph trails off. "I mean I guess it has been pretty hectic for a while. Takes a bit of time to come down from all that?"

Tim is saved from having to respond by the sound of Oracle cutting into comms.

"Red Robin, Spoiler, looks like a store robbery in progress and you're the closest. Head for the intersection of 25th and Oak."

"Got it," Tim answers and doesn't wait for Steph's response, already halfway through the motion of taking off for the next building.

Pretty soon they're both dropping in on a pair of goons. One of them is aiming their gun directly at a frazzled-looking employee, who doesn't seem interested in putting up a fight.

Two-on-two makes it an incredibly easy fight though, and it's almost over before it begins, with both of them able to sneak up on the distracted thugs as the cashier hurriedly pulls money out of the cash register. Once they're both in position, it's easy enough to grapple, disarm, and restrain them in a flurry of movement, and the criminals never get a chance to even process the arrival of the bats.

"Not today, I think," Steph says as she handcuffs her guy. "Threatening people with guns is a real dick move, y'know?" Tim gets his guy handcuffed and turns to the startled employee.

"Cops on the way yet?" He gets a frantic nod, and Tim surveys the shop as he waits for the sirens. They'll bounce just before the cops get here, but until then, he wants to look around for any signs of something bigger. The two would-be thieves seem too shocked and terrified at the appearance of bats to be proper goons, but they could still be bait, or a distraction of some kind. And the shop itself could theoretically have been targeted. But by the time the sirens are closing in outside, he's not spotted signs of anything sinister.

"Right, the police are almost here, so we're gonna bounce!" Steph announces as Tim walks back towards her. "Tell your boss I said he should give you hazard pay for the night, 'kay?" and then she bounces out the same way they came in. Tim nods once at the employee and then follows.

He changes directions once he's on the rooftops again, though. His phone had buzzed about six times in a row while they were waiting, and that means it's probably Bernard. And he really doesn't want to explain the arg thing to anyone yet.

Once he's far enough away from anyone, he pulls his phone out, and sure enough, he's got six text messages from Bernard.

Dude

Babe, holy shit

Like seriously

This is fucking crazy

Like I cannot believe they replied to us

Us!!!

Attached to the series of texts is a screenshot, and Tim feels the anxiety coalesce into something abruptly solid in his chest.

At first glance, he can't tell what language it's supposed to be. It looks like it might be Romantic in origin, but a couple spellings look almost Slavic in nature, and there's only two and a half lines, which really isn't much to go off of.

It's certainly an interesting development, to say the least. He should be excited. This is a new clue for the mystery, after all.

No way! Tim sends back.

Yeah! U busy? Comes the immediate response. And like, technically the answer is yes, Tim supposed. But Steph literally just pointed out how calm things are tonight, and he can already tell he won't be able to focus, with this news.

"Um," Tim clicks on his comm. "I think I'm gonna call it for tonight."

"Something wrong?" Bruce asks immediately, all gruff-batman-voice.

"No, just- it's slow tonight, and Bernard wants my help with something so I thought, um. If you want me to finish my patrol, I can." He can't help it. Even now, he always kind of feels like he isn't doing enough to be a good vigilante.

"Nah, kid. I think we'll be fine without you." Hood answers, unsurprisingly.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah go make out with your boyfriend or whatever."

Tim smiles at Hood's usual ribbing. He's almost gotten used to it; mostly he can keep himself from blushing too violently when anyone teases him about Bernard.

"Okay. I'll make sure to get my report submitted by eight, promise." Tim is already en route to the nearest safehouse where he can change out of the suit, when he remembers he hasn't responded to Bernard yet.

Heading home rn. My place or yours? He hits send and then takes off once more. Excited to see his boyfriend, and determined to work through the newest puzzle.

[euovennia]

short and sweet | ghost/soap/könig

sorry to the anon that it took me so long to get out, i've been dealing with some stuff but here it is! thank you for requesting, and as always, i hope you enjoy <3

pairings: ghost x reader, soap x reader, könig x reader

warnings: bigotry, misogyny, people just being jerks, canon typical violence

summary: in which three buff military men become all too aware of your struggles. (based on this request)

simon 'ghost' riley

when the idea of simon having a crush comes to mind, i feel like he's one of those people who prefers to observe them from afar rather than have direct interactions with them

so that paired with the fact you're not in the 141 and you're mute, it's gonna take a very long while until you two start interacting, at least a few months after he realizes he's taken a liking to you

they'll usually be pretty short and sweet, but not in the typical sense you may be thinking of

i'm thinking something more along the lines of giving each other a small nod of acknowledgement when you pass each other in the shooting range; him having already practiced and you just barely walking in to start practicing

and honestly? he's completely fine with this arrangement

in fact he prefers it

he still gets a chance to give you a once over without getting distracted from the things he wants/needs to do throughout the day, he considers it a win

but when your target practice slowly begins to overlap with his, he's a bit surprised to find that he doesn't really mind it all that much

there's something oddly comforting about knowing you're just a few stalls down from him

and of course there's the added benefit of him getting to see you and your signature sniper rifle in action

for those of you wondering, yes, he's become quite aware of your talents

how could he not when soap made himself comfortable at his table during meal time and went on about, "a real cute girl and her impeccable aim."

soap's words, not his

and it continues on like this for a while, you two continuing on with your unofficially official meeting times

it becomes comfortable and familiar, two things simon isn't quite used to, but two things that he's quite content with

so he can't help but feel a little empty when you stop attending your unofficial meetings at the shooting range

he's more frustrated with himself than anything cause, let's face it, he's not the type to let himself get comfortable/familiar with just anyone so he's honestly more annoyed that he let himself get attached when he hasn't even made a move to properly talk to you (what a silly goose)

anyway, in true simon fashion he decides to deal with it by not dealing with it

in other words, he just kinda continues on with his routine because he's become so numb to the idea of people leaving his life (no matter how big or small of a role they played) that he doesn't bother acting out on any emotion he has if it does happen

and i think after a while he'll just kinda end up pushing you out of his mind (despite the fact his eyes are fully glued onto you whenever he sees you around base)

so when you walk into the range and make yourself cozy at your usual stall, he's a bit frazzled

so much so he ends up packing up his equipment and making a beeline for the exit

but it's at this moment he bumps into a particularly bratty group of recruits they'd gotten not too long ago

he has to practically hold himself back from snapping the poor kid's neck when he asks simon if he'd seen you enter the range

call it extreme, but the mocking smile that stretched across the recruit's lips as he said your name just ticked him off

simon is a man of intuition and so he can already tell something's not quite right so, curious, he just gives off a gruff, "yes," before waving them off

he's surprised that he manages to bite his tongue when he can hear of the recruits whisper a small, "what a fuckin' arsehole," as they walk away from him

anyway

cue him silently stalking after the group and being met with the sight of them crowded around you as you lay flat on your stomach, hands still steady on the rifle

he watches as you line yourself up to take the shot before eventually resting your hand on the trigger and pulling it, only to miss when one of the recruits purposefully kicks at your shin

another recruit makes herself comfortable beside you with a grin spread across her lips as her voice rings out in a mocking tone, "aw, poor thing missed her shot again. it's a wonder she's made it this far."

while his eyes narrow in confusion at your lack of response, it only eggs the girl on as she nudges your shoulder

"still can't talk, i see," she lets out a wistful sigh, "that's a shame. i think you'd sound really pretty screaming out for help on the field."

another recruit takes this as their chance to jump in, "guess we'll just have to leave her stranded. better for us anyway, no dead weight."

the girl by your side rolls her eyes, "we probably won't even get the chance to abandon her, she's so tiny. she'd probably get squashed like an ant before we could even try anything."

her remark elicits a laugh from the small group of recruits, but ghost certainly isn't smiling when he approaches the group and stares down at them with his trademark glare

they can definitely feel their souls leave their bodies when they look up and see him standing over them menacingly

it gets even worse when he opens his mouth, "that any way to talk to a fellow soldier?"

they all just kinda stumble onto their feet at his words, not bothering to say anything as their eyes remain pretty much glued to the floor

he's not having it though so he'll repeat his question, tone louder and meaner than before which causes one of the recruits to just let out a meek, "no sir."

too bad it was the one who insulted him earlier cause he immediately steps in front of them and just kinda, "what? arsehole not good enough an insult for ya?"

you, still lying on the ground and watching everything unfold, can't help the small smile that tugs at the edge of your lips as you witness the way the man's face visibly pales

upon receiving no response from him, simon straightens out his posture before point over to you and speaking once more, "you better pray that girl is more forgiving than i am, because if it were me, you'd all be covering your own asses out on the field."

he watches with great joy as they each begin to shift on their feet uncomfortably before dismissing them in a gruff voice

after making sure they left, simon makes his way back over to you who is still lying on the ground with your rifle as you line up your shots once more

he feels a small wave of pride overcome him when you hit your target perfectly

so much to the point where he walks over to you and spills out a quick, "good aim," to which you'll look up at him with those gorgeous eyes of yours and give him a small nod of acknowledgement

his eyes narrow, "you don't talk much, do you?"

you simply shake your head

he'll give you a quick once over before looking down at his watch and realizing the dining hall will be closing soon

tempted as he is to just walk away, he can't help but wonder if you'd already ate

so he speaks again, "dining hall is closing in a bit. you're free to join me if you haven't eaten yet, was just on my way."

you pause for a bit and give it a bit of thought before nodding and packing up your stuff before eventually walking out of the range with simon by your side

you don't have the heart to tell him you already ate

but when you look up and see him quickly avert his eyes from you and onto the pavement beneath your feet, you don't see why you even would

john 'soap' mactavish

when i tell you this man was gone the moment he saw you, i mean he was GONE

he genuinely couldn't believe someone as sweet and lovely as you could exist in the same space as him

but the moment he sees you shoot that gorgeous little rifle of yours with a precision that could only be described as pure, raw perfection? it's over. he's all in.

i'm talking, 'fuck me up and send me straight to heaven. this is how i die.'

he's so down bad for you it's insane

and i imagine soap can be quite confident and charming when he wants to be so best believe he'll have no problem in walking straight up to you and trying to strike up a conversation

i'd like to put emphasis on the 'trying' part of that last bit because it becomes quite clear quite quick that you're don't talk

well

maybe the 'quite quick' part isn't so accurate because it probably takes him a minute or two before he finally catches onto the fact you don't talk

in other words, it takes you pulling out your phone and looking up a volume muted symbol and pointing at it before motioning to yourself for him to catch on

he just kinda makes an 'oh' face before letting out a small chuckle and saying something like, "i see now, why didn't ya just tell me that before?"

and you're just looking at him like ???

but he's looking at you like :)))

yeah he's being a little ridiculous right now, but he just got back from a long mission and he's quite sleep deprived so don't mind him he's just being a silly goose, ok?

but truth be told, that dumb little first interaction doesn't even really matter in the long run because it's the bold initiative on his part that makes it so easy for the two of you to become friends

you spend a lot of time hanging around one another and your once carefully planned, scheduled days turn into unpredictable blurs that are jam packed with soap getting the two of you into trouble

i imagine you've become quite familiar with the stoic face of captain john price

but really, how could you not?

especially when soap catches onto the fact that price is more inclined to let soap off with a warning for whatever trouble he's got himself mixed up in whenever you're around

he may be older than the rest of his team, but he knows that dopey grin soap's got plastered on his face whenever he's around you means he's extra sweet on you

and who is he to stand in the way of his boy's happiness with some extra chores?

he's a total dad <3

anyway

because you spend a lot of time around soap, i think it's fair to say that you sometimes end up pushing off work in favor of hanging around the scotsman

and really who could blame you?

he's got a dazzling smile, a charming accent, and a sparkling personality. you'd be a fool not to soak up all the time you can get with him

but that just means whenever he does end up leaving for missions, that's when you really buckle down and start getting all your piled up work done

it can be frustrating and a bit of a bother, but knowing your schedule will be completely free (at least for a little bit) as soon as he gets back is more than enough to get you through the tedious work load you've allowed yourself to accumulate

only this time it's a bit harder to remember that

and it's all because of your newly assigned CO

he's a bit of an older man, which isn't a bad thing

at least until you find out that his mindset lines up with the ideology of a 1950's working husband

you know, the kind of guy who believes it's a man's job to go out and work a job to provide for his family while his wife stays home and takes care of the children, house, and meal prepping

in other words

a complete and utter bigot

so between trying to complete all the work you'd so foolishly neglected in your time hanging out with soap and trying to stop yourself from snapping your superior's neck every time he grabbed your rifle from your hands with a condescending, "careful! wouldn't a small thing like you hurting yourself with this," it's no wonder you couldn't remember that today was the day soap was returning from another one of his top secret missions

in fact, the thought doesn't occur to you at all until soap pulls up a chair beside your desk and makes himself comfortable while you're looking over some paperwork your darling CO had left you because he, "works too hard and needs a break."

more like a break in his skull, but to each their own

anyway i can definitely imagine soap carrying around a small notebook that you use to communicate with him when you can't be bothered to watch him try and fail to decipher your hand movements

and yes, he totally brings it on missions with him just so he can open it up and trace over your handwriting with a gentle touch and a soft smile and oh my god imagine confessing to him like that (i'm kinda dying to write an imagine based on that now (mute or non-mute reader, i'm down for either tbh) so lmk if you're interested!)

anyway

when the two of you break apart from your usual 'welcome back' hug, he'll slide the notebook over to you as a simple question falls from his lips, "since when do you do paperwork?"

and this just prompts you to let out a huff and roll your eyes before snatching up the notebook/pen combo and writing out all your frustrations on the pages

it's safe to say this man is absolutely floored when he reads through it all

frustrated and angry as he is, he doesn't outwardly express it

he simply grabs the heap of paperwork sitting on your desk and promptly tosses it into the nearest recycling bin before grabbing your hand and leading you off to something completely unproductive and time wasting

it's exactly what you need

the night will eventually end off with him walking you to your room and offering you a sweet hug with a small lil kiss to your head

it's adorable, really <3

what's not so adorable is the way he barges into price's office with the notebook in hand before tossing the pages where you'd detailed your CO's behavior onto his desk

price reads through them and best believe all this man can see is red

as someone who takes pride in becoming a role model for those who work under him, he can barely believe of the things he's reading

he's so ready to throw hands

but he can't sadly

so he settles for the next best thing

COMPLAINTS, COMPLAINTS, COMPLAINTS

with how ruthless price is in his mission to humiliate this man, it's really no surprise when you eventually find out he's been fired

the moment you and the rest of your unit get the news, you practically run all over base to find soap

and the moment you do, you've pretty much tackled him to the ground in a hug

and he simply wraps his arms around you, that same dopey grin price teases him for stretched onto his lips because he knows and he couldn't be happier

he's just happy you're happy <3

könig

so because of his affiliation with KorTac, i like to imagine that you're part of another PMC group that tends to help each other out on missions whether it be due to mission overlap, or just needing some extra support

but despite this, i imagine it would take quite some time before you and könig even meet simply due to the fact that you're almost never assigned to be sent out on the field

and if i'm being honest, i can definitely see not a single member of KorTac having even the slightest clue that you exist until you're randomly brought onto the field one day during a particularly tricky mission

long story short, könig and a few other of his team members got ambushed and they needed all the help they could get which is where you come in

granted they don't actually see you until you all meet back at base, safe and sound as can be

while könig and his team are surprised by the new face, they're even more surprised to learn that you've been part of the team for nearly eight whole months

when asked about why they've never seen you on the field before, the answer is simple; "she's been doing other missions," which you've come to learn essentially means, "she's still in training because we don't trust her to be on her own yet."

and while the other members of KorTac seem to just take that simple explanation at face value, könig can't help but notice the way your face falls and shoulders slump upon hearing it

and it's at this moment he realizes he hadn't seen you anywhere on the field at the time, so where the hell were you?

he decides he needs to be more attentive

so the next time KorTac calls on your group for some extra assistance, he's keeping a sharp eye out there in hopes that he'd see you

but he doesn't

even so, he still holds out hope for next time

and the next

and the next

and the next

okay this is ridiculous

where the hell were you?

he knows you're going on the missions with the rest of the team because you're always there when everyone gets back to base, still dressed in your tactical gear and wiping off the dirt that seemed to cling onto your uniform

so why did he never actually see you?

he's a tall guy so surely, he, out of anyone, should be able to pinpoint your location on the field with a few simple turns of his head, right?

well apparently not

you're practically a ghost (hehe see what i did there)

his frustration with not knowing where you're at on the field has him going mad

he so desperately wants to just come out and ask you directly, but he's convinced himself that you'll somehow take offense to such a question so he decides against it

so he decides to settle on the next best thing

which is pretty much just endlessly staring you down on the field before you eventually disappear off to god knows where

it's not the smartest idea he's ever had if the way you seem to squirm under his piercing gaze is anything to go by, but he just can't seem to help it

especially not when he comes to notice just how pretty you really are

the soft slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the way your cheeks puff out so cutely when you're finally able to get your hands on a much needed snack after a particularly long mission

you're stunning, how could he not stare?

yeah he's definitely got a little crush

but he'll never admit it

especially not with the amount of teasing horangi throws his way whenever you enter the room

anyways i think i'm getting ahead of myself here, let's get back on track lol

i imagine it all comes to a head on the battlefield

one moment könig is going at it with no more than three enemy soliders, but it seems within the blink of an eye those numbers have nearly tripled as he sees a sizeable group of enemy soldiers heading this way

he knows he's more than capable of holding his own in close combat, but with this many people? he can't help but feel a little uneasy as he sees the group grow closer and closer

that is, of course, until the unmistakable sound of a rifle fires through the air and the group of soldiers who were previously approaching him steadily begin to fall to the ground, a pool of crimson blood flowing from their heads

könig's eyes catch onto a bright red laser making small patterns on the ground in front of him so, curious, he looks up to find the source of the light coming from under a pile of rubble located on the roof of a building

upon making eye contact with the small area, the red laser pointer goes dead and you quickly poke your head out from your self appointed hiding spot and offer him a small 'ok' motion with your hand before concealing yourself back into your spot once more

he swears his heart soars at the sight

satisfied with himself and your stellar aim, his mind becomes preoccupied with the mission once more, a newly placed sense of vigor in his attacks

but when everyone is cozying up in the common area after the mission's been completed (with the exception of you bc you're taking a shower), könig decides he can't hold himself back from asking a certain question that's been on his mind for a long time

so he simply decides to go for it and ask, "why hasn't she been assigned to our missions before?"

your teammates all look at each other for a few moments before one of them pipes up, "didn't think she was ready."

another one decides to offer their input, "there are times we still don't think she is, but our captain told us to bring her in anyway."

könig and the rest of those present from KorTac's confusion must be apparent because one of the other members of your team decides to speak out, "she was still a bit rocky when she first came to us. we just wanted her to polish up on her skills before we sent her out on an official mission. it's more out of worry than anything."

the explanation calms the small bout of worry that had infested his mind when they first offered their reasoning for not including you on missions, but he can't help but feel a little pit grow in his stomach

so he decides to speak up once more, "well i think they're capable. perhaps it's time you trust them more."

one of your teammates brows raise, "you think so?"

he nods, "took out a whole group of soldiers that were coming at me, i'd probably be done for if it weren't for them."

he finds the look of shock on their faces amusing as they ask, "how?"

könig leans back, "they were hiding in some rubble on one of the buildings. took them out with a sniper."

he watches a look of realization come over their faces as one of them exclaims, "i thought they were running around the field, not hiding!"

horangi decides to pipe in, "you didn't know? she's always running around the rooftops. i see her all the time."

your teammates practically implode on themselves at his revelation before they start hounding him for questions, ones he graciously answers

könig watches with a small smile hidden under his hood before he can see a small movement of the corner of his eye

he turns his head and sees you peering over at him with a small smile and he watches as you sign out a quick, "thank you," with your hands

he sucks in a sharp breath before bringing up his hands and signing back a shaky, "you're welcome"

his hidden smile widens as he watches your eyes glisten with delight, "you know sign?"

he's quick to respond, "since i was little."

horangi is the one to give his arm a harsh nudge when könig all but freezes upon seeing what you sign to him next

"would you like to join me for dinner?"

[southerngothicchic]

How Can I Refuse You

Gator Tillman x fem!reader

A, not so simple, request from the handsome, Sheriff's deputy forces you to confront your burgeoning feelings for him and what an actual relationship with him would entail

"Spend the night with me," Gator breathes, into your neck.

He presses several wet kisses along your skin, as he awaits your response. The feeling of his lips against any part of you is almost enough for you to immediately give in to whatever he wants. Though, in this moment, you hesitate.

"I can't, it's too risky..."

"It'll be fine," he instantly assures, raising his head. "Its late, and everyone will already be asleep. We'll just have to be real quiet though."

"That's all you're worried about?" You then ask, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"Pretty much, yeah," he confidently replies. "This isn't the first time I've snuck a girl into my room."

You decide not to question him further as you begin to pull away with a sigh. His hand is quick to cradle your jaw.

"I just really want to be with ya tonight, is that so bad?" He softly asks, while tilting your head up slightly, to have your eyes meet his.

Even the darkened cab of his truck can't hide the infatuation in his eyes.

"No, it's just-"

He stops you by pressing his thumb to your lips.

"From the way you were moanin' my name a few minutes ago, I would think you'd wanna be with me..."

"Its not that I don't want to be with you, it's just..." you pause, trying to think of a way around revealing the level of repulsion you feel at the thought of being in the same house as his father.

His smug expression fades as you search for the right words.

"Why don't we just go back to mine, like we usually do?" You counter, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Because I wanna have you in my room tonight," he replies, pulling you closer. "In my bed, where I know you're really mine."

"You shouldn't be so paranoid," you say, dismissively. "I'm not seeing anyone else, Gator, you know that. I only want you."

"Then you should want to spend the night with me," he practically pouts.

It's exasperating how childish he can be sometimes, you think, as instead of rolling your eyes, you kiss his plush bottom lip.

"You're too cute for your own good," you breathe, into another kiss, before pulling away.

"Does that mean-?"

"Yes," you sigh. "You win, now let's go before I change my mind."

You find the stillness of the Tillman house unnerving as you quietly follow Gator through the kitchen. You never had the desire to set foot here, though you knew if you kept dating the Sheriff's son, you would have to cross its threshold eventually. Dread prickles at the back of your neck as you climb the stairs, making you cringe at the slightest creak beneath your feet.

Your frazzled nerves have you squeezing Gator's hand as he leads you towards his room. He smiles as he opens his bedroom door, still silently reveling in his victory.

You're surprised to see his room is illuminated by a soft, purple light. It casts shadows over the posters on his wall, leading you to think it hasn't changed much since he was in high school. Your thoughts are interrupted when he steps in front of you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you to him. A smile still plays on his lips as he gazes at you.

He takes a few steps back, guiding you further into the room. He then sits on his bed and pulls you onto his lap. Your knees settle into his comforter as you straddle him. His large hands frame your face as he takes a moment to admire you again. He notices your lingering uneasiness before leaning in to kiss you, softly. His tenderness catches you off guard, as you were anticipating the opposite.

"Does being here freak you out that much?" He quietly asks, with his nose pressing into your cheek.

You nod, slightly.

"Just focus on me, then, baby," he breathes before kissing you again. "I'll make ya feel so good, you'll never wanna leave."

You allow yourself to melt into his kiss despite how wrong it feels. Something inside of you urges you to leave, but you're anchored to the man below you. Your lips desperately meet his, over and over, seemingly never wanting to stop.

You quietly sigh his name when his attention switches to your neck. He grins against your skin, loving the way it falls from your lips. He greedily wants more as he presses wet kisses and little bites along your skin. He instantly gets what he wants when he sucks harshly right above your shoulder. Your fingers curl and claw at his shirt as you moan his name a little too loud.

"We gotta be quiet, remember?" He reminds, pressing his finger to your lips.

You nod, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. You kiss the tip of his finger, before whispering an apology.

"Its okay, baby," he soothes, lowering his hand so he can kiss you again. "I know you can't help it... always whinin' and cryin' for me, and I haven't even fucked you yet."

You whimper into another kiss while your nails lightly scrape at the back of his neck.

"That's what you want, right?" He breathlessly adds, between kisses.

"Yes," you reply, nearly delirious with desire.

"Make me yours tonight."

That's all it takes before he's pulling your shirt off. The sensation of his rough hands gliding over your skin makes you shiver.

You're then laying completely bare beneath him as he kneels between your legs. The sight of him is like something out of a dream, or possibly a nightmare, you aren't sure which.

He runs his hands up and down your thighs, making sure your legs stay spread around him. Your eyes linger on how he's throbbing for you, knowing you're aching for him just as much. He places his left hand on your stomach, while his right reaches for your face. His long fingers brush your cheek before he rests his thumb against your lips. He applies only the slightest pressure and you open your mouth just enough so he can drag his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Fuck, look at ya..." he breathes, as his eyes travel your body before meeting yours. "Prettiest fuckin' thing I've ever seen."

You hum in approval, flicking your tongue over the pad of his thumb. He then inhales sharply, pushing it into your mouth. You happily wrap your lips around it and suck, while gazing at him sultrily.

He softly moans before pulling his thumb away, worrying he'd blow his load then and there if you kept on.

"You're too fuckin' good at that, shit..." he pants, while you smile up at him.

"You already know I can't help myself when it comes to you," you defend, as he strokes himself. He smears your saliva over his leaking tip, gasping as he pumps his hand a few times before lining up to ease himself inside you.

Your hands twist into his sheets as his hand covers your mouth. The other on your stomach drifts to your hip, as he pushes himself as deep as he can.

Once his hips meet yours, his gaze darkens as he asks, "Are you gonna be good?"

You nod, your eyes pleading for him to move. With a smirk, he slowly lowers his hand, but keeps a loose grip on your jaw as he begins thrusting his hips in languid strokes. You whine, turning your head to the side, trying to use his pillow to muffle any sounds that might escape.

"No, no, baby," he scolds, using his hold on your jaw to turn your face towards him. "I want ya to keep your eyes on me."

You whine again as you look up, into his eyes. He grins while gently caressing your cheek with his thumb. It's another surprising display of tenderness that he seems to reserve only for you. Your mouth falls open after whispering his name and he immediately places his thumb back, between your lips. You lazily lick against his skin with every thrust as you fight to keep your eyes open.

He curses under his breath, while his hand glides over your stomach, to your breast. He squeezes roughly at first before leaning over to place wet, soothing kisses across your chest. He notices the hickies he left are starting to fade and he's determined to leave new ones. He has to mark you as his, one way or another.

His hair, now a sweaty mess, falls around his face. It tickles your cheeks as he hovers over you. You reach up and brush it out of his eyes, not realizing until then how long it's gotten. He kisses you deeply, while the coarse hair on his chest brushes against you, making you writhe against him.

He breaks the kiss to catch his breath and gaze at you again. You wonder what's going through his head in these quiet moments, but you're too afraid to ask. Afraid that he'll confirm what you already know... that his interest in you goes beyond simple infatuation. You're not sure if you could handle his confession of love, now or at any point.

This wasn't meant to be anything more than a series of casual hookups, but his possessiveness soon changed that. He couldn't stand the thought of another man having you like this. Even the way his own father looked at you infuriated him. For once in his life, he was going to have something that was his and only his.

"Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?" You softly ask, surprising him and yourself.

He shakes his head. "Just you."

You smile before he kisses you again. He softly moans into your mouth when he feels your legs tightening around his waist. It's your silent way of urging him to keep going.

"Yeah?" He breathily asks. "Ya want more?"

Nodding, you whisper, "Please."

He grins before picking up his pace and roughly thrusting into you. It's all you can do not to scream as you quickly pull him into another kiss. It's sloppy, filled with little whimpers as he fucks you into his mattress.

"This better?" He teasingly asks, with his wet lips at your cheek.

"Y-Yes," you answer, almost too dazed to speak. "Just don't stop, please..."

You hate how whiny your voice sounds but you know it's such a turn on for him.

"I don't plan to. I'm gonna keep ya like this all night," he breathes, into a kiss.

You gasp his name against his plush lips, while your back arches from just how deep he's fucking into you. You're not sure if it's ever felt like this until tonight, so deep and raw.

He needs you to know you truly belong to him. It's something you've known for some time now, but didn't want to admit. It's the dull ache that lingers after he leaves. An ache that increases when you're alone, laying in bed or otherwise. You shouldn't want this, or him, but you're drawn to what's underneath his brash facade. There's a sweetness that's been dormant since childhood, a sweetness that he only feels comfortable revealing to you.

You feel privileged to be the person that gets to experience this side of him. It also frightens you because of how easily you could fall in love with him.

The feeling of his teeth biting into your shoulder jolts you back to reality as you softly cry his name.

"Sorry baby," he breathily apologizes, "ya just feel too good."

"Its okay, just don't bite so hard," you dreamily reply.

He kisses the top of your shoulder, soothing what's going to be one of many marks that litters your skin. Your vision is a purple tinted blur as you struggle to keep the gaze of the man above you.

"I know you're close, I can feel it..." he whispers, as the tip of his nose brushes yours.

Your nails dig into his biceps as he fucks you hard and fast. You're both desperate for release, mouths barely touching, only exchanging low moans and grunts.

You finally connect your lips when your body begins to tremble around him. It's so intense that you can hardly kiss him, as you really just need his lips to absorb all the tiny whines and whimpers of his name.

His bedframe begins to squeak as he thrusts even harder. Your nails claw at his shoulders, through his skin's almost too slippery for you to properly cling to.

"I'm the only one who fucks ya this good, right?" He asks, roughly holding your face.

"Yes, j-just you," you breathe, gasping for the air that's been punched from your lungs.

He flashes a grin before rewarding you with a messy kiss.

"You were made for me and only me," he continues, as he gazes into your watery eyes.

You whine his name one last time and his hips finally still. He presses his forehead to yours as he fills you with everything he has. He's so overwhelmed by the intensity of it, that he doesn't move until his body stops shaking. You're practically being crushed underneath him, but you still too dazed to care.

He's looking at you with renewed adoration, like you're his most cherished possession. Before tonight, this would've frightened you but now it evokes a different emotion. A warm realization settles within you as you think maybe hearing those three little words from him wouldn't be so terrible. For the first time in your life you seriously consider the thought of truly belonging to someone.

A smile spreads across your lips as your hand reaches to cradle his face.

"Will you spend the rest of the night with me?" He softly asks, leaning into your touch. "I don't want to let ya go."

You nod, before guiding his lips to yours.

"And I don't want to go," you whisper into a kiss.

You would worry about the world that lies beyond his bedroom door in the morning. As for the few remaining hours before sunrise, they belonged to you and the man you loved.

[chrysalind]

sweet and sour

pairing: suna rintarou x reader wc: 880 tags: fluff, fake dating, (real) jealousy, party setting ofc, reader wears makeup and is shorter than suna

Sometime last Wednesday, Suna Rintarou had discovered inner peace.

It had been after his last linear algebra exam, during his third consecutive hour of mourning, when it finally occurred to him that it didn't matter. Of course, it mattered in the sense that it would affect his GPA, and as a result, his job prospects, career, ability to be approved for a mortgage and become a homeowner, and of course his retirement. But in a more 'in the moment' sense, it didn't matter at all.

This was because, he'd rationalized, it had already happened and there was no use agonizing over it after the fact. And so, for a few short days, Suna abided by the belief that if he couldn't change something, he simply wouldn't bring himself to care about it.

So when you drag him into the tiny bathroom of someone's apartment with a swipe of glitter under your left eye and a frazzled expression on your pretty face, Suna is fully prepared to put his new philosophy into action.

The door shuts behind you, muffling the din of music and people and he tries not to think about how precariously close your drink is to the edge of the sink when you set it down.

"I need a favour," you begin, wringing your wrists as he tries not to fall backwards into the shower. It is, in fact, a very tiny bathroom.

"Nah," he replies, managing to right himself against the towel rack.

"'Nah'?" you repeat, jutting out your bottom lip. "But you don't even know what I'm going to ask."

He rationalizes that it can't be anything worth putting in the effort for. Therefore would it even make sense for him to hear you out? He thinks not.

However, as he eyes the door behind you, your face bobs into view, obstructing his path to escape.

"Please," you whine, dropping down from a tippy toe. "Just hear me out."

He glances once at his reflection in the mirror before his gaze slides up to the ugly white light on the ceiling.

"Fine."

"Yes," you exclaim, your elbow narrowly missing the cup. Suna looks away.

"Okay, so my ex is here with his new girlfriend," you begin, your hands moving fast, "and so I would really, really be so grateful if you could maybe, possibly, pretend that we're together."

He blinks. "Nah."

Your face falls. "But I'm gonna look like a loser out there."

He wonders if the glitter is supposed to draw attention to your eyes. If so, why just one side?

"That doesn't even make any sense," he says. "No one cares that you're single." After all, no one cares that he's single. Except for himself, sometimes, although, he's learning to let go of that.

You're pouting again. "I care. And I'm pretty sure that he cares. Chiharu said that he told the other guys on the soccer team that he was bringing her because he knew that I'd be here. Like, isn't that kind of fucked up?"

Something like irritation wriggles in his brain but he quickly shuts that down. After all, what can he really change about the situation? Even if he does pretend to be your boyfriend for tonight, your ex will continue to be a convincing piece of evidence that Neanderthals might still walk amongst modern humans. And even then, you'll still be hung up on him and things between you two will just stay the same. So why should he bother?

"I'm gonna pass," he says dryly, squeezing past you to get to the door. Your elbow brushes against the cup and it falls, clattering into the sink and splashing red liquid down the sides.

"Just tell him to go fuck himself or something," he shrugs, before twisting the doorknob. "Or just pretend he's not there at all."

"But Rin," you pout as he lets the chaos of the party flood into the small space, "I thought we were friends."

And you are friends, he thinks, as he shoulders his way back through the crowd. That's the problem.

That's the fucking problem.

So when he spots you, fifteen minutes later, with your back up to a wall and that Cro-Magnon specimen crowding you, he thinks it's finally time to seriously reconsider his philosophy.

And sometime in the five steps it takes to cross the room does he finally come to the conclusion that enlightenment just isn't for him.

"Hey, angel," he says as he turns you around to face him. Your lips are parted in surprise and the glitter reflects fuchsia and gold in the low light.

He's acutely aware that the two of you are not alone, but he can't bring himself to look away. Something like a second epiphany dawns on him.

"Sorry it took a while," he murmurs as he leans down to meet your gaze.

"But better late than never, right?"

Sometime last Wednesday, Suna Rintarou had discovered inner peace.

But right now, tonight, as you let him kiss you in front of all the people you know, he decides that inner peace is entirely overrated.

[elsweetheart]

havduaha hello hi i think i'm inlove with you- anw i reaaaaaaalllyyyy love your writing. got me giggling and kicking feet fr hdjashaj soooo i just want to request somethin or whatnot just... dealer!ellie... whatever you want to do just make my dreams come true so i can pass away in peace (just kidding... or not) just gonna leave it here, again i think i'm really inlove with you HAJDHWJSHA BYE MWA

hiiii omgomgomg thank u!! i’m so happy u like my writing + you’re so sweet of course i will write dealer!ellie she is so chefs kiss 💋

beginners luck — dealer!ellie

tw// drug usage !! not smutty just flirty <3 more to come tho !!

• you and ellie were always seeing eachother around campus, or at parties where she’d be doing business. so much so, that the two of you would often laugh to eachother and chat at social gathering about how often you bumped into eachother. things were definitely a little flirty from your perspective, but you didn’t wanna read into it too much. so she’s not a total stranger — you just wouldn’t consider her a friend, and you wouldn’t wanna be stuck in the friendzone anyway.

• she’s always wondered why you’ve never tried to buy from her and then simply put it down to you seeming too innocent to wanna smoke and honestly she thinks it’s cute.

• that is until you can’t sleep one night, mind super frazzled from staring at a computer all day that you decide fuck it, now is the perfect time to start.

• so you march over to ellie’s dorm, and everyone knows where ellie’s dorm is because everyone buys weed from ellie. you didn’t think to change out of the tank top that’s just a little too tight and your cute pj pants, and before it’s too late you’re knocking on her door.

• she opens up pretty fast, and she looks like she just got back — wearing a carhartt jacket over her hoodie, her sneakers still on. she lets you in and honestly she’s surprised and confused as you’re the last person she expected to come knocking at 1AM.

• “i want to… erm, i’d like to buy a…weed.” you try and sound confident but you shrink down when she chuckles, stepping aside and letting you into her room. “i got plenty of those.” she replies as she pulls out a metal box and you don’t quite catch that she’s slightly making fun of your naively worded request.

• she lets you fish through all the pungent baggies with labels you don’t understand on them before you’re looking up at her with doe eyes and a shrug. “i don’t really know what i’m looking for here.” you admit defeatedly.

• “you never smoked before? like not even at a party or anything?” she doesn’t sound judgemental, more curious and you feel more comfortable to be truthful.

• “no, never. just struggling to sleep and i think it might help me.” you respond earnestly and she thinks for a moment, seeming to analyse you before taking the metal box and closing it, storing it away.

• “i don’t usually sell to beginners. they don’t know what they’re doing and then they go away and smoke more than they can handle and then come freaking out at my door saying i laced them or some shit, which i obviously did not. but… i dunno, you’re always nice to me when i see you, and plus i know what it’s like to not be able to sleep. so, i’m gonna help you out.” she ranted, digging through another one of her drawers before she stood back up, holding a smaller tin.

• “thank you, ellie. you’re a lifesaver. what is that?” you ask shyly with your eyes on the tin. she pries it open and nods towards her bed. “sit down.” she offers in a softer voice and you do, watching as she gathers her equipment. “it’s my personal stash. the good stuff, you know. you don’t smoke pretty girls out with the cheap shit i sell.” she chuckled like it was obvious, continuing to set up her little rolling station at her desk, perching on her chair. you flushed all over at her calling you pretty and smiled.

• she talks you through how to roll and prepare the blunt, and you’re trying to listen — you really are. but you’re both finding it hard to concentrate when she’s that hot and explaining things to you, and you’re showing her how good of a listener you can be by responding with small dreamy “mhm”’s to her instructions. you swing your legs as you stare at her, her fingers continuing to do the last bit of rolling and twisting of the pink rolling paper she let you select.

• “now the boring parts out the way…” she smiled as she stood up, flopping down on the bed next to you and pulling her lighter out her pocket before setting them down on the bed between you and shuffling out of her jacket. you felt your body heat up and the close proximity and you kicked off your slippers, crossing your legs and facing her.

• she placed the joint carefully between your lips, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes as if for permission before lighting it. “now inhale and you’re gonna hold it for a few seconds, alright?” her voice was calm and quiet and it eased your nerves slightly as you did what she said.

• she let you take a few more hits commending you with a “see? you’re a natural.” before taking her turn, inhaling with more confidence as she relaxed back against the wall beside her bed.

• the two of you get talking as you smoked, and you clicked instantly, talking about her day and then talking about yours and laughing together. you almost forgot what you were doing, as after a while it became second nature.

• the fogginess started to hit you as she was talking and you began giggling, eyes now pink and watering as you observed how pretty she was as she spoke. she trailed off, taking a drag of the blunt and you moved closer to her on the bed.

• “your freckles look like little stars.” you tried to widen your eyes so you could see more and she chuckled, tilting her her slightly to catch your eye.

• “you good? it’s hitting you huh?” her voice was laced with amusement as you bit your lip and nodded with an innocent grin. “does it feel good?” she asked, in reference to the high but the question made your eyes flutter anyways. “mhm.”

• the good feeling lasted for what felt like forever, but when she made you laugh at a stupid joke a little too hard you found that your heartbeat sped up just a little bit too much. you tried to play it cool, taking a deep breath as you flattened your back against the wall, staring at her bedsheets.

• she moved her head slightly, trying to catch your eye. “you in there?” she cooed, placing a hand on your shoulder.

• “yeah. m’okay just... focusing on breathing.” you breathe out, a little whiny and trying not to panic. ellie barely reacts, reaching under her bed and pulling out a water bottle from a multipack, opening it for you and handing it to you lidless. “you’re alright, just smoked a little more than you can take for now. just relax, ‘kay?”

• she pulled her laptop up and put some kind of animated comedy on the screen to distract you, and somehow you ended up with your head resting in her lap as the two of you watched, ellie smoking another to herself. you relaxed yourself, and the high felt good again. you rolled over to look up at her, watching her smoke as her beautiful features were lit up by the glow of the screen. her eyes were pink and glossy now too and the room was smokey. you noticed the sock over the smoke alarm on the ceiling just past her head in your eyeline and giggled, attracting her attention.

• “what you looking at?” she smiled down at you and you shrugged it off, instead choosing to play with the drawstrings on her hoodie.

• “how much?” you asked sweetly. “before i forget.”

• “how much what?” she stroked your hair back.

• “how much do i owe you for this premium experience.” you giggled. “can see why so many people buy from you now. y’must be popular with the ladies.”

• she chuckled, but in a modest and almost nervous way as she leant back more against the wall— taking the moment to really look at you as you stared back. the weed induced haze gave you the confidence to hold her gaze without looking away.

• “i guess a beginner wouldn’t know that pretty girls smoke for free.” she smirked and you bit your lip in girlish excitement at her calling you pretty again. “especially pretty girls that are extra pretty when they’re all giggly and smoked out with big pretty pink eyes.” her voice was smooth and your heart fluttered again, but in a good way this time.

• “i suppose you should be paying me then.” you joked quietly and she laughed, nodding. you sat up slowly, eye contact not breaking once and your faces close.

• “so… do you let all your beginners lay in your lap and smoke with you?” your eyes danced between hers and her eyes were heavy lidded, lazily staring at your lips before blinking up at your eyes, stubbing out the last of the roach into the ashtray.

• “first time for everything. figured i’d try it out on the cute girl i see around campus that i was too much of a pussy to talk to.” her voice was quiet, almost lusty and you licked your lips.

• “me?” you breathed out sweetly and she smiled again.

• “clever girl.” she praised, pulling you in to meet her lips.

i don’t rlly like this but hey ho i can’t be bothered to write it again :))))

[jesterofcringe]

Haunted House Yellowjackets x Reader featuring [in order of appearance] : Shauna Shipman, Taissa Turner, Jackie Taylor, Natalie Scatorccio, Lottie Matthews, and Van Palmer

★ You find yourself working as a scare actor for the weekend, what happens when your partner walks through the haunted house and you accidentally scare the daylights out of them? ★ [modern au by proxy because of mention of cell phone usage lmao] ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

Shauna Shipman

★ You manage to scare her pretty good- in return you're gifted a bloody nose.

★ She's speed walking through the haunted house, just trying to walk through it as fast as possible so she can get out without being too spooked- she turns a corner and there you are.

★ You jump out of her and it's absolutely her last straw. She screams bloody murder and punches the ever loving shit out of you. She's all frazzled and breathing heavily while you stand there holding your nose like :0

★ Before you can say anything, she huffs and stomps down the hallway, walking through the rest of the house with a scowl on her face and blood on her knuckles. You don't hear from her until you call her after your shift.

"You shouldn't have scared me like that."

"It's a goddamn haunted house what were you expecting??"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Taissa Turner

★ Tai is 100% unamused.

★ You jump out of her and she does get a bit startled, but she immediately deadpans after the momentary scare. There's an awkward couple of seconds where you're just standing there with zombie arms and she's staring at you like 🤨

"Was that scary? Like even remotely?"

"Not really."

★ In an attempt to make the situation less awkward, you swing a fake axe and lightly tap her in the stomach. She doesn't budge and rolls her eyes. Later that night as you're getting out of costume she proceeds to point out all the little things she thinks your group could've done better.

"Dude it was a haunted house put on by college kids of course it was gonna look corny."

"I'm just saying the blood was way too fake, it looked like water."

"Probably because we made it with water-"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jackie Taylor

★ Jackie actually doesn't walk through the haunted house. She straight up refuses.

★ She claims it's because she won't have the time, but you know it's because she's too scared.

[you assure her that there's nothing wrong with being scared, but she refuses to admit it]

★ Even though your costume calls for you to be wearing a mask, she does your makeup for you. Very 2020 clowncore type of makeup- and it comes out pretty cool! Except, you do still need to wear your mask and she's pretty upset about it.

"You don't think my makeup looks good? :("

"I think it looks awesome but the mask is part of my costume!"

":((("

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Natalie Scatorccio

★ Nat has this whole "Tough Guy" facade going on, but you can still tell you were able to scare her, even if just a little bit.

★ She goes through the majority of the haunted house with a complete straight face, but she admitted later that she was internally freaking out.

★ When she gets to your hallway, she's supposed to walk through while you appear out of seemingly nowhere [a well placed hole in the wall] and follow her down the hallway. For the most part, it was a great way to get guests to run into the next room for another big scare, but Natalie doesn't make it easy for you. She stands there and watches you slowly lumber over to her, a smile threatening to cross her face once she realized it was you.

"What are you suppose to be?"

"A zombie."

"Right."

"I'm trying to stay in character but you're making it incredibly difficult-"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Lottie Matthews

★ You scare the shit out of Lottie before she even makes it to the haunted house.

★ Despite the fact that she loves Halloween, she isn't huge on feeling scared. Even with this in mind, she still wants to support you and show up. As soon as she texts you that she's there, you're bolting out to her car- you forgot an important part of your costume in her backseat, and decide to grab it while you still have the time.

★ All she sees is what looks like an axe murderer, sprinting full speed towards her car.

★ Her windows are up all the way but you can still hear her scream her lungs out. You remind her its you and comfort her to the best of your ability through the window on the drivers side while she white knuckles the steering wheel.

"Oh my gods I'm so sorry!"

"... you're costume is great..."

"Are you ok?"

"...I just need a minute-"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Van Palmer

★ Van straight up laughs at you.

★ You were stationed in front of the ticket booth, tasked with giving the guests a little scare before they got to the actual attraction. You'd snarl at some, grab at others, and you even followed after one guy after he called your costume lame [his friends gladly recorded his reaction when he finally turned around and damn near passed out.]

★ You're quite confident in your scaring abilities... up until Van walks past.

★ Initially she completely walks past you, but then she proceeds to do a double take and immediately starts giggling.

"What, is it bad?"

"No it's..." to her credit, she's trying very hard not to laugh at you, but she really can't help it, "...Yeah it's pretty fucking bad."

★ You pout at her, and it only makes it worse. She bursts out laughing before apologizing and hugging you as best as she can without getting your makeup on her clothes.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ [i wanted to include more people but i ran out of colors so might write a part two for the rest of em, idk yet]