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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Escape the Friendzone 2/4 (Word count 5.3 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

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Massive arms go about her as she's pulled against a lean chest. It's an awkward, tense hug. He smells of open air and coppice, with a whiff of acrid sweat on top as she lays her head somewhere between the bumps of muscle of a warm chest.

Not even the body heat makes him appear more human: his heart is not pounding as fast as she thought it would after making it clear he would score some tonight.

She fears she's dealing with a sociopath. Might even be a psychopath.

"Are you still afraid?"

"I don't know." Her breaths are everything but steady as she inhales the intoxicating scent of a madman.

"Don't be scared. I will only hurt those who wish to hurt you."

His pledge renders her weak; it makes her legs shake. She gets far more than she bargained for when pulling him in to give her a little late-night comfort.

Friends with benefits is a situation bad enough, but this is not okay. The guy's fixation seems boundless, and if she tries to wriggle out of this… relationship and starts seeing someone else, it might end up in König scrubbing the potential future love interest's guts off his shoes.

And something in the idea isn't even wholly appalling.

Good God…

"I don't want you to hurt anyone," she whispers like it isn't his day-to-day job – to hurt and kill people. She is on the verge of collapsing to the floor and stays upright only because he holds her in authoritarian embrace.

"Little angel, it's what I do." He releases her only enough to bow his head and look into her eyes. His stare betrays slight distaste. Those eyes are calm mirrors of how can someone be so naive.

"You come to me if someone is mean to you," he orders in a stern voice that makes her feel faint.

"Alright," she breathes a fluent little lie. He's satisfied with her answer, however, and presses her head back against him with effortless control.

She imagines him knifing someone with a listless stare from sparing a glance her way; she fantasizes him strangling some chauvinistic moron in the darkness after they have been "mean" to her. Quickening breaths betray her sick thoughts to him because he pulls her even closer. She can feel the enormous cock pressing against her body with a promise of violence.

"Angel… I wish you would stop teasing me."

"Yeah?" Her laugh is restrained, and her heart is racing inside her chest – like it's some kind of a good idea to have a heart attack while a murderous psycho turning into a boyfriend is in the same room with her. "Where's the fun in that…?"

"Do you always tease men like this?"

"No," she swallows a mouthful of woodland and musk. "Just you."

"Hm."

"König… Can I see your face?"

The man finally seems to find his reserve again. He detaches from her, and she can hear the audible gulp inside the hood.

"Maybe later."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he usually does when he's a bit nervous. Probably to ease the discomfort from still being forced into those pants with such an astoundingly large, swelling erection, too.

She can't come up with anything that might explain why the man is so uncomfortable with showing his face. From the small glimpse she saw in the showers, everything looked completely normal. There is some other reason why he wants to wear the mask, most likely some mental block, and she would simply have to wait until he's ready and willing to take it off.

"How about a kiss?"

He doesn't shake his head or escape her as she hesitantly steps toward him and raises a hand to the hem of his hood.

"If I just…"

He does nothing as she starts to raise the mask. The look in his eyes is somewhat haunted, though.

She lifts it just enough to reveal a clean-shaven chin and a pair of thin, tightly shut lips. She briefly notices that there's a scar on his jaw before his mouth opens to call her in. They're polar opposites of each other: she feels breathless and limp when their lips meet while he's a statue of rigid power. Even his mouth is tense as she catches his bottom lip between hers and tries to soften that immortal stiffness. Distant notes of hops catch her tongue just before he pulls her back into a crushing hug.

The guy is not the most perfect kisser. He's very avid, though. In fact, his eagerness is what makes it a scary experience, what makes the kiss clumsy. He smashes his lips on hers with force, then opens his mouth so wide she fears he will devour half her face.

The ungloved hands slide down her back and cup her ass. He's gentle, but she still feels like she's levitating, half an inch above the ground from his groping. He moans like they are already having sex, but before she can disconnect herself from the violent kiss, he does it for her.

"I want to fuck you," he pants across her lips, eyes half-lidded and drunk. "Can I fuck you?"

The man has no conception of how to dance these dances. He simply declares his wish to shove his junk inside her and kill those who might do her harm. She feels dizzy in his arms, like dew that will evaporate under too much heat.

"Yeah, yes," she tries to sound sane, although there's nothing sane about this.

So much for being just friends or being nothing at all…

Her heart is beating faster and faster; it wants to rend itself out of her chest. She feels ample sweat between her thighs, then realizes it's only her own wetness that has broken through the cotton of her underwear. The dress is so tight in the middle that she can't simply try and throw it over her head, and the buttons at the front seem to have suddenly become too big to slip through the holes.

He doesn't take any of his clothes off while watching her undress. The instant she opens her whimsical veil of blooms, he moves close and shoves the fabric down her shoulders so that it drops sadly on the floor. Then he flicks a knife out.

Shit… Shit what the fuck–

"No–Don't–!"

The blade is forced with a flat surface under the middle of her bra. He pulls the fabric away, turns the blade - it's a miracle she's not bleeding by the time he cuts through the center front like it's butter. Her breasts fall free, and the destroyed lingerie hangs cheaply on the side before it gets dragged away too. She looks at his work, her exposed tits and the crude, fat knife he swiftly returns to its sheath.

"That was my favorite br–ah…"

The man is terrifying, even when he sinks to his knees. He dives for her breasts, licks the undersides and sucks her nipples like he's famished. Her head rolls back, and she feels fainter still as he gropes her like she's his toy, chews a nipple until she shudders and cries in pain. Then he goes down, down, panting hot breaths on her skin as he goes, the hood grazing and tickling her skin.

His hands shake slightly as he tears down the last piece of covering fabric from between her legs. She can't even step out of the briefs before a blazing tongue is pushed to her clit, all but delicately.

Perhaps he's not a virgin, but he's not a veteran, either – still, it draws a filthy moan out of her.

She has to take support from his head to prevent herself from falling when the tongue simply forces its way between her legs. It curls to meet her folds, slick with her wet. She knows she's practically leaking at this point, and hears how he licks his lips.

"Of course the angel tastes like heaven too," he rasps in her mound, sounding rather… bitter. Almost annoyed.

She thinks it's only the beginning, but he suddenly rises like a Kraken from the sea, like a Godzilla about to destroy an entire city.

"Get on the bed. All fours."

She chokes the whimper that tries to escape her, then turns and crawls onto the bed as if they are running out of time. His urgency is hers now, and she presents herself to him, waiting for the man to thrust in without remorse, but it's his mouth she feels first.

"Uh–Oh my god…"

He licks her with a flat tongue, torturously slow while she's on display. They're long, profound sweeps, as if he wants to sample her rather than give her pleasure. Although he does give her an immense amount of it.

She falls on her elbows, face down on the bed, exposing more of herself to him in the process. Her pussy has been neglected for so long that the feel of his hot tongue on her is absolutely breathtaking, thigh-shaking. She pushes herself back a little, lets him taste his own medicine for once.

And of course it only makes him more unhinged.

"You're wet like a…" he laughs a short, dry laugh straight into her folds, and she finally whimpers at the sound. "You want it so bad?"

"Yes…?"

It's a sad little confession but more than enough for him. He freezes behind her, and something in the way the air shifts tells her he has risen and is now standing high above her as she's in this crudely vulnerable position.

"I've made you wet this whole time?"

She snivels, opens her eyes, closes them…

"Yes," she sobs in the bed, nearly topples, but he grabs her ass and keeps her in place.

"Ach du lieber Himmel…"

She pants and cries in the sheets, but the sobering silence lasts only for so long.

The sound of a belt being opened shoots her skin full of goosebumps. Only a few seconds later, the fat tip of his cock is swept across her folds: it probes for a second, then slides in.

"A-ah–"

"Scheiße… So tight…"

He hisses and goes all the way in – the journey is long and torturous as he stretches her wide. The thickness only grows at the base, his balls are already tight as they arrive to press against her.

And mercy is not at the top of his list as he realizes she has denied her need and therefore, his. He starts to sail inside her, back and forth, in and out, like it's his job, too. It's total torture. She might just pass out before this is over.

"You little tease…" He seizes control of her hips while using her as his own personal fleshlight. The noise of wet, slick fucking is deafening. The pace is upped soon, and he has to use strength to hold her in place while ramming her from standing while she tries to hold on for her dear life and hold onto the sheets.

"Not so fast, König," she whimpers into her pillow, but he won't listen. The pace is frantic, and his thrusts are deep; he fucks her with despair, with anguish-driven, starved thrusts born from greed.

Nothing has ever felt so good, nothing.

"Just friends, eh?"

She has a hard time deciphering whether he is happy or mad. His voice is pitchy, and she knows, she just knows that he sounds equally as unglued on his missions. Perhaps that's why people rarely talk to him.

"Don't–don't be angry…"

"No? Say that you want me," he commands somewhere behind her, desperation coating the air with pungent sweat and musky arousal. "Say it–say it–"

"I want you," she finally cries, and it feels like an absolution. An amnesty. Remission of sin.

There's panting and frantic sound of slaps of flesh against flesh behind her. The air all around is pure electricity. It makes her quiver and throb and squeeze: him, the sheets, anything and everything.

"I will bring you flowers every morning and fuck you every night. Ja?"

His length is the only thing she can focus on; all else dissolves into a hazy mist. The cock glides in her like he's oiling a gun part, and he could ask her to kill someone and she would only say–

"Yes, yes."

He slides in and out with less and less control, moans and grunts with every thrust now. She's already past the point of no return, even though the orgasm keeps hovering right beyond her reach. She only needs a few more minutes. Or maybe just one...

"König… Not...so–fast…"

He answers something in German, an annoyed string of words she has no clue what they mean. He's probably just swearing profoundly.

"Get...what you deserve..."

That's the only thing she can flesh out from the English that follows. He finally finds some mercy with a choked groan and tries to slow down a little. It's even worse when he does that. He pulls almost completely out, then sinks back in, agonizingly lazy, and that does it: the full length of his giant cock slipping inside her without effort makes her walls clench.

"Oh God…" Her back is arching, her toes are curling, a tight cry disappears somewhere in the pillow, and he won't stop with the – "Oh–fuck–!"

"Yeah," he cheers her on as she screams, cries in the sheets while his cock swims in her. His hands dig into her hips, and she barely has brains left to think it might leave bruises. The orgasm comes in waves, shakes, and he won't let go even when she's only a heap of throbbing, soaking flesh and rapture.

And it's not the end; quite the contrary. He continues to fuck her with abandon: balls slap against her with every jab; they must be covered in her juice at this point, making the sound of sloppy thrusts utterly obscene. She's able to stay in a face-down, ass-up position only because he's holding her there for his cock.

The grunts turn into a wide, thick groan as he approaches the edge as well. The pace slows down almost to a halt before he comes.

"Jetzt…kommt–" he groans through gritted teeth, voice all taut while he grinds through his release. It's a multitude of deep, oddly paced thrusts, a sad attempt to get everything he can, and she's still like a wet gulf sucking him in.

The last throes are sluggish, the madness starts to pass, and she feels like every bone has left her body. There is nothing solid left when the man slowly relents and settles somewhere deep inside her. She can hear how he pants with his mouth open, and it sounds painful, wet, almost drooly. Then he swallows with a breathless gulp, slips out, and lets her go.

She immediately falls forward - topples, crashes, crawls on the bed, tries to rearrange what's left.

Just friends...

Yep.

He crashes somewhere beside her, spent and out of breath. The front of his shirt is covered in sweat; the air is filled with the stale scent of musk and saline sweat and pure, mad sex. She can barely catch a glimpse of the slick, glistening length of him. It feels like a miracle that this thing has been inside her. It’s not that it’s monstrously thick: it’s simply long, curving a little to the side, lean and aggressive even when growing soft.

"You play with fire, Engel. Why did you make me wait so long?"

The masked killer beside her is panting but satisfied for now, and turns his head to look at her. She has to muster all her courage to look back.

"I'm…a bit shy."

"You're perfect," he declares while watching her in her sex daze and ruin. So, at least he's not angry. He finally looks… normal, even with that absurd hood still on, with that intoxicated, admiring stare in his eyes. The ice in his blues has turned into melting snow.

"I noticed you the minute I arrived here."

She can't prevent a hand from reaching out at that, from splaying fingers over his chest.

"I noticed you too," she whispers back before moving closer to snuggle him. His heart is finally thumping in his chest, right under her cheek – from the late exercise or their closeness, she can't tell. A heavy arm goes around her, pressing her further into the nook of his armpit.

"You remind me of one of my knives," he says while holding her close.

Oh good God…

"You are a butterfly knife girl."

"Oh?"

"Ja. Small and cute and a lot of fun. And I can't get enough of you."

So much for getting rid of the man after getting some d. God, what was wrong with her? Any other woman would have put up some boundaries, perhaps gotten a restraining order by now.

"Is it… a good knife?" Her voice comes out as an annoying squeal, and he pulls her closer, ever closer.

"I mainly use it for playing."

She wets her lips in an attempt to calm herself, to comfort herself. She’s just another plaything for a murderer whose hunger seems endless, even if he’s more civil now. Still, she fears this man is only after sex and violence. Her little dresses and petite lingerie won't stand a chance against such brutality.

"What knife are you…?"

"Classic Glock field knife. Tall and ugly."

Behind the thin veil of indifference, there's pride. It borders on arrogance. She catches a dash of bitterness, too: field knives don't pair well with butterflies, perhaps.

"König, you're not ugly," she breaks their odd cuddle to look at him. "This sounds like a trustworthy knife to me."

He looks back at her with an even warmer tinge to the glacier of his eyes.

"It is. You cannot hope for a more loyal blade."

Her gaze drops somewhere in the darkness of his shirt. He's pledging himself for the second time to her, and it causes another storm inside her head. There's warmth on her cheeks, too.

"You are cute when you blush," he observes with pleased tranquility.

Perhaps... Perhaps he doesn't want to hurt things he finds cute.

Perhaps he will take care of them, like he takes care of his knives.

It still takes some getting used to that he allows his hood to be lifted just enough to push his tongue inside her mouth or pussy but taking it off to show his face is too much. She is lying there with him in an odd post-coital dream, thoroughly naked while he's still fully dressed. But she doesn't feel cold, not when pressed against his blazing form like this.

"Did you nick my underwear?" She asks out of the blue, and the hand stroking her waist stops in the middle of an idle caress.

"I might have," he admits without a single ounce of remorse in his voice.

"König… That's not cool," she says, knowing he can hear the lack of scolding in her voice.

"You want them back?"

"I… Gosh. Yes, that would be nice."

What a pervert.

"Or... Nevermind. Keep them," she sighs, trying to brush off the fact that the underwear in question wasn't even clean. "Do you steal women's underwear often?"

"No. Just yours."

A laugh meant to convey her shock is far too laced with joy to make it clear that she finds his deeds preposterous. She simply fails at every turn in trying to express that she's a decent woman. He knows it now, probably saw it long ago; that she's the perfect cheval glass to his perversions.

The hand on her hips moves to caress her thigh, and the drowsy stare observes her with growing mischief.

"Ready to go again?"

"Whuh–Again…?"

He takes her hand and moves it right over his cock. It's lean and demanding, and pulses under her palm.

Tall and ugly, she thinks while her walls dare to throb with hunger.

"You make me hard," he says, almost as a whisper, "all the time."

Jesus… There was definitely no rulebook when it came to this guy.

She gets to watch from the bed how he gives her a show as the man finally decides it's time to take his clothes off. The shirt is the first one to go: it flies somewhere on the floor while he holds on to his hood. The sculpted muscle looks even bigger up close, and the plates are covered with thin hair. It runs thicker below the navel, and his thighs are pure power: they surround the sleek length of his cock like trunks of strength when he finally gets himself out of those pants.

The v-shape of his upper body is something she will never get over. Broad shoulders shrink and curve into narrow hips which in turn swell into powerful thighs, and while perhaps this guy wouldn't win the gold medal at a fitness competition – judged by the way he's lean and athletic but not low fat ripped – he certainly is the most beautiful man she has ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. He's a demigod with his herculean strength, a titan who's too big for the world of mortals. A tormented Samson who will never be tamed with treachery or tricks.

The bed sags as he crawls back to her like the gentlest predator. Her legs open wide to receive him – a classic missionary feels like the most intimate choice after the faceless pounding she received earlier. He gathers her legs as he proceeds: forces them up, up, almost next to her arms until he's hovering over her exposed pussy.

She should've known that some boring missionary wouldn't satisfy this man at all.

Her eyes drop to her legs and what's between them: she's in no position to do much of anything, but as the tip of his cock – smooth, pristine velvet – slides across her wet folds once more, she rather helplessly tries to drive her hips up to meet him.

It's like she's drunk or in a dream. The scene is wild and filthy: she's plump and spread open, ready for the taking, thighs almost in her ears as he draws his hips back and finds her opening.

"Please be gentle," she begs with a whisper. He halts for a while to lock gazes with her rabbit stare.

"You are pretty when you beg, little one. But I would never hurt you."

She swallows, and her lips part – his gaze instantly falls on her mouth, then raises back to her eyes, gentle and painstakingly ardent. He's close, so terribly close – and not just physically. Her thighs quiver with anticipation as the thick velvet slides in.

Holy fuck–

She savors the spread, and he's gentle, like he promised. The groan that erupts from inside the hood above makes her walls ache. He's so merciful this time, and she wishes to lift the black veil that still keeps them apart, to see his face as he takes her, to see that scar on his jaw and how his mouth hangs open with hunger, just like hers…

His cock comes out all wet – she can hear it – before plunging right back in, and it makes her mewl.

"Oh God…" Her eyes shut tight from the sensation of being so filled. She's even more starved than she thought. It's scary, far scarier than the mass murderer above and inside her.

"You like that?"

He's breathing heavy, and she knows he's looking at her, the distorting face of pleasure, the way she's biting her lip. Tears try to force themselves out from the passionate, featherbrained proximity, from being so tightly knitted together, like a bunch of happy, overstimulated nerves.

"Look at me," he orders, and she opens her eyes like they're under his command and not hers.

"You like it like this?"

She nods with tears in her eyes, and he won't stop looking at her like she's his most prized possession.

"Gut. I will make you scream again."

The man's dreamy stare follows every twitch of a lip, every bat of an eyelash. She looks down briefly to escape that love – the sight of the long thickness disappearing in her while she is so crudely open for him makes her feel dizzy, even when she's lying down.

Some pillow princess…

"Sehr schön," he comments while watching her face which must look like that of a dumb, anesthetized doll. His cock has that effect, and now that he's hovering over her, staring into her soul while filling her, it makes everything even more painful because it's sweet. She's under lazy waves, and decent men seem the most boring thing on earth right now.

"You like my knives?"

"Ah–what…?"

"You stared when I played with my knife."

She knows he has caught her staring more than once and bites her lip again not to blurt out how she had stared when he had played with... other things as well.

"Mh, yeah… It was beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

The sudden waves of intimacy leave her fragile and weak. His stare is nothing short of a caress. She is open and helpless for him to pound to his heart's content, but he's gentle, bordering on loving...

"I can teach you how to play with them."

Jesus Christ, this dude is just crazy.

"Uh-huh," she agrees to it with her mouth hanging open from the overload of sensation. The lewd sound of his cum pushing out of her with every thrust is an obscene background music for this – or any – conversation.

"I have a collection."

Why the hell would he be talking about his knife collection in the middle of–

"I own at least fifty knives. I can show you all of them if you come to my room."

His gaze is at least as piercing as his cock, and she realizes how serious this is: knives are his life. He finds them beautiful too, he collects them and cares for them. They're a profession, but they're also the most important thing in his world.

Knives are his essence.

And he had likened her to a butterfly knife...

"S-sure."

The sound from where they are joined rises to a sluggish crescendo: drowsy, filthy claps of flesh on soaked flesh. He makes her sick and well at the same time: he drags her to hell and raises her to heaven. He's the remedy and the curse. He plays with her like he plays with his knives: ravenous, entranced, obsessed.

She tries to concentrate on too many things at once: that intoxicating voice, the memory of him playing with death, the cock plunging inside her over and over again, making warmth pool below. She imagines him killing people with his collection, picking his tool for the day. He's not the only lunatic here because even the very thought makes her tight around him.

"You are close?"

"König… Just–" she whispers on the cusp of a deeper, soul-rending orgasm.

"You like it when I talk about knives?"

She breathes laboriously and tries to hang onto the last bits of her sanity, but he knows her, knows her already. He weighs down on her until her thighs come to rest right next to her breasts. He's plowing her in a crude angle, indecent and deep. It's vulgar, and she loves it; loves the way he stares at her, all helpless under him.

"Please, I'm gonna–"

"I can show you my guns too."

Ohmygod–

"I'm gonn–ah–!"

She shatters, her walls clench; her pussy sucks him like he's hard candy.

“Sieh dir das an… You were made for me.”

"Nh– Please…"

Her head tosses on the pillow as if in a dream. She's fathomless, and going to pass out, the cock inside her makes her eyes roll back in her head until she sees white, the color of saints.

"Shy girl… Beg for it."

The voice that answers his command is not that of a shy girl; it's not hers at all. She hears it from underwater, and her reality consists solely of the man filling her, spreading her, transforming her from an angel into something deliciously wicked.

Please, just–

It's not her voice, and yet it does sound everything like her. It begs, mewls a plea after the other in a string of helpless little whimpers.

Don't stop, please pleaseplease…

"Besser als jedes Messer…" he rasps, more darkly now. "You drive me crazy, Engel."

A chant arises in her head: she has sinned and there's no turning back. He feels far better than any promise of heaven. She could never have guessed that being cast out would feel so good.

His release comes with a tight rip, he goes taut like in that shower, only ten times more desperate. The hiss under the hood turns into a pained, strained roar of a grunt. The first time was foreplay, a quick one: this is true release. She almost hopes she would faint as the whole body of the Austrian titan goes hard as a rock. She couldn't be more spent and used, and still, her pussy answers his godly essence by clenching around him, pulling him in like he's the best man there is.

The man of her dreams, the man from her worst nightmares...

His eyes are liquid, the waterline twitches. She sees behind the walls, a millisecond's worth of fragility before his head drops, and the muscles are released from the violent trance. Broad shoulders cage her in like she's suddenly deep inside a mountain pass. Spent and dead and gone, there's no hurry any longer: he is buried deep inside and throbs whatever leftovers he has to give her.

She's filled to the brim, crushed under his weight, banished: and it's only delicious, the feeling of her body disappearing somewhere in the depths of the bed he has plowed her into. She waits dutifully as the man gathers himself, even gets brave enough to touch him. The masked face is buried somewhere in her neck, and his stomach ripples with a few shivers as her hand runs down his spine.

"I want to do this every day," he declares softly while panting through the thick fabric of his self-made shield. She feels pure horror and thrill in her chest.

To do this every day… She will eventually break, like a toy that has been used too much. She's not made of steel like those butterfly knives used mainly for playing.

"König, this is crazy… We're crazy," she tries to put into words the unholy mess raging inside her. He snorts before releasing her from the absurd position. The weight of him leaves her empty as he pulls out, then drags his way beside her to gather her back into his arms.

"Don't be ashamed, little one," he coos through the mask. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Two rounds of intense sex have liberated him, the manic terror has turned into a strange compassion. The look in his eyes is magnanimous and tender, almost droopy. She feels weightless and timid, an angel once more.

"We belong together, you and I," he states with conviction that sends sweet dread inside her heart. "Don't worry. You will never be lonely again."

Her fate is sealed, and she fears a big, fat knife will cut her heartstrings too if she tries to escape his protection. Her jaw trembles at the prospect of him returning to her every day to fuck her bare after an adrenaline high on the field. She sees a future of tears and sweat and cum, a beast lulled into sleep amidst a withering sea of flowers and torn lace.

She tries to find the right words, hopes he will be swift and merciful in his execution.

König, please…

It's not the hood, it's–

"Everyone fears me," he sighs beside her. "I'm glad you don't."

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aayakashii · 9 months ago

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got very depressed today and ended up writing a very self-indulgent comfort fic that now I will make everyone's problem ヽ(*´∀`)人(´∀`*)ﾉ

featuring 🫵you🫵, Peekaboo, and special guest Sagara Haru. It's fluff, tooth rotting fluff again. I am just a girl.

soft beats to feed your baby anomaly to

Your fingers tapped against your chin as you stood in the middle of the Jabberwock kitchen, eyes scanning all the pots that were scattered around the counter and shelves, way too wary to actually rummage through them with your hands.

“Baby formula… baby formula… baby formula…” you muttered repeatedly, as you read every label of every container, until your eyes stopped at an inconspicuous pot with no label.

Stepping closer, you opened the lid, and was met with a crumpled bag of baby formula stuffed inside.

“God, I would never find this if I only relied on the labels” you said, huffing, pulling the bag out and walking back to the living room.

A small bottle with boiled water was ready, on top of a small stool, right beside a crib that contained a very hungry and very impatient Peekaboo.

“Found it, Peekaboo!” you said, triumphantly, and slumped on the floor, bringing the stool closer.

“I can now make your bottle and feed you! I'm sorry it took so long, but you gotta tell your dad that his kitchen is a mess.” you rambled, as you began to scoop the baby formula and put it carefully in the bottle. Peekaboo chirped in what seemed like agreement with you.

As you quietly kept scooping small amounts of the powder, you finally relaxed, humming the tune to a song that was stuck in your head for the past week. At this, Peekaboo's ears twitched and perked up, and he waddled closer to you.

“Okay, done!” You finished shaking the bottle to mix the contents and Peekaboo immediately raised his little arms towards you.

“You want uppies?” you said, smiling as you noticed his expectant face. “Okay, let's give you uppies.”

With a groan (Peekaboo was heavier than he seemed), you picked him up and began to bring the bottle towards his mouth, until his arms patted your hand, pushing the bottle away.

“What's up, baby? I thought you were hungry” you asked, confused.

Peekaboo kept flailing his arms, pointing to the bottle and to you, clearly trying to communicate something.

“I'm sorry love, I don't know what you mean…”

His little face scrunched up, as he wiggled on your arms and booped your mouth and then the bottle.

“You want me to drink from the bottle too?!”

He shook his whole body, growling impatiently. For a moment, he stared at you, as if he was thinking about how he could convey his message in a way that you would understand. After a few seconds, he chirped his usual sounds, but tried hard to mimic the melody you were humming a few moments before.

“Oh! You want me to sing for you while I feed you?” you guessed.

His little face lit up, and he nodded fiercely.

“Okay, okay, but er… I'm not a very good singer, honey” you replied, apologetic despite his excitement.

Peekaboo growled, showing his huge sharp teeth and you knew there was no bargaining with a spoiled anomalous animal.

“Fineeee, fine! Okay, I'll sing, but you have to promise me you'll drink your bottle and not bite me, okay?” you sighed.

Peekaboo nodded happily again, chirping and extending his stubby little arms to the bottle.

As you titled the bottle to his mouth, his red, shiny eyes looked at you expectantly. You cleared your throat and began to murmur the lyrics to the song.

Stars shinin' bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you”

Peekaboo frowned and tapped your throat, clearly ordering you to sing louder. You sighed heavily again, shaking your head in defeat, and raised your voice.

Birds singin' in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

You began to sway gently, careful not to make Peekaboo sick with the movement.

Say, "Nighty-night" and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

The little bunny-like anomaly closed his eyes, gulping his food and peacefully enjoying the slow swaying of your body, feeling relaxed in your arms.

Stars fadin'–

You cleared your throat again, as your voice cracked trying to reach the higher tune, but Peekaboo seemed to pay no mind to how out of tune you sounded sometimes.

Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear

Still cravin' your kiss

I'm longin' to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

The bottle was quickly emptying as you clumsily sang and danced with the small animal in your arms, and, in your concentration, you failed to notice a flash of red appearing on one of the corridors.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

You hummed the ad-lib part of the song as Peekaboo downed the last bit of the bottle, still moving slowly and carefully as he yawned in your arms.

Stars fadin' but I linger on, dear

Still cravin' your kiss

I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

Your voice didn't crack this time, and you put Peekaboo against your shoulder, giving little taps against his back in order to help with his digestion – a little burp coming out of his mouth making you giggle as you sang.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

As you finished the song, Peekaboo ended up fast asleep on your arms, and you kept humming and dancing, all while completely unaware of how Haru observed the scene, hidden behind one of the pillars of the living room.

The red-headed blushed furiously, his hand covering his mouth in order to hide a smile that was so big that could light up stadiums upon stadiums.

“Isn't that good, Peekaboo? We finally got you the other mom I've always wanted for you!!” he thought to himself, pumping his fist victoriously in the air, as wedding bells ringed into his mind after seeing the domestic scene unravel in front of him. He hadn't even confessed nor invited you to a single date, but after that, he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker x reader #haru sagara #tokyo debunker haru sagara #i love haru i cant #i wanna marry him and raise anomalies with him #i wanna be peekaboo's MOTHER

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sauronxgaladriel · 10 months ago

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Haladriel Library

Saurondriel/Haladriel Fanfic Recommendations. Some of these stories could fit into multiple categories. If you have any more recommendations feel free to add them!

Marriage

Shadow-Bride by eye_of_a_cat

Bridesprice by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks

Poison & Wine by Coraleeveritas

Galadriel takes longer to discover Sauron's identity

no matter how many skies have fallen by stitchingatthecircuitboard

A man is a god in ruins by eye_of_a_cat

Queen of the Southlands by FormerlyIR

Galadriel Says Yes

The House That Fire Built by Ready_For_The_Laughing_Gas

dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone) by Wyrd_Syster

Gilded by eye_of_a_cat

And white winter, on its knees by eye_of_a_cat

Mortal Laws by Helholden

A Portion of Thyself by Frotu

Reforged in the Making by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks)

Fabricated by Frotu

Canon Divergence/Reimagining of S1 and onwards

I could be your king by cliffdiving

The Tides of Fate by fireheart321

In Case of Defeat, Break Glass by eastwynds

that i may rise and stand, o'erthrow me by mortaltemples

Five times Halbrand's secret got revealed by eye_of_a_cat

Across That Fine Line by MyrsineMezzo

Instruments of Salvation by Scriberated

a fair form by properhaunt

Autocorrelation by EisforEverything

The Return of the Queen by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

A Feast of Starlight by TheLightofArwyn

Supernatural Creature AU

should have known better by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo) (Witch/Demon AU)

Wild Magic by Scriberated (Witch/God)

Storm Tides & Weaving Threads by elssiie (Siren AU)

just a taste by stardustspell (Vampire AU)

Haladriel meet before TROP

Spark, Ignite, Burn by cliffdiving

our souls were made from the stars by silverwing12 (Deleted)

Necessity's Bargain by Scriberated

Though the Gods and the Years Relent, Shall Be by Helholden

determination is the cure (for longing) by downtheroadandupthehill

where the spirit meets the bones by kangaroopaws

people throw rocks at things that shine by ophidion

Pick a star, and follow it home by CloudlySkies124

Hades Persephone Vibes

Beasts of the Hill and Serpents of the Den by Helholden

a dust like thine by mortaltemples

One-Shots

Unsired by shady-swan-jones (sweetleaf), sweetleaf

the light of his eyes by eastwynds

now dark, now glittering by mortaltemples

In the Shadow of Your Heart by mzladybird

i cannot heave my heart into my mouth by fallofrain

this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86

we could just kiss, like real people do by justatinycollector

a millstone around my neck by mortaltemples

the nameless by bimmyou

next time by you_wear_fine_things_well

ouroboros by Amuria

Pregnancy/Parenthood

Light and Power by chronicallyexhaustedwriter

shining like a fiery beacon by ophidion

A Blessing of Eru by Scriberated

mitosis by Orcas86

Darkness Bound by no_more_doubt

Smut

A Stressed Tiding by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks

this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86

Buried in Bone by Invisible_Hand

Riptide by makeshiftdraco

Perfection by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

like magnets work, only drawn to thee by audreystark

To Follow the Light by Thrill_of_hope

A Moment of Honesty by Draconic_Grace

Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

bind yourself to me by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

Lady of the Seas by eye_of_a_cat

Dark/Dead Dove

all your pain will end here by poeticmemory

Land of Enchantment by EisforEverything

perle by emphemeron

Glanduin Kiss by Anonymous

The Cost of Victory by EisforEverything

what you and i have wrought by thefudge

what heart's ease by fallofrain

Sauron as Annatar

hold her head above the water by Orcas86

next time by you_wear_fine_things_well

the light of his eyes by eastwynds

Contaminate by Frotu

#haladriel #saurondriel #halbrand x galadriel #galadriel x sauron #this list is maaaainly for my own use but i thought id share xD #more to add later #im prowling for more fics to devour #trop #the rings of power

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blackynsupremacy · 3 months ago

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PARTY AND BULLSHIT

pairing: nicholas a. chavez x black!fem!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend kick the new year off in the right way.

contains: inspired by this post by @cvntynac, 18+ content (mdni), oral (m receiving), face fucking, public sex, bathroom sex, praise, nut swallowing, making out, implied intercourse towards the end.

a/n: happy new year, taglist and mutuals! may this one be better than the last.

taglist: @greengoblinswifey @thabiddie23 @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @hoffmansgirl @austeenbootler @niteskysx @sabrinasopposite @thabiddie23 @hnch33rios @xoxoglittergossip @supaprettyg @motherismotheringggg @oscarisaackissmykitty @simply-lovley44 @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu @venic-bxtch @stargirl-mayaa @miguelspvssy @cvntynac

“fuck, that’s it, baby.”

nicholas egged you on, one of his large hands caress your glowing, made up face while the other gently raked through your scalp as he watched his dick fill your mouth inch by inch. his body leaned backward into the white sink, the once blaring music from the party you were attending was now muffled behind the bathroom door. nicholas couldn’t contain himself this whole evening—not with how you were looking tonight. that short, strapless gold dress that you donned complimented your body type and skin tone so well. he couldn’t say enough of how ethereal you looked when you stepped out to reveal yourself after completing your final look. from head to toe, you had nicholas weak in the knees and tight in the pants. just when you guys were about to leave the house, he was even considering backing out of the event.

“babe, do we really have to go? i mean, we can celebrate new years in another way.” he tried to use that soft coaxing voice and brown, puppy eyes to try to get his way. you’d shake your head, giggling while holding onto his jaw and placing a sweet kiss to his lips before pulling away.

“as tempting as that sounds, i really wanna go out and turn up for ‘twenty-five. if you’re a good boy tonight, we can celebrate a little early.” it was now your turn to give him puppy eyes with the playful, flirtatious flutter of your lashes,

“you’d do that for me, right, nick baby?”

at the use of that nickname, you knew you’d come to a common ground with your boyfriend as you were already on the dance floor with a drink in hand. nicholas kept his end of the bargain so far—until you invited him to join you. the bass blasted through the speakers as you sensually swayed and ground your hips into his to the beat. fortunately for nicholas, he could handle what was given, but the farther you pushed up against him in that dress, the harder his dick grew. that’s how it led you to being pulled into the bathroom by him. it wasn’t long before you both gave into your desire for each other and now your head between his legs to ease the ache that he endured.

“mm-hmm.”

you hummed against the veiny skin of the impressive girth of his dick. your hands pressed onto his thick thighs with your cheeks hollowed and your head moving up and down like nothing else mattered besides nicholas’ pleasure. you paused your movements momentarily to swirl your tongue around his pink, leaking tip like a popsicle before resuming your movements. you guided your mouth to take him even deeper to the point that his tip would graze the back your throat. nicholas grip grew tighter around you, his hips start to roll with your head moving in rhythm.

“shit, my girl looks so beautiful with my dick in her mouth—you’re taking me well, sweetheart.” nicholas praised, his hips gaining a bit in speed.

god, he fucking loved how you devoured him like he was a rare delicacy. he could notice from below how your breasts were peaking out from the top of your dress, the matching golden eyeshadow glimmered on your half-lidded eyes, and your full drooling, glossed lips enclosing around the shaft to completely immerse him within the warm cavern of your mouth had his head spinning. once your hand joined the party to knead and squeeze on his balls, he was a goner for sure.

“m’bout to cum, doll. be a good fucking girl and take it—all of it.” he precisely moved his hips back and forth. at the sight of your saliva dripping from your mouth on the plush mound of your chest, they got sloppier and sloppier. your eyes started to water and your nose started to run as you thought you were gonna choke, but did you give a fuck? nah, you just wanna see your boyfriend reach his climax. nicholas let go of his grip on you and held onto the white sink behind him to balance himself as he spilled his seed within the back of your throat.

“fuck, fuck, fuck!” he exclaimed, the overwhelming pleasure crashing over him.

you took it all with no problem, swallowing every drop like water. as soon as you popped him out of your mouth, nicholas swiftly carried you with your legs around his waist to sit you on the edge of the sink. he positioned himself between your legs and before you could continue any further, you both paused to hear the rest of the partiers shout,

“FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE— HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

you smile at each other, simultaneously exchanging the same holiday greeting. nicholas tenderly wiped away any tears that happened to fall from your eyes before you took the opportunity of grasping onto your boyfriend’s face, marking yet another cross over into a new year as a couple with a searing kiss on his lips to which he instinctively returns. his hands are placed at your waist before they start to roam your body. you moan out into his mouth when he grips onto your ass to grind your hips into his, not forgetting to slip his tongue within your mouth to swirl around yours. his hands journey right down to your thighs before spreading them wider and slithering underneath the dress to finally remove the damp, lace thong you wore.

although you were at a party, it was time for the real celebration to begin.

#black reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x black reader #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez x reader smut #nicholas chavez smut #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas chavez x y/n #nicholas chavez x female reader #x black reader #black!reader #x black!reader #x black!fem!reader #actor x reader #actor x black!reader

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asiantransformations · 2 months ago

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Prologue - A Deal with the Devil

Mr. Chen sat at his grand mahogany desk, the faint glow of his jade desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. In one hand, he swirled a glass of aged whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he leaned back in his chair. Before him lay a file marked Confidential—a dossier on JunHao, the man who had once been an untouchable icon of success, strength, and masculinity.

“JunHao,” Mr. Chen murmured, savoring the name like a delicacy. “You had it all, didn’t you? A thriving business, a loving girl, and a body that could make even gods envious.”

He glanced at the photo pinned to the top of the file. There JunHao stood, shirtless on a magazine cover, his sculpted physique the picture of perfection. The biceps that could stretch the seams of any suit, the chiseled abs, the confident smile—it all reeked of success, of invincibility. But Mr. Chen saw something else. Ambition. Greed. A man who had soared so high he never bothered to look down.

And that was where Mr. Chen came in.

He had orchestrated the entire downfall with surgical precision. Junhao’s business, a chain of high-end fitness centers, had been booming. But like many businessmen who thought themselves untouchable, JunHao had been careless with his partnerships. He hadn’t noticed when a shell company, quietly owned by Mr. Chen, began acquiring shares in his supply chain. He hadn’t realized when critical shipments of equipment were delayed or canceled, choking his operations.

Then came the financial strain, and with it, the loans.

“Desperate men make desperate decisions,” Mr. Chen muttered to himself, taking a sip of whiskey. He remembered the day JunHao had walked into his office, his broad shoulders weighed down by stress, his usual aura of confidence cracked.

“I need a loan,” JunHao had said, his deep voice betraying a hint of desperation.

Mr. Chen had leaned back in his chair, feigning concern. “A loan, you say? From me? The terms would have to be… unconventional.”

JunHao had hesitated, but he was a man with his back against the wall. He had signed the contract without reading the fine print. It was a devil’s bargain, one that Mr. Chen had designed with a very specific clause: in the event of the business fails, all of JunHao’s assets—all of them—would transfer to Mr. Chen.

It wasn’t just the gyms. Not just the properties or the accounts. It was everything JunHao had. Without him realizing, it included his body and the ownership to it.

————————————————————————

The collapse had been swift. Within months, Junhao’s business was in shambles. The loans he had taken to save it became an anchor, dragging him further into the abyss. And when the inevitable happened—when Junhao defaulted—Mr. Chen made his move.

He had summoned Junhao to his private estate, the contract in hand. Junhao, now a shadow of his former self, stood in the opulent office, his powerful frame visibly worn by stress. "Guess your business failed and everything of yours is now mine!"

“You can’t do this,” Junhao had growled, his fists clenched.

“Oh, but I can,” Mr. Chen had replied, his tone calm and cold. “You signed the contract. You agreed to the terms.”

“I’ll fight this in court!”

Mr. Chen had chuckled darkly. “You won’t get the chance. The clause is binding, immediate, and irrevocable. I don’t just own your business, Junhao. I own you.”

Before Junhao could react, Mr. Chen had signaled to his guards. They restrained the struggling man as Mr. Chen retrieved a small vial from his desk—a blend of ancient Chinese alchemy and cutting-edge bioengineering.

“This,” Mr. Chen said, holding the vial up to the light, “is your key to freedom—or, rather, mine.”

Junhao’s eyes had widened as the liquid was injected into his neck. He had thrashed against the guards’ grip, but it was no use. The process was instantaneous. A searing pain had coursed through his veins as his consciousness was pulled away from his body, drawn into a swirling void.

When Junhao woke, he found himself in a frail, elderly body, his once-pristine physique now a distant memory. Across the room, Mr. Chen stood in front of a mirror, marveling at his new form.

“This… is perfection,” Mr. Chen had said, flexing his biceps and running his hands over his chiseled abs. He turned to face Junhao, a smirk playing on his lips. “You should be proud, Junhao. Your body will be put to far better use in my hands.”

Junhao had screamed, lunging at Mr. Chen, but his new, weakened body betrayed him. The guards dragged him away as Mr. Chen laughed, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the halls.

“You should have read the fine print, Junhao,” Mr. Chen had called after him. “You’ve given me everything. And I do mean everything.”

Mr. Chen stepped out of the private chambers in only his underwear, feeling the weight of JunHao's powerful form. His every movement felt fluid, controlled, and effortless. It was a far cry from the frail, aging shell he had once inhabited. As he walked down the hallway, he marveled at the strength that now surged through his limbs, the sensation of each muscle flexing with the slightest movement.

He flexed his biceps—massive, round, and hard as stone—and let out a deep, satisfied breath. It was like a drug, this power. His former body, though fit, had never compared to the raw might he now commanded. These arms—these biceps—could easily crush anyone who dared to oppose him. The veins that snaked across his skin pulsed with vitality, evidence of his newfound strength. Every push, every pull, every lift was easier now, as if the world itself bent to his will.

He grinned, eyes tracing the contours of his new physique in the mirror as he walked past. The chest—wide, firm, and densely packed with muscle—caught his attention. His pecs were like slabs of stone, firm and unyielding, pressing against the tight shirt he had chosen to wear. When he flexed, the movement was hypnotic, a showcase of sheer power. The depth of his ribcage felt more pronounced, the muscles more pronounced, each fiber finely sculpted to perfection. He could feel the strength of his lungs, the way they expanded and contracted with ease, fueling his movements.

His mind raced with the possibilities. In this body, he was capable of feats that would’ve been impossible in his former, weaker form. There was no limit to what he could do, no obstacle he couldn’t crush beneath his new strength. He felt like a god, a man whose very presence commanded the room. Every glance from a passerby, every flicker of acknowledgment from those around him—he could see the admiration, the envy, the lust in their eyes.

But it wasn’t just the physicality that set this body apart. It was the knowledge embedded in every fiber, every cell of this machine.

Now, Mr. Chen stood in front of the mirror in JunHao's—his— gym, his reflection a living testament to his triumph. He flexed his biceps, marveling at their sheer size and power, and smirked as he ran his fingers down the ridges of his abs. His servants were in awe of what he attained.

“This body,” he said to himself, his voice rich and resonant, “isn’t just a vessel. It’s a weapon. A masterpiece.”

Mr. Chen lifted the weight, a staggering amount, effortlessly. As the barbell rose and fell in perfect rhythm, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. Every inch of JunHao’s body was designed for optimal performance. His shoulders were broad and thick, built for lifting, carrying, and crushing. His legs were powerful pillars of strength, veins and tendons twisting beneath the skin as they absorbed the pressure with ease. His calves were muscular and solid, able to sprint for miles without tiring, propelling him forward with each step.

He was a walking weapon—a machine capable of destruction.

The gift of virility was perhaps the most intoxicating. Mr. Chen had always been a man who desired control over everything, and now, he had control over the most primal part of his new form. He could feel the sheer force of Junhao’s masculinity coursing through him, the power in his loins that seemed to radiate outward, a constant hum of energy that never faded. His once-feeble self had known nothing of this.

This was a different kind of strength.

It wasn’t just about physical satisfaction. It was about dominance—asserting control over the very essence of another person. The body’s virility wasn’t a mere function of attraction; it was a weapon, a means of asserting his superiority, of owning and controlling.

The mind that came with this body was just as powerful as its physical form. Junhao’s intelligence had been sharp—business savvy, ruthless in his own right. But now, those instincts and ideas had become Mr. Chen’s. He could feel it—the knowledge embedded deep within the muscle, the experience that came from years of competition, of pushing himself to the limits. Every decision Junhao had made, every business deal, every negotiation—it was all there, like an archive waiting to be unlocked.

Mr. Chen felt as though he were walking in the footsteps of a man who had already laid the path for success. Every strategy, every move he needed to make, was now at his fingertips. JunHao’s thoughts, his methodical and strategic way of thinking, now surged through Mr. Chen’s mind as though they had always been his own.

He could feel the instinctual knowledge of how to read people, how to control a room, how to exploit weaknesses. His ability to manipulate, to strategize, to make others bow to his will—it was second nature now.

Every touch felt electric, as if JunHao's body was awakening to its new owner, recalibrating itself to fit Mr. Chen like a finely tailored suit. Every nerve ending seemed to buzz, hyperaware of his movements, responding to his commands with an eagerness that was both exhilarating and addictive.

Running his hands over his chest, Mr. Chen marveled at the power beneath his fingertips. The solid ridges of muscle, the soft yet firm hairs brushing against his palms-it was all so alive. His previous body had been stiff, sluggish, and unresponsive, a constant reminder of his age. But this? This was perfection incarnate, and it responded to him like a finely tuned instrument.

He progressed to his bedroom and then on the full-length mirror that dominated the corner of his suite, captivated by the sight before him. Mr. Chen wanted to explore this new opportunity in private. As he flexed, his reflection seemed to shimmer with vitality, every muscle rippling beneath his skin in perfect harmony. The sheer control he had over this body was intoxicating.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A faint warmth began to build, spreading through him like a slow burn. It started in his chest, radiating downward with an intensity that took his breath away. By the time he noticed the faint wet spot forming on his underwear, it was too late to deny it-this body wasn't just alive; it was thriving, responding to his every whim with an energy that left him breathless.

"This... this is something else," he murmured, a grin spreading across his face as he pressed his palm against the damp patch, feeling the heat beneath. "You've really outdone yourself, JunHao."

Rather than being embarrassed, Mr. Chen reveled in the sensation. He let the feeling wash over him, leaning into the raw vitality that coursed through his veins. He flexed again, harder this time, watching in awe as his biceps bulged, veins snaking across his forearms like rivers of power. Mr. Chen moaned every so loudly as he groped his new cock. The wet patch grew slightly, and he couldn't help but laugh -a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the room.

"This is what it means to feel alive," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is what I've been missing."

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting his hands roam freely, exploring every inch of his new form. The hard planes of his chest, the taut curve of his thighs, the firmness of his calves-each touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. It was as if the body itself was rejoicing, celebrating its new owner with a symphony of sensations.

After a few minutes of indulgence, Mr. Chen was covered in JunHao's precious juices which reeked of testosterone, a testament to the new virility. A taste of it sent shockwaves of energy and flavors to his tongue as he forced himself to stand, steadying his breathing as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He wasn't going to let this body overwhelm him-not yet, anyway. There was so much to explore, so much to discover, and he wanted to savor every moment.

He changed into fresh clothes, opting for a tight-fitting shirt that showcased his physique and a pair of jeans that accentuated his powerful legs. As he left the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror one last time and couldn't help but to pose what he had.

"Let's see what else this body can do," he said to himself, stepping out into the night, ready to test the limits of his newfound strength and charm.

Next Part

#asiantransformations #asianmuscle #racialtransformations #asianbodybuilder #asiantoasian #buff asian #buffasian #bodyswap

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buckyalpine · 2 years ago

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Hello and hope you are doing well!! I was wondering if you could do smut story where the reader get more than she bargained for when telling Bucky that his dark side could do a better job at certain things. Also your stories are amazing ❤️🖤

Bucky gives you what you ask

YESSS. Thank you bb, Im so sorry this took forever and I hope you see this, I loved this so much. And as always I got so lost in it. Good God. He is dirty, dirty here.

You loved the way Bucky loved you. He was so soft, gentle, took care of all your needs without leaving behind a single mark on your delicate skin. Bucky was nothing more than a soft sweet thing, slowly getting back into his boyish 40's charm, a gentleman at all times. If you didn't know about his past, you would've never guessed he'd have another side to him.

But you'd seen the shift in his demeanor whenever he'd train in the gym and even more so when he was out on the field. The way his eyes would narrow with laser like focus when hitting his targets, the way he wouldn't flinch when putting a bullet between their eyes. His face would be expressionless when his metal arm would wrap around their throat, slowly draining life out of them, parts of the Winter Soldier still running deep in his veins.

And how badly you craved to have that side of him take you apart.

"What is it sweets" Bucky watched you fidget with the buckles of his tac suit, helping him undress after he'd just returned after a mission. There was something about him in his all black straps, leather and weapons that made your knees weak. It didn't help that his beard had started to fill out, the ends of his hair starting to curl at the nape of his neck. "You okay?"

You adore how attentive he is even when he's exhausted after weeks away from home but you wished just for once, he'd choke you with his metal arm instead of just hugging you with it.

"I want-" You paused for a second before continuing, "I want more"

"More of what doll" Bucky's wide puppy eyes were filled with worry; he made sure to always pay attention to your needs and he'd do anything to make you happy. "Tell me, you know I'd do anything"

"Just- take more control, be more rough with me" You weren't sure how you wanted to explain yourself but your body knew exactly what it needed, growing hotter by the second the longer he stood there in his tac suit before you. He let out a soft chuckle when he realized what you meant, laying down his knifes off to the side on the dressed.

"I had you moaning my name before I left doll" Bucky playfully rolled his eyes while you huffed, your sexual frustration only growing more when he tossed off his Kevlar leaving him in his tight black tshirt.

"Well the Winter Solider would have me screaming" You shrug, not noticing the way Bucky froze, now staring at you without blinking. "I think that side of you would do a better job at certain things, Buck"

"You don't want to see that side of me sweets" Bucky tried to keep his voice neutral, ignoring the way his cock was already throbbing in his pants, straining painfully against the thick fabric.

"But what if I do?" you challenged back, taking a step back when he moved forward, slowly backing you against the wall of your shared bedroom.

"Doll..." He warned, squeezing his eyes shut trying to collect himself, his fingers twitching at his sides. "That's not a good idea"

"Why not, think the Winter Soldier wouldn't be able to make me feel as good?" You added a taunt to your voice, hoping to rile him up, his chest now nearly pressing against yours, caging you against the wall.

"Is that so" Bucky tested the water slowly, still wanting to give you an out if you needed one because he wasn't going to be able to hold back once he started. You nodded, heart hammering against your chest as he took in a deep breath, his jaw clenched.

"As you wish sweets" He whispered by your ear, the tip of his cool metal knife suddenly pressing against your throat. Your eyes grew wide at the fact that he'd slipped it into his hand so swiftly, you hadn't noticed. "If you want me to stop, say Brooklyn, understand?"

"Yes" You squeaked, while he dragged it till it rested under your chin, tilting your head up to look meet his darkened eyes. Without a word, he sliced down your blouse, ripping away at the material that caught in the middle. He didn't give you a chance to speak, his hands grabbing the edges of your bra, splitting it into two before tearing your leggings into pieces next.

You were complete naked within seconds, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze, still fully dressed himself. Bucky had seen you naked countless times, in fact you'd change in front of him without a care in the world, always giggling at the cute blush he'd have on his cheeks.

But this wasn't the same.

Not even the slightest.

He tossed you over his shoulder and threw you on the bed letting you bounce off the mattress while he stood at the edge.

"Spread your legs"

It wasn't a request. It was a demand.

Bucky looked like he wanted to devour you. This was the same man that had his head between your legs more times than you could count but he was staring at you like he'd never seen you before. You shrunk back, squeezing your thighs together at the low growl he made, grasping your ankles and splitting them apart till you were completely exposed to him, your wet folds giving away how turned on you were. He fumbled with the button of his pants, unzipping them and pulling them down just enough to free his cock, his palm and fingers swiping up your pussy to gather you slick, slathering it over his erection.

"Such a pretty baby with such a pretty pussy"

You bit back a whine as he started to jerk his cock, circling the tip with his thumb, spreading his own arousal around. He took a step back to admire you, his eyes shamelessly raking up and down till he was satisfied with his fill. He moved to lay on top of you, his nose trailing along the column of your neck, inhaling your soft scent. There was something so feral about him, you stayed frozen in place while his hands found their way to your waist, squeezing the soft flesh.

"I'll show you exactly what you've been missing out on" He nipping your earlobe before crawling off you again to throw off the rest of his clothes. "God, I've wanted this for so long"

There was no prep, no foreplay, no soft kisses and sweet words. Bucky grabbed your hips, manhandling you till your face was pressed against the mattress, his swollen cockhead prodding at your fluttering pussy. He let out a dark chuckle, swiping his cock up and down through your folds, pressing his tip against your clit.

"Bucky, fuck me" You were desperate to feel him inside you, wiggling your hips as best as you could to get him to push it in you but you were instead met with a harsh slap to your ass, the cool metal making your skin sting.

"Impatient little slut" He shook his head, taking both your wrists and twisting them behind your back, He held them in one hand while the other snaked up tp grab your hair, tugging it tight from the roots. "Beg. Beg me to fuck you"

"P-Please Bucky, want it!"

"You want who to fuck you princess, say it, tell me exactly whose cock you want to ruin you"

"Yours soldat, please, want you, please fuck me solda-FUCKK" Bucky slammed his cock into you without warning, setting in a brutal pace that had you gasping for air. His balls smacked you with each thrust, the grip he had on your wrists and hair tightening for better leverage.

"I fuck needed this" His head was thrown back, his thighs meeting the back of yours as he fucked you harder than ever before, the squelching of your pussy making a sticky, dirty mess all over him. "You have no. Fucking. Idea. how fucking hard is it every time I fuck you"

His words were punctuated with harsh thrusts, growling at the way you'd already started to flutter around him as he hit your cervix. Your jaw was slack from surprise and pleasure, pathetic moans and whimpers replacing your words.

"Do you? Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to hold back kotenok? How hard is it for me to not fuck your brains out when I'm deep in such a tight pussy? How badly I want to rail you, YA tak dolgo khotel tebya trakhnut" [I wanted to fuck you so hard for so long]

You'd never hard Bucky speak Russian, not once but his filthy mouth didn't stop as he continued to rail you, foreign curses dripping from his mouth.

"You think I'm such a gentleman don't you, huh? You remember the first time we had sex princess? how I made love to you? How slow it was, how you moaned when I put my cock in you for the first time?"

"Y-yes" Your body was slack against the bed, only held up because Bucky was gripping onto you with a bruising hold.

"I made love to you that night, didn't I. But I like to fuck baby, especially you, I've wanted to fuck this pussy for so long, ruin it all just for me"

You were suddenly flipped over again, whining when you felt empty, only to be filled right back up again seconds later when Bucky laid on his back, pulling you to straddle on top of him. He planted his feet against the mattress, not giving you a chance to move, fucking up into you, the angle of his hips rubbing against that sensitive spot inside you.

"Oh-oh f-fuckk" tears streamed down your face as he tweaked your nipples between his fingers before wrapping his hand around your throat. He muffled your sobs, slipping his thumb between your lips, shoving it down your mouth till you drooled.

"You look so pretty when you cry kotenok, is it too much?" He taunted, squeezing your throat tighter, "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you stare at my arm princess, I always knew you were a needy little slut deep down You wanted this though, hm? Wanted my fat cock to ruin you till you wouldn't be able to walk?"

"I-oh god-fe-els good I-gonna cummm" You could barely formulate sentence, practically squealing when Bucky rolled over once again, this time tossing your legs over his shoulders, his hand snaking down to rub your swollen clit.

"Gonna cum, are you princess? Who do you belong to, say it, who fucks you this good?!"

"Y-You Bu-"

A harsh slap to your cheek made your pussy clench, Bucky's blue eyes dilated to rings, a feral expression his face as he smacked your face once more making you sob out of pleasure again.

"That's not whose fucking right now you is it?! Tell me, say it"

"YOU SOLDAT" You wailed as he continued to thrust into your puffy, overstimulated pussy, getting his teeth, grabbing onto the headboard as it slammed against the wall.

"That's right kotenok, you belong to him now" Bucky let his body weight fall onto you, bringing his knees up and pounding you deep against the bed, his own pace growing sloppy, balls pulling tighter towards his body. "Gonna give you all of his cum sweets, gonna fill this slutty desperate cunt with all of my cum, that's what you want isn't it? To be a little cum dump for the Winter Soldier?"

Bucky's mind went somewhere else, back to the first time he'd seen you, still as the Soldier, back when the team first discovered him. Back when his brain was fried but you had remined seared in his mind. Back when his mission was to finish you but some part deep down inside him wanted something else he didn't understand.

"God, where were you all those nights I had to touch myself alone, when I needed something warm and tight to cum in? huh? Bet you didn't know that huh princess? didn't know that the Soldier lusted after the pretty bunny that tried to take him down?"

Your eyes grew wide at his confession, pleasure desperate to snap within seconds.

"Did you know the winter soldier wanted to fuck you bunny? Did you know he'd jerk off when no one was watching? Had no idea what was going on Bunny, just remember my cock aching so bad, leaking so damn much. Nothing made it better until I touched myself. Didn't even know what I was doing, just fucked my fist while I thought about how pretty you looked in that tac suit, came all over my sheets like a little boy"

"I-fuck-Can-can I cum soldat?" You clung onto him, whimpering at the way you had to desperately hold back from gushing all over the sheets, his words too much, you couldn't take it any more.

"Go a head and cum princess, takoy khoroshiy kotonok" [such a good little kitten] He nipped up your neck, rubbing your clit faster, moaning with you as you started to cum around his cock. His movements didn't stop, fucking you through your high till your body jolted under him, the smell of sex heavy in the room.

"S-S'too much" You hiccupped while Bucky continued to fuck you like a man with no morals.

"Too much? It's too much for you kitten? Don't worry, gonna fill you up so good baby, where, where do you want to soldat to cum?!"

"Inside!" You cried out, locking your ankles around his waist, your slurred sob turned into a guttural moan when he pinched your clit between his fingers.

"Here it comes kotenok, got so much cum for you, it's gonna drip baby, get ready, here it comes, here it fuckin' comes- OH FUUCCKKK" Bucky roared against your neck before stilling, his cock throbbing and twitching, hot seeding feeling you up till it leaked. You were practically floating, too fucked out to realize He'd gently gotten off you and cradled you close.

"Are you okay pretty girl?" Bucky cooed, snapping back into the sweetheart that he was, the switch over leaving you reeling with your eyes still crossed. "My poor baby"

Bucky chuckled at your dazed expression, cuddling you up to his chest, caressing your sweat slicked skin.

"Come back to me princess" He pulled the covers up to warm you up in his arms, resting you carefully against the pillows. "My good girl, you did so good for me angel, m'so proud of you, so good"

You whimpered in response, curling up against him, your body still jolting and pulsing.

"Was it too much angel?" His brows furrowed with concern, cupping your cheek to look at him. He kissed away the now dry tear tracks that stained your face, his thumb swiping over your hot skin.

"Never" You rasped out, your voice raw from screaming, "Was perfect Soldat"

"You're perfect angel" Bucky grinned, stroking your spine while you continued to snuggle into him, his cock already twitching at the thought of another round. "My perfect little kotenok"

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disneyprincemuke · 11 months ago

Text

you don't get to tell me about sad * fem!driver

outtakes of her year that i didn't know where to fit lol so this is the last(ish) angst installment

pairings: sebastian vettel x fem!driver, max verstappen x fem!driver

notes: iM BACK BABYYY

(series masterlist) | (📂 2025: fall from grace)

(prev)

so she runs from her garage again. just another weekend where everything has skewed from what was discussed and there is no reasoning to be done.

she finished the race damn near last over a pitstop that ran longer than it should have.

the minute sebastian could not spew an excuse she would hear out was the minute she stopped listening to him during the race. and honestly, it was the only way she could salvage not finishing last of the pack.

“let’s talk about it,” sebastian says, hurriedly chasing her down as she storms into the racing home, her presence immediately silencing the chatter in the room. “let me talk you through what happened. it’s not your fault.”

“i know it’s not!” her distress is made known, echoing in the air of the room. she stops in her tracks and turns to face sebastian still by the door, flinching back. “how could that be my fault? i was doing my end of the bargain as a driver!”

he takes a deep breath. “rocky, just listen to me, okay?”

“it’s not fair! none of this weekend was my fault!” she shrieks, turning back around and trudging up the stairs loudly. “the team fucked me over, that’s what happened! i can’t possibly think of a reason you could come up with to excuse what happened!”

“i’m not excusing it, i’m just–”

“oh, god, sebastian!” she stomps her foot on the ground to demand sebastian’s attention. which surprisingly works. “just admit it — the team fucked me over. point blank period, that’s literally what happened.”

sebastian sucks in a deep breath. “yes, we did. and we’re extremely sorry. but–”

“’but’ again,” she laughs dryly, rolling her eyes. she makes a sharp turn for her driver’s room and holds a hand up to stop the step he tries to take towards her. “take your apology to the headlines being drafted about me as we go in circles over this, sebastian.”

“you know i’m not breaking up with you,” matt says amidst the silence that they’ve been sitting in as he packs his bag. “i just need a break.”

“from me,” she points out shakily, dropping her head low.

“from this cycle.” he lifts his head and sits back to look at her.

she sits on the edge of her bed, feet hovering slightly over the floor. she watches her feet swing slightly, counting in her head, desperate not to lose the last remaining sanity she feels she has.

initially, she sat in the vacant room in tears, refusing to watch him pack up to leave her all alone in her apartment. she wallowed in her woes in a dark corner before she eventually dragged herself back into her bedroom.

she’s been sitting here watching him in silence ever since, trying to find the words in her head to say something to him.

maybe he’ll change his mind; maybe he’ll stay if she says the right thing.

“yeah, i get that.”

“i don’t think you do.” he stands from his position on the ground and walks over to her on the bed. he takes the empty spot next to her, resting his hand above hers that grips the mattress tightly. he feels her grip loosen slightly. “i still love you, bub.”

she shakes her head with a sigh. “i would have stopped a long time ago if i were you. i’m not very nice.”

“it doesn’t work like that,” he squeezes her hand, “you’re having a hard time. i get that and it’s okay. but i want you to want the help i’m giving you. i’m not going to force it on you if you’re just going to keep pushing me away when i try.”

“i don’t know why i keep doing that,” she admits with a scoff. she drops her back on the bed behind her and looks up at the ceiling of her bedroom. “i’m not usually like this, i promise. i’m better than this.”

“i know.” matt mirrors her actions and drops himself on the mattress.

she wants to say she’s sorry and that she’s thankful for him sticking around longer than he had to. it’s at the edge of her tongue but she simply cannot get herself to admit that she’s wrong. that perhaps this time, someone is finally right about her.

“do you, really?” she hums, “i’m the worst.”

“i think you should give yourself a little more credit,” he sighs, reaching out for her hand again. this time, she moves her hand away before he can grab it. “i’ll come home soon, okay? i’ll come back for you, i promise.”

she repeats in her head the gameplan she’d drafted with sebastian. the one that seemed so foolproof all weekend that made her believe she could turn it all around.

instead, she’s standing on the grass next to her wrecked car, another unfortunate mishap she’s sure would make her talk of the town again.

she puts her hands on her hips as her eyes trail over to her blown tyre. then she remembers that her crash wasn’t caused all by herself.

“are you alright?” charles asks softly, slowly approaching her as he takes his helmet off. “unlucky weekend.”

she glances over her shoulder where he approaches her. she forces a small grin to her face and tries to wave his concerns away. “i’m fine.”

her chest starts to hurt slightly, tears prickling at her eyes.

this is not the time and place to be breaking down. especially not at someone like charles because surely, something went wrong with her that caused this.

“it’s my fau–”

surely, it can’t be his fault. there’s no way that the person she’s looked up could cause this crash.

but there’s also a voice in her head telling her to believe charles. he wouldn’t be apologising if he didn’t actually think that he caused it.

“unfortunate,” she chuckles. she swallows the scream threatening to make itself known and shrugs at charles. “i’ll see you in the paddocks, mate.”

“thought i might find you here.”

“fuck off, max.”

the older driver laughs, walking over to her with hands in the pocket of his jeans. he drops himself on the little platform she’s resting on.

“everyone’s looking for you,” max chuckles, innocently taking a sip from his water bottle. “i heard seb panicking and sending out a search party to get you.”

“i know,” she snorts, “i heard him screaming and delegating people to find me.”

the only reason max knew where to find her is because he is the one who introduced her to this place. he had found her holding her tears in at some point last season walking around the paddocks and he whisked her away without another word.

it’s a pretty obscure location in the paddocks, one that max often resided in when it got too chaotic and loud. she’s the only one he’s ever given this sort of information to.

“how’s everything?” he asks with a sigh, leaning back on the wall behind them. “matt flew back to the states already?”

she nods and drops her head, picking at the grass beneath them. while she truly tried to keep her problems to herself, max approached her a week prior when he saw her entering the paddocks all by herself.

he had asked why the man, typically found on her arm every race weekend, was not with her today.

she softly admitted that they’re on a break, prompted by her reactionary behaviour from how her year is going so far. still, she tries to keep the confession minimal.

it’s hard enough to watch your boyfriend pack his things in silence to leave you behind. it’s even harder to admit that there’s nobody else to blame but yourself.

her mishaps every weekend on the paddocks, she can point all the fingers she wants. but when it came to her matt, there was nobody else she could pin it on. there were 2 people in that relationship and she knows that she’s the one that’s burned it down.

“i’m so sorry,” max sighs, resting his cheek in his hand. he props his elbow on his knee as she leans forward. “that must be really hard for you.”

she shrugs. it’s really not that big of a deal. or, at least, it shouldn’t be to somebody else in a happy relationship of his own. “it’s my fault, anyway. i don’t blame him.”

“you can still be upset about it,” he mutters. “i know you love him, so i don’t imagine any of this is making you feel better at all.” he puts a hand on her back and rubs circles, something he honestly wishes someone had done for him when he was younger. “it’s just me, mate.”

“it’s alright, but thanks for trying to be there for me,” she grimaces, turning momentarily to give him a small smile. “but i don’t reckon i get to feel bad for deliberately pushing him over the edge.”

she’d been fine all day. she thought she was genuinely getting better: she’d even gone for a walk in the sun and felt enlightened most of the hours she’d been awake.

that was until she had sat down at her dining table with dinner, consumed whole by the silence and emptiness of her apartment. without understanding why, she lost her appetite as her stomach started to churn.

her heart feels like it’s skipping beats from how unwell she suddenly felt.

she finds herself on the floor of her bedroom, phone pressed up against her ear as the ringing pulls her in and out of her trance.

her world has spinning for the better part of 5 minutes, her chest feeling like it’s closing in on itself and the framed picture in her peripheral vision taunts her.

there’s no climbing out of this rut; she’s almost sure she will be stuck in here forever. she either lives with the fact that she’s a failure or it’ll someday kill her.

“hello? is this really you?”

tears she hadn’t realised were there start to fall out of her eyes. the sob she didn’t know she had in her throat fills the room as she drops her head into her other hand.

“i don’t know why i called,” she pauses with a soft sob, “sorry, i should go.”

“no,” a firm voice demands, “just stay on the line.”

“okay.”

she had just spoken with matt this morning, on a short 5-minute welfare check video call. she told him she was feeling slightly better with the biggest smile on her face.

now she doubts herself if she’d even meant it. if she was truly better, she wouldn’t be here on the floor feeling worse than when she woke up this morning.

going backwards isn’t supposed to be the way she’s going.

it’s always forward. if there’s no progress towards the betterment of her situation, then she’s simply not trying hard enough.

she should try harder. it’s the only way.

“hey,” matt coos softly to catch her attention. “if you need me there, just say the word. i’ll come home.”

she wants to say yes. she even wants to break into a louder sob and admit that she misses him; probably might even be going crazy without his presence as of late.

she hasn’t got anything figured out.

but instead, she says, “i’ll be okay.”

being alone in her hotel room is the last thing she wanted for herself, the silence too overbearing for her to handle. though asking to hang out with her friends she watched leave together to get dinner wasn’t an option either.

so she opted to lock herself in her driver’s room until someone chases her out. perhaps she’ll sleep over without anybody finding out.

she’d coddled herself up in her beanbag under a blanket, reading away furiously on the things people said about her.

sure, she shouldn’t be on these sites speaking ill of her, but there’s nobody to stop her. she’s fallen down the rabbit hole of everyone’s opinions of her once more and she can’t seem to stop.

she’s stooped even lower this time: she’s on social media reading what the public has to say about her.

it’s not just about whoever in the industry is saying now.

she never tried to let anyone’s opinion of her, in forms of tweets and social media posts, get to her much.

but a post highlighting about the two mere instances where she had unintentionally lashed out on matt in the paddocks did it for her. and the one time she had a disagreement with sebastian in her racing home after a pitstop mishap.

“for fuck’s sake,” she cries, throwing the blanket off her.

she can’t throw her ipad. she starts to heave, feeling it all coming down on her once more.

she grabs the closest thing to her. and unfortunately, it’s the very mug she’d gotten 2 years ago as a present for sebastian.

you know, the matching mugs she got as a celebration for scoring points as a race engineer and driver duo on the grid.

and it does what a mug would do if you threw it against the wall: it shatters. into pieces.

it’s repairable if she really thought about it rationally. the handle has popped out along with another large piece straying by its side.

only then she realises what she’s done.

“oh, fuck.” she sits hurriedly and brushes the stray hairs from her face. “oh, no.”

she scrambles from the ground and runs over to the other side of the room where her favourite mug sits in 3 separate pieces, tears prickling at her eyes as she realises what she’s done.

she gathers it into her hands with a heavy cry, dropping her hands into her lap. if she’d known sooner that this mug was what she’d grabbed out of fury, she wouldn’t have chucked it across the room.

“come on,” she whispers to herself, trying to fit the pieces together as if it would magically mend itself. “fix yourself. be a mug again?”

“i thought you were back at the hotel– are you okay?”

“i didn’t mean to do it,” she cries at the familiar voice and accent, lifting her head and hands to show him what she’s done. “i didn’t mean to, i didn’t even realise what i was throwing until it broke into this many pieces.”

“hey,” sebastian coos, softly closing the door behind him. he walks over to where she kneels on the ground and grabs her shoulder. “you’re okay. it’s okay.”

she shakes her head profusely and rests her head on his shoulder. “i didn’t mean it. i didn’t want to break it — i still like you, i promise. you’re like my dad when we’re on the road. i’m s– i didn’t mean it.”

“relax.” he squeezes her shoulder, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. “it’s just a mug. we’ll just get a new one, okay? don’t even worry about it.”

he waits for a second as she processes his words, slightly hesitant to agree with him. she nods slowly, “are you sure? you’re not mad?”

“i’m not mad,” sebastian hums with a smile. “let’s get you back to your hotel room, okay? i was just about to head out.”

“okay.”

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#sebastian vettel x reader #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 grid x reader #f1 female driver #formula one x reader #fem!driver #f1 fem!driver #female driver #disneyprincemuke vr #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #vettel reincarnate

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revolutionsingingintherainnn · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! Fellow desi here...

So Navratri is coming soon and I am really excited already!! Can you please write something about spending Navratri with Lando. It would be like teaching him the garba steps and the reader being obsessed with garba and Lando just being in awe.

I love your writing sooo much <3

Desi Girl ༉‧₊˚.

彡 ln x desi!reader 🪷

彡 fluff + smau 🪷

masterlist ☾☼

being an indian meant that there was some festival or the other every few months. that meant new clothes, new jewellery, and the same old feeling of being blessed by the gods and goddesses. for most indians, the blessings of the almighty was all they sought throughout the year.

navratri was one of y/n's favourite festivals. nine days of music, dance, and worshipping different goddessess. every year, y/n bought nine new chaniya cholis for the festival, and every year she danced all night till her feet had blisters. it was the happiest she ever felt.

this year was different though, because she had a boyfriend. a boyfriend who was hot and rich and very much british. since the festival and the autumn break coincided, lando had decided to spend the break with his girlfriend in india. y/n had taken him shopping to all kinds street markets, where all he really did was hold her bags, give his opinion when asked, and made sure that she was hydrated. he had watched as she bargained, and tried on jhumkas, and smiled and laughed even though the sun was scorching hot.

the first two days of navratri had been y/n doing garba with her family and friends, and lando watching from afar, afraid to step into the fast moving circles of humans who were dancing in perfect sync. everyone was sweaty, especially his girlfriend, but she seemed to shine in the sweat. that just made lando fall in love even more.

on the third day, y/n had decided that she would teach lando the basic steps of garba. she took him in a little corner, not too secluded, but there was enough space for him to practice. she taught him the footwork of the dance, but even after multiple tries, lando tripped way more than he ever thought was imaginable. his girlfriend laughed though, so he hadn't completely failed at dancing.

he had tried participating with her friends, where they were all doing the same basic steps that y/n had been teaching him. after a few minutes of stepping on people's toes, and people stepping on his toes, lando had given up, sweating, shining, smiling.

y/n had grabbed his hand and pulled him to the food stalls. lando had never eaten anything like it before, but y/n was excited, and she was happy, and lando eating whatever she wanted him to would make her happier, so who was he to question it?

their first stop had been the pani puri stall. it was certainly an experience to try and fit the entire puri in his mouth without staining his clothes. when he had complained to y/n that there was no way he could fit the whole thing in his mouth, she had smirked at him and said, "remember when i said that to you? that it wasn't going to fit in my mouth?"

lando was blushing, knowing exactly what she was talking about, "y/n,"

"what did you say to me then? ah, yeah, practice makes perfect," y/n had been smiling wide as she teased him. lando had choked on the pani puri, and y/n had laughed, patting his back.

they went through all the stalls, where y/n proceeded to stuff him full of food. it was all extremely spicy for him, and despite y/n laughing at how red he had gotten, lando was determined to not ruin the fun. eventually, she had fed him gulab jamuns, kheer, and so many other sweets, he had lost track.

after eating, lando and y/n walked around the area, talking and laughing, and he had never felt so in love. he repeatedly told her how beautiful she looked, and even at the tenth and hundredth time, y/n blushed just the same. god, she really was breathtaking.

"so, what's the next festival?" lando asked.

"well, navratri ends on saturday, and then we have dusshera on sunday, and then, about two weeks later, diwali! oh, are you going to stay? i mean, i know you have your training and you have to be at the mtc for work or whatever, but dusshera is really fun, cause my nana sits all of us kids down and tells us the whole story of lord ram and how he defeated ravan!" she was rambling, they both knew, but lando loved it.

"i'm going to make sure i'm here on sunday," lando said softly.

"yeah?" her small hands were squeezing his big ones in hope.

lando leaned in, kissing her softly, before he pulled back, "yeah,"

lando.jpg

♫ Desi Girl (From "Dostana")

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lando.jpg who's the hottest girl in the world

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yourusername your desi girl <3

user1 is this a hard launch??? ARE WE HARD LAUNCHING RIGHT NOW???

user1 LANDO IN INDIA??? HELLO??? WHY WERE WE NOT TOLD???

user2 he better get an indian passport now

user3 jijaji pt.2???

carlossainz making the most of the break, i see

carlossainz spanish food or indian food?

lando.jpg 🤐

yourusername im watching you, norris

user2 HOLD ON DID LANDO DO GARBA?????

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

i'm not really a garba person, despite living in gujarat for quite a while, but this is specifically for my desi girls, cause we gotta feed our delusions somehow to live, right? i hope you enjoy it! i've also got a link for my taglist and requests that you can find here!

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 21 days ago

Text

Bhaal Babe

Astarion x Y/N - Drabble - 1.3K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: softie Astarion, reader is Orin's twin, mention of Bhaal, very fluffy, slight hurt/comfort, kinda enemies to lovers?, smidge of angst if you squint

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You paced your tent as you held the scissors close to your chest. Your long white hair was at the point where you were stepping on it daily; it dragged along the ground no matter how you braided it or attempted to tie it up. You had tried to cut it yourself before but it always turned out uneven and horrid to look at. You sighed before marching over to Astarion’s tent. He sat out front of it, indulging in a goblet of wine and a book he had picked up in the Shadow Cursed Lands.

“It's never a good sign when someone comes stomping over with scissors in their hands.” he said, taking a sip of wine before placing the cup and the book down.

You rolled your eyes at the pale elf, you two had a love hate relationship. He always thought you were a goody two shoes, helping everyone who needed it and always being hesitant to violence. Deep down you knew what you were - Orin’s twin; not just her sister - her twin. All you had was visions of your ‘sister’. Slicing your brain and body wildly, laughing while she did so. You knew she wanted to be Bhaal’s chosen desperately. Yet your father preferred you. It was despicable and you tried to resist every vile urge within yourself. Hoping your never ending acts of good could somehow atone the many atrocities you had committed in the past per what your butler had told you of.

“I need your help.” you said.

“Oh? With what?” he asked, standing up to be eye level with you.

“I… could you please help me cut my hair. Just a bit, I can’t take another day of stepping on it and dragging it across the dirt.” you said, holding the scissors out to him.

He took them from you, looking at the silver as he spoke to you, “And what do I get? You can't get something for nothing you know.” He smirked at you, holding his hands on his hips expectantly.

You thought for a moment, wondering what you could possibly give him. An idea struck you after a moment, “I can show you your face.” you said, hoping that would be a good enough bargain for him.

His smile faltered, his eyes growing softer “And how can you do that?” he said with an air of disbelief.

“I’m a shapeshifter, duh.” you said, mocking his usually arrogant tone.

“Alright, sit down. Do you have a brush?” he asked, following you to the center of the tent.

“I can go get one.” you said, moving to go back to your tent.

Astarion grabbed your wrist and yanked you down, “Nevermind that.” he said, pulling out his own brush from his pack in the corner.

You sat down criss-cross, waiting expectantly for him to begin.

As astarion brushed your hair free of knots he couldn’t help but notice the deep, jagged scars that littered your skull beneath all your thick hair. “Gods…” he said without thinking.

You winced away from him, his fingers untangling themselves from your scalp. “Just… cut it. You … don’t have to… ummm… do that.” you said as you leaned back hesitantly.

Astarion set the brush down, gathering up your hair so he could cut it straight across, about five inches up from the end. He cut it before going back and slicing some random cut so it didn’t look so straight across, more natural. “That should do it.” he said, standing up and handing you back your scissors.

Your demeanor had turned quiet, abnormally quiet. Your eyes looked anywhere but at him as you stood. “A deals a deal…” you mumbled before contorting yourself, your bones snapping before you twisted your head back into place, taking Astarion’s form.

He looked at you absolutely gobsmacked, completely silenced in shock. He reached out to touch your face, moving his hands over your face he traced all his features. “It's.. been so long since I’ve seen this face…” he mumbled. “Can I… see my back? To see the scars.” he said, a tinge of pain in his voice and desperation in his eyes.

You turned around, pulling your shirt over your head. You could feel that his hands were hovering above the scars, just not touching you. “What did he do to me?” he said.

You put your shirt back on, twisting your body back into yourself. “I’m sorry… about what happened to you…” you said to him, holding yourself.

“You too… your scars were thicker than mine. I don’t know how you’re alive if they sliced your head like that…” he shrugged. You could tell he was trying to be genuine, just not totally sure how to be.

You stumbled towards him, unsure of why you were about to do what you were about to do. You hesitated but slowly wrapped your arms around Astarion. Holding gently but close, leaning your head against his chest before you let your eyes flutter closed.

He faltered for a moment before indulging in your warmth. He leaned his cheek against the top of your head, you both falling into a slight sway as you embraced. “Perhaps we aren’t as different as we think.” he whispered.

You hugged him tighter. “It was my sister… I’m a Bhaal spawn…” you said hardly above a whisper.

Astarion’s eyes widened, he leaned back slightly to look at you. Your completely white eyes were difficult to read but your facial expression and brimming tears were plain as day. “I’m so scared of myself all the time… I don’t know who I am and I’m so worried I’ll hurt one of you, especially you… I don’t want to be like this…” you said, finally letting your tears spill over.

“I know what it is to not have control over your body, your actions… to be ruled by a cruel master…” he said, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before he held your face in his hands. “Being a child of Bhaal… that is no easy thing… But I know this - you are no true Bhaal spawn.”

Your eyebrows drew together, curious of his next words.

“You are far too kind. Far too independent… Far too - good.” he said, with a slight smile gracing his lips. A true smile, only meant to comfort you.

You nodded slightly, thankful for his words. You leaned up, kissing his cheek, “Thank you.”

“Whatever it is, whatever plagues your mind - it wont have you. I’ll be here to make sure of it darling.” he said, slowly releasing you from his grasp.

You sniffled, wiping your nose and cheeks as you tried to compose yourself once more. You both looked at each other with sympathy for a moment. “Looks like you’re a big softie on the inside.” you said with a chuckle, holding yourself once more.

“For the right person, I can be.” he said, kissing your forehead. “Goodnight, my little Bhaal babe.”

“Goodnight Astarion.” you said, squeezing his hand before you both let go and returned to your respective tents.

You sat down in front of your ornate mirror you… borrowed from the Szaar Palace after you had vanquished Cazador. Astarion had beat his master and made the benevolent choice by not performing the Black Mass. Perhaps you could defeat your demons too. You began braiding your hair to protect it from tangles in the night. He had cut it perfectly. You reached behind to gather the last of it, noticing a small, frail stem of flowers tucked away in the thick of it.

Lily of the Valley - your favorite flower.

That spawn would be the death of you. With every small action, every kind word - you felt your heart ache at the very thought of him. You had to beat this; if not for you, then for him.

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

Naboo's Note:

Hello all :) I hope this is a good one for ya'll, it is definitely a favorite of mine. I got some shitty news today at the doctors, they found a lump in my breast so I have to go get additional testing done to see if its a cyst, fibrous tissue, or (worst case) cancer. All in all, I could use a little comfort from our vampy boy while I anxiously await the ultra sound that I have to go get sometime soon. Anyways, I'll probably write again soon but IDK who for. Love ya'll lots and thank you for all the support <3 xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#writing #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #fanfiction

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lokischocolatefountain · 1 year ago

Text

Seven

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: Gen (kind of a crack fic if you ask me)

Summary: You and Javi discuss children

“How many?”

“Hmm?”

“You keep saying children plural. How many do you want?” You asked, flipping through the pages of the magazine idly. You weren’t even reading, just looking at pictures and reading a gossipy headline about some of the other actress.

“Hmmm seven?”

“Fuck no!”

“Why not?”

“Why not? WHY NOT?” You asked, horrified. “Javier, I’m a human being, not a baby making machine. You have a government job and I’m just a lab tech. We will never have 7 kids money unless you pocket some of the cocaine you seize. God, can you imagine if they all wanted to go to law school? Or medical school?”

“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,” he said, taking the magazine from you and setting it aside. He pulled you into his lap, kissing you neck from behind and making you squirm. “I was focused on how hot you’ll look pregnant.”

“Of course you were. Horndog,” you scolded, pinching the arm that held you close. He hissed, but didn’t loosen his hold, only pulling you in closer.

“Can you blame me? With such a hot girlfriend, a man is bound to let his imagination run wild.”

“Shut up.”

“Five?” He asked, making you angrier.

“Are you trying to have a family or form a basketball team?”

He laughed before kissing her lips. “Four?” He bargained.

“Three is the absolute maximum for me.”

“Then three is good.”

“Yeah?” You asked, softer when you heard the sincerity in the reply that came with no hesitation.

“Mhmm.”

“But everything is up for debate after the first one,” you added, just in case. Pregnancy did not look fun and you didn’t want him holding you to this if you were too fucked up from the first pregnancy to try again. “I might hate being pregnant and never want to have another one again. We might have to be satisfied with one baby.”

“That’s good too, baby. I only want as many children as you’ll give me. Whether that’s one or three or seven.”

“Definitely not seven.” You smiled, adjusting yourself to sit back on the sofa with just your legs in his lap. “And no bargaining on gender either. If we have three daughters, you can’t ask for another one just to try for a son.”

“I would love three daughters. Why do you think I’ll ask you for a fourth one after that?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging. “Men usually want sons. To teach them soccer or go fishing or whatever.”

“I’ll teach our three daughters soccer. Girls have legs. And I don’t care for fishing anyway. If they want to be with animals, they can take care of the ranch.”

“God, I planning my life out with a ranchero who wants a million kids!” You said, laughing.

“You’re just realizing that?”

“Oh god, I don’t know what’s worse— ranchero or DEA agent. Do you like chop wood shirtless or something? Cause I can’t handle that. I will end up having 7 kids if I saw that.”

“You’re mixing up rancheros with lumberjacks, baby. But I’ll learn to chop wood if you want. And I’ll teach our daughters to chop wood too. And how to shoot. And how to fix a car. Teach them plumbing and everything. So that they don’t have to call their boyfriends at midnight to ask them to fix their sink,” he said, making you giggle at the recollection of that night.

“Oh please, you weren’t complaining,” you scoffed, reminding him of the night he came over to fix your sink and ended up staying all night and all day in your bed.

“Exactly. No boy is slithering into my daughter’s bed like that. I won’t allow it.”

You scoffed. Oh you poor little fool… “You think my father didn’t teach me how to fix my sink, Javier? That I didn’t break it just to invite you over?”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Let’s have three sons.”

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x ofc #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #all that i've inflicted on the world

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vandme12 · 21 days ago

Note

Ronin x Reader, where the reader is a nurse by day and a serial killer by night—delivering judgments on those who drove their son to his death through bullying?

TW : Mention of Suicide, Gore etc I'm not really happy with this one

What is life?

A question too big for anyone to answer. Too cruel for someone like you.

Because for you—life was a little boy with bright eyes, messy hair, and a laugh so sweet it could rot your teeth. It was tiny sneakers left in the hallway, sticky fingers tugging at your sleeve, and a voice that always asked, “When will you be home?”

Life was your son.

And the day he died, it stopped being anything at all.

It was his birthday. You should’ve known better.

The school counselor called it “seasonal triggers.” Grief was a shadow, and anniversaries sharpened its claws. But your boy—your sweet, kind boy—he wasn’t like that. He was stronger. He had to be.

That’s what you told yourself when he didn’t come out of his room that morning. What you kept telling yourself when hours passed—when his phone buzzed, untouched, and your stomach twisted itself in knots.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

(Right?)

The wind was sharp when you stepped outside, jacket tugged tight around your ribs. His usual spots—empty. No trace of him on the soccer field, in the park, by the bookstore he used to love.

Your heart pounded too hard, too fast.

The cliff—he liked it there. Said it made him feel free. You should’ve known. You should’ve known.

And when you found him—

God.

He was standing too close to the edge, sneakers half-off the crumbling dirt. His face turned toward the horizon, where the ocean swelled against jagged rocks. The sun hung low—soft gold over everything.

Beautiful. Too beautiful for what happened next.

"Hey," you called, voice cracking. "Baby, what are you doing? Come here—please—"

He didn’t move.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t even flinch when you started running.

Just a small tilt of his head—like he was listening.

(To you?)

(Or something else?)

And then—

He jumped.

You don’t remember screaming.

Don’t remember how your knees hit the ground, or how sharp the air felt in your lungs. Only the sound—God, the sound—when his body crumpled onto the highway below.

Too loud.

Too final.

By the time you made it down the slope—hands shaking, mouth dry—you barely heard the brakes screeching. A truck. Late delivery. Wrong place. Wrong time.

His body—broken and bloodied—crushed beneath wheels that never had a chance to stop.

You tried—God, you tried.

Tore at the door. Dragged his body out. Called his name over and over and over—

"Baby, come on, please—wake up—"

But there was so much blood. Too much.

He was still warm when you held him.

Still soft when you brushed his hair back and pressed trembling fingers to his cheek.

But when you pulled him against you—when you begged, prayed, bargained for anything—he didn’t hold you back.

He didn’t say a word.

The police called it suicide.

Just another statistic. Just another kid who couldn’t handle the weight.

Did they think it was easy for you? Losing him like that—watching him slip through your fingers? Did they know how it felt to sit in his room, surrounded by everything he left behind?

The half-finished drawings. The crumpled homework. The photos of you—of him—smiling, frozen in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

You screamed yourself raw.

Begged a God you stopped believing in to bring him back.

Because no parent—no parent—should ever have to bury their child.

No one should know what it feels like to hold the whole world in their arms—

—only to lose it forever.

Grief is supposed to end.

That’s what they tell you—like there’s a finish line somewhere, like if you scream and cry and break enough, one day it’ll be over.

But it never ends. Not really. It just sits there—heavy, cold—waiting for the next moment to crush you.

And you? You’ve been crushed so many times, you don’t even fight it anymore.

Until you find his diary.

It happens on the kind of night where the silence cuts too deep—when the weight of an empty house presses against your ribs until you can’t breathe. You’re in his room again. You shouldn’t be. Everyone says to stop doing this—to stop burying yourself in his ghost.

But you can’t.

Because it still smells like him. His shampoo. His detergent. Him.

And tonight—tonight, the need to hold on is too much.

You pull open his nightstand drawer—just to touch something that was his. Just to feel close again.

That’s when you find it.

A black leather notebook—edges worn from nervous fingers. Tucked underneath, a flash drive, taped to the inside cover with shaky handwriting scrawled across it.

“If something happens—it wasn’t me.”

The world stops.

You sit at his desk, hands trembling as you open the journal.

The first few pages are innocent—doodles in the corners, notes about school, lists of things he wanted for his birthday.

Your breath hitches when you see your name.

"Takeout night with Mom. She was tired again, but she still remembered to get my favorite. I think she worries too much. I wish I could make her laugh more."

The words blur, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep the sob inside.

He was always like that. Always thinking of you first.

But the tone shifts—page by page—until it’s something else entirely.

“They took my backpack again. Said I’m ‘too stupid to be here.’ I wanted to tell a teacher, but last time that just made it worse.”

“I didn’t tell Mom. She’s got enough to worry about.”

Your heart pounds in your ears as the entries darken—accounts of bruises hidden beneath sleeves, notebooks torn to shreds, whispers that followed him down every hallway.

And then—

"They said if I told anyone, they’d make me disappear."

"They said no one would believe me."

"They said they could make it look like I wanted to die."

The flash drive is cold in your palm when you plug it into your laptop.

Folders. Videos. Screenshots.

Evidence.

The first file plays automatically—a shaky phone recording. Your son’s voice trembles through the speakers, too small, too scared.

"Why are you doing this?"

Laughter—cruel and sharp. A boy’s voice answers, dripping with malice.

"Because it’s funny. And because no one’s gonna miss a freak like you."

Another file—footage of them cornering him behind the gym. The fear in his eyes cuts through you like a blade.

A screenshot of text messages:

"Do it, or we’ll make your mom suffer too."

"No one cares about you anyway."

"Jump, coward."

Your hands shake so hard the mouse slips. It takes everything—everything—not to scream.

They did this.

And the police—those lazy, blind, useless bastards—just accepted it. Never questioned. Never dug deeper. Just another "suicidal teenager," right? Easier to wrap it up and move on.

Your sweet, brave boy didn’t want to die.

They pushed him.

They killed him.

And no one stopped them.

You sit in the dark, heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. Your tears dry somewhere between rage and clarity.

Revenge is too soft.

Justice? Too kind.

What they deserve—what they earned—is judgment.

You gave yourself two years. Two years to erase your old life, to bury the broken parent who sobbed over an empty bed and cold gravestone. Two years of plastic surgeries, forged identities, and blood-soaked determination.

And when the time came—you slipped into their world like a shadow.

The school. His school.

Where they laughed. Where they tormented him. Where they pushed him to the edge and called it a joke.

You became the new nurse.

The first to die was the woman who should’ve protected him.

That bitch—with her saccharine smile and snake-pit heart. You remember her name on the incident reports—dismissed concerns, no further action required—while your son faded right under her nose.

A kid comes in with a black eye? She says, “Boys will be boys.”

A girl too scared to speak? She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Drama queens.”

Your son—your baby—came to her broken and bleeding. And she did nothing.

You made sure her death meant something.

No one questioned her disappearance. They said she “retired early.” A footnote in the morning announcements, a passing thought—like she never existed.

The students didn’t care. The staff didn’t notice.

But you did.

When you slipped into her office, you savored the irony. They left her memory cold. But you? You left her body colder.

In the end, she went out screaming—a sound no one heard beneath the hum of school life.

And you took her place.

Because your work had only just begun.

You smile politely as students shuffle through the nurse’s office—some too loud, some too quiet, but none of them innocent.

Not the ones who took your son’s laughter. Not the ones who made him bleed.

You remember their names. You memorized their faces. And now? Now you get to study them up close.

The ringleader—the golden boy with dead eyes and a cruel mouth—sits in front of you, cradling his wrist.

He doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? You made sure your old life was buried—the way he deserves to be.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice is soft. Sweet. A trap in silk.

He smirks, cocky and careless. "I’m fine. You’re not gonna cry on me, are you?"

You smile back—warm and patient. The way a mother should be.

"Let me take care of you."

Three years.

Three years since you buried your son. Three years of blood and patience.

And now, it’s the third one’s turn.

A third-year boy—one of the shits who laughed the loudest. Who spat venom in the halls and whispered lies no one questioned. He didn’t break your son with his fists—no, he was smarter. Sharper. He used words like scalpels, carving into every soft place until there was nothing left.

He made your son feel small. Powerless.

And now? Now it’s his turn.

You’d been watching him. Waiting.

He loved puzzles—riddles, mazes, anything that made him feel smarter than everyone else. You used that.

You left clues. Notes hidden in lockers, coded messages only he could solve. A game—a perfect little trap wrapped in curiosity.

And like the arrogant little shit he was, he took the bait.

You locked him in a storage room deep beneath the school—a maze of boxes and broken furniture, the walls slick with mold and secrets no one cared to find.

The puzzle? Simple.

Find the key. Unlock the door.

Except you never gave him a key.

You watched from the shadows as his confidence broke.

The smirk faded first—replaced by furrowed brows and trembling fingers.

"Where is it?" he hissed to himself, ripping through crates. Hours passed. The air grew thick. Stale. His breathing hitched when the lights flickered—when he realized he wasn’t alone.

When he realized—this game wasn’t meant to be won.

And when he screamed—when panic swallowed him whole—you felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

But he was smarter than you thought. Clever.

The little bastard broke the lock—cut himself raw forcing the rusted bolt free.

And now?

He’s running.

The boy ran blindly—panic pounding through his veins, tearing through the dark alleyways like a rat in a maze.

But this wasn’t just any alley.

Locals called it Purgatory.

The place where sinners lose their way—and their lives.

His breath hitched as his sneakers slapped against the pavement, but his steps faltered when he saw him.

A shadow leaning against the wall—no, not a shadow.

A devil.

The man stood tall—too tall—like he owned the ground beneath his boots. A black beanie clung to his head, streaked with gray stripes, but it didn’t hide the devil horns curling out from burgundy hair. His eyes—God, his eyes—black and hollow like the universe had carved out his soul and left nothing but a void.

The metal gleam of his jacket flashed as he raised his arm—a crowbar, heavy and rusted, already slick with something too dark to be water.

And he was laughing. Laughing.

A sound jagged enough to cut.

The boy froze—feet rooted in place—as the Butcher brought the crowbar down, again and again, into some poor bastard’s ribs. The sickening crack echoed through the alley.

“Aww, c’mon—don’t tap out on me yet!” the man cooed, voice syrup-sweet and poisonous underneath. “We were just getting to the fun part…”

The bloodied figure beneath him gave a weak twitch. Not that it mattered. They were already done.

He should’ve run. Should’ve turned back.

But panic makes people stupid.

So instead—he reached for the pocket knife hidden in his jacket.

It wasn’t much. A child’s weapon. But fear does funny things to your survival instinct.

He lunged.

And for a second—a single breath—he thought he had the bastard.

The blade sunk in. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

Then the Butcher laughed.

A low, broken sound—like someone dragged barbed wire through his lungs.

“A kid—killing me? What a joke.”

He staggered back, grinning down at the knife buried in his side like it was a love letter.

The boy tried to move—to run again—but his body wouldn’t listen.

Not with that gaze pinning him in place.

But then—something changed.

The devil fell silent. His smile flickered.

And his head tilted—just a fraction—like he was sensing something the boy couldn’t.

For the first time, his focus wasn’t on him.

Which is why he didn’t see it coming.

The metal pipe struck the boy’s head with a crack—sharp and final. The world spun—colors bleeding together—before everything went black.

When he woke, his head throbbed—pulsing in rhythm with the panic gnawing at his gut.

But the first thing he saw wasn’t the Butcher.

It was… someone else.

A figure standing over him, bathed in the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp.

They weren’t like the devil.

No, they were something worse.

They were calm.

Gentle, even—like a mother tending to a wounded child. But there was nothing warm about their eyes.

Eyes that saw through him.

“Your greatest sin…” their voice was soft—almost loving. “...wasn’t driving that boy to his death.”

They knelt beside him, a gloved hand brushing his bloodied cheek.

“It was the fact that you were born.”

The boy trembled—tried to speak—but the words wouldn’t come.

“You’re a selfish liar,” they continued, tone velvet-smooth. “Compared to your friends, you believe in ties connected by profit. And because you always use lies to manipulate everyone…”

Their hand curled into his hair—tight—yanking his face up to meet theirs.

“You don’t believe in anyone.”

A pause.

“And no one believes in you.”

The boy’s breath hitched—a sob clawing up his throat.

“Have you finally realized?”

Their smile sharpened—serene, like a saint.

“You’ve been making yourself the loner all along.”

And as the blood pooled beneath his knees, one final thought clawed through the panic—

He was never leaving Purgatory.

You saw the man. He laughed—sharp, breathless—like pain tasted sweet on his tongue.

And you—God. You looked like Saint Maria and Lady Themis and the Goddess of Death all wrapped into one. Holy and hellish. Justice with a smile.

He staggered, legs folding under him like a broken marionette. Collapsed at your feet. Pretty in the way dying things always are.

"Hey, person—why don’t you kill me?" His voice, raw and reckless. Daring. Like it’d be a kindness. Like it wouldn’t be the first time. "Finish the job…?"

But you didn’t.

You knelt—soft, deliberate—and cradled him in your lap. Gentle. Too gentle. Too much like—

He blacked out before the memory could choke him.

The next thing he knew—he was awake.

Shirtless. Bandaged. The sharp tug of stitches pulled when he shifted, but what really gnawed at him—you’d seen. The faint, silver lines across his chest—surgical, deliberate—impossible to miss. No point hiding it now.

His fingers brushed the edge of the gauze. Neat work. Too neat for someone who left bodies in alleyways.

A shadow moved. You.

You walked over—slow, smooth—and knelt beside him, fingers brushing his forehead like you had all the time in the world. Your touch burned.

His breath hitched—just for a second—but his mouth curled into that same devil-may-care grin. The one that never quite reached his eyes. “Aw, sweetheart—got a thing for broken boys?”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t bite back. Just tilted your head—soft, steady—like you were measuring him. Like you’d already decided something.

"You shouldn’t move," you said—low, smooth—like Eve whispering in the dark. It wasn’t a suggestion.

He should’ve cracked a joke. Teased you. He didn’t. Something in your voice—calm, warm, too gentle for someone like him—cut right through. Mother-God.

"Why did you save me?" The words slipped out before he could swallow them.

And you—you apologized.

"Sadly," you murmured, voice soft enough to sting, "it’s sadder that you were the one who got hurt instead of him."

That knocked the wind out of him. Him. That brat. That waste of breath who stabbed him. And here you were—acting like he was the tragedy.

A slow, bitter laugh scraped from his throat. His head tilted back against the wall, like it was all a fucking joke. "Do you even know who I am?"

You met his gaze—calm, unshaken. “I know.” Your eyes drifted to his jacket—hanging by the chair—the infamous mask still tucked in the pocket.

“The Butcher,” you said. Quiet. Certain. “666 kills, isn’t it?”

He licked his teeth, leaning closer—wrong in all the ways that made people run—but you didn’t move.

"So," he drawled, voice sweet as poison, "you think I’m broken? Or just doing it for fun?"

And you—you didn’t care. You just looked at him. Worried. Like he was something worth saving.

You didn’t care.

Didn’t flinch at his grin. Didn’t rise to the bait. You just—patched him up. Quiet hands and steady patience, like he wasn’t a monster, like the blood on his hands didn’t matter.

His chest ached—not from the wound, but from you. From how soft your touch had been when you pressed the gauze to his skin. From the way you didn’t ask for anything.

"Your clothes are washed," you said, your voice smooth and warm in the quiet. "You can leave in the morning."

That was it. No lecture. No judgment. Just kindness—unearned, unexpected—and it tasted worse than blood.

He should’ve laughed. Mocked you. Told you he didn’t need your charity. But instead—he just watched you, tongue flicking against his piercing, as you turned away like he wasn’t still watching.

Like you hadn’t touched him.

And for the first time in a long time—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave.

“Ah… who are you?” His voice was low, rough—like he’d been screaming, or maybe laughing too hard for too long. His black eyes gleamed under the dim light, sharp and curious. "They call you Saint Judgment, right?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just pressed your palm gently against his forehead, checking the heat beneath his skin. The touch burned him more than the wound ever did.

His breath hitched—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“So,” he drawled, cocking his head, “you’re the one who’s been offing kids.” His lips curled into that devil’s smile, sharp enough to cut. “Real charming hobby—though, can’t say I’m not a fan. You get bored of PTA meetings, or what?”

Your fingers lingered just a moment longer—then slipped away. Smooth. Unbothered. Holy.

“I kill monsters,” you corrected, voice like honey and venom. “The ones who bullied my son.”

For a second—just a flicker—you thought you saw something shift in his eyes. Something close to understanding. Something close to… recognition.

And then he laughed. Low, wild, wrong. “A mother’s love, huh?” His tongue flicked against his piercing, teeth flashing in the dark. "Gotta say—you're putting the other soccer moms to shame."

You said nothing.

Not to his teasing. Not to the sharpness in his smile or the way he stretched out on your couch like he owned it—like the blood on his skin meant nothing.

But you felt it. The ache. The weight of it all. If only you’d known sooner. If only you’d seen the signs.

Your hands were steady when you adjusted the bandages across his chest—over the scars, the fresh wound. You could still feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the faint rise and fall of his breath. Alive. He was still alive.

Lucky.

"You patch up all your strays, or am I just special?" His voice cut through the quiet, smooth and dark. Always smiling. Always pretending it didn't hurt.

Still, you said nothing.

He took that as an invitation. Of course, he did.

“Y’know,” he murmured, tilting his head, "if you wanted to undress me, you could’ve just asked. But hey—I'm not complaining.” A pause. His grin sharpened. “Unless you're planning to keep me—then we gotta talk custody arrangements."

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t rise to the bait.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him more. He liked the chase.

“C’mon, Saint—what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” His voice dipped low, teasing. “Or do I make you nervous?”

He stayed like that the whole night—smirking, pushing, flirting—testing the edges of your patience, your grief.

But you never answered

He was a good boy—well, as good as a devil could be.

Flirted the whole time you patched him up, all smooth words and sharp edges. But when the teasing faded—when the blood was cleaned and the bandages secured—he got quiet. Let you work. Even helped, fingers surprisingly gentle as he fixed the last strip of gauze over his ribs.

“You’re a natural,” he said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If this whole vengeance thing gets old, you’d make a killer nurse.” A beat. His grin curled wider. “No pun intended.”

You just rolled your eyes, pushing his hand away when he tried to touch your wrist.

And yet—he lingered. Close. Dangerously close.

The heat of his body brushed yours, and you should’ve pulled back. You didn’t.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your face, “I could use someone like you. Sharp. Quiet. Hot in a terrifying kinda way.” His lip ring glinted when he smirked. “Join my server.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Serial killer server. Don’t worry, babe—it’s invite-only. Very exclusive. But I’ll vouch for you.” He tilted his head, watching you carefully. “I mean, you’ve got the whole Saint Maria death goddess thing going on—pretty sure everyone’s gonna love you.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

His smile softened. Just a little. “Didn’t say it was.”

The silence stretched between you—heavy, electric—until you sighed, standing up. “Get some sleep,” you said, turning your back to him. “And don’t bleed on my couch.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he called, but you were already walking away.

The next morning—he was gone.

No note about where he’d gone. No goodbye. Just a faint trace of leather and blood lingering in the air.

But on the table—right where you’d left his jacket—was a folded slip of paper.

A link.

A server link.

And underneath it, scrawled in messy, sharp handwriting—

“For my favorite Saint. Don’t miss me too much. – goreboy

You laughed. Goreboy. What a name. What a pain in the ass.

Maybe it was the first real laugh you’d had in years—sharp, breathy, and gone too fast. Still, it was there.

No.

No distractions. No weird murder servers. You had one goal—your son. And this? This wasn’t part of the plan.

But then you caught your reflection in the mirror. Jesus. You looked like hell. Blood under your nails, shadows carved under your eyes—when was the last time you even slept?

…Yeah. You’d join. One look. That’s it.

“k!llerch8t_b00tmango”

“What the fuck is this brainrot bullshit,” you muttered, but you typed it in anyway.

The screen flashed.

A new window popped up—blindingly neon and hideously cursed—and before you could even think about leaving—

PING!

💀 Welcome to K!LLER CH8T 💀 Newly christened @y/n

The chat exploded.

[goreboy]: babe you made it 😈 didn’t think you had it in you [hitmeuppp]: OMG OMG NEW PERSON NEW PERSON HI HI HI HI HI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [Angelic]: Welcome, darling. Don’t be shy—we don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely. 😉 [K9]: Another one. Great. [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooooooo new homie 🤙 u surf??? [Eviscerator1990]: Welcome. I like sunsets. What’s your deal? [Felicite]: …What’s your kill count?

You stared at the screen. This was a mistake.

Another PING!

[hitmeuppp]: AAAAH UR SO QUIET TALK TO ME PLS PLS PLS 💖💖💖

The little raccoon profile picture bounced obnoxiously in the corner, flooding the chat with stickers—hearts, knives, some horrifically cursed Garfield gif.

[goreboy]: you’re gonna love it here, Saint. [goreboy]: unless you’re scared

You exhaled, slow. Steady. Fingers hovering over the keyboard.

And against every ounce of common sense—you typed.

[@y/n]: …Hi.

The moment you hit enter, all hell broke loose.

[hitmeuppp]: HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [hitmeuppp]: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG NEW PERSON AAAAAAA [hitmeuppp]: WHAT’S UR FAVORITE COLOR?? FAVORITE WEAPON??? DO U LIKE CATS???

You blinked. What the hell did you just walk into?

Another PING!

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: YO DUUUUUUDEEEEEE HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 🤙🤙🤙 [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: u skate?? u kill?? what’s ur vibe bro??

More messages flooded in—stickers of knives, blood splatters, and some… questionable emojis.

In the chaos, goreboy was chilling, of course.

[goreboy]: aw, look at that. [goreboy]: ur already the life of the party. 😘

[K9]: …They’re going to scare them off. [Angelic]: Let them have their fun. We don’t get new blood often.

Meanwhile, hitmeuppp was STILL going.

[hitmeuppp]: R U A CAT PERSON OR A DOG PERSON I NEED TO KNOW RN 😤💖💖💖 [hitmeuppp]: WAIT WAIT MORE IMPORTANT— [hitmeuppp]: CAN I CALL U BESTIE?????

This was fine.

Totally normal.

Absolutely not a mistake.

[you]: I’m sorry. This is all… sudden.

The words felt small—too small—against the whirlwind happening on-screen. Your pulse thudded in your ears. What the hell were you supposed to say? Hey, thanks for inviting me to your murder club—by the way, I only stitched you up because you looked pathetic bleeding out in an alley.

Yeah. No.

[goreboy]: awh, take your time, darlin’. [goreboy]: promise i’ll be here when ur ready 😘

Darlin’. God. Of course, he’d flirt like that—like it was easy. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t been covered in blood the night before, laughing while a kid tried to stab him.

And now? He was treating you like a skittish little thing. Like you’d break.

[hitmeuppp]: OMG UR LIKE THE QUIET MYSTERIOUS ONEEEE 😳

Your screen exploded again—hitmeuppp back in full force.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooo do u kill w/ like knives?? or poison?? or do u do the psychological thing where u drive em crazy first??? [hitmeuppp]: NO WAY THEY’RE A POISON PERSON. TOO CLASSY. BET THEY DO HANDS-ON STUFF 😏

You rubbed your temples. This was insane. Absolutely insane.

And yet—you didn’t leave.

A soft ping.

[Angelic]: Don’t let them overwhelm you. They’re all bark. Mostly.

Her words felt like a lifeline—cool and steady, like she knew exactly how heavy it felt to be here. And for a second, you almost believed it.

But then—

[goreboy]: hey, Saint.

Your breath hitched.

[goreboy]: did u think about my offer yet? [goreboy]: i bet u’d be real fun if u loosened up.

Of course, he couldn’t let it go.

He always had to push.

[you]: That’s why I joined… y’all remind me of my son’s jokes. Haha—

The chat froze. Just for a breath—long enough for your words to settle, to sting. And then—

[hitmeuppp]: OMG WAIT. YOU HAVE A KID!??!?!?!?!? 😱😱😱 [hitmeuppp]: DO THEY KNOW WHAT U DO?????

[K9]: …you’re a parent and a serial killer? Why?

You swallowed hard. That question—why?—like the answer wasn’t rattling inside your ribs every single day. Like you didn’t already know. Like it wasn’t the only thing that still mattered.

[you]: My son is dead.

The chat died.

[you]: He was bullied. They made him… do it. And I—

You stopped. The words trembled too much if you held them too long.

[you]: I kill the people who killed him.

There it was. Laid bare. No point dressing it up with pretty words—it was ugly, and it was true. You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

For a second, you wondered if they’d kick you out—too raw, too broken for even this place.

[you]: Don’t mention it. Please.

Still. Silence. Even hitmeuppp had gone quiet.

Until—

[goreboy]: hey.

His tag lit up like a flare. Bright. Immediate.

[goreboy]: everyone’s got a story, Saint. [goreboy]: u didn’t do a damn thing wrong.

The breath you’d been holding—released. Maybe it was the nickname. Maybe the way he said it like it was simple. Like anyone else would’ve done the same.

You almost wanted to believe him.

[you]: …thanks.

His response was immediate.

[goreboy]: now, c’mon. ur here. play nice.

[goreboy]: introduce urself, Saint. What should we call u?

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard—but there was no point lying now, was there?

[you]: Y/N L/N. I work as a school nurse. [you]: Only because that’s where the people who killed my son are.

No one laughed.

No one questioned it.

[hitmeuppp]: that’s kinda badass tbh.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: fr. like. nurse by day, vengeance by night?? sounds like a movie.

[Angelic]: …They should’ve been kinder.

You closed your eyes. Saint. That’s what they were calling you now, like you were some holy figure when all you did was stain your hands deeper in blood.

[you]: thanks <3

It was small. Stupid, even. But it slipped out before you could stop it—a half-joke, half-shield, because if you didn’t laugh, you might actually break.

[goreboy]: awh, Saint’s got a heart after all. 💔

[hitmeuppp]: OMG THEY DID A HEART BACK LMAOOOOO [hitmeuppp]: WE GOT ‘EM BOYS

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: Saint’s one of us now 😎

[K9]: …This server is insufferable.

[goreboy]: u love us.

[Angelic]: unfortunately.

You huffed—a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. For all their chaos, they weren’t pressing. No pity. No awkward apologies. Just… noise. Noise that made it easier to breathe.

[goreboy]: stick around, Saint. u might actually have fun.

A part of you wanted to deny it. To say you weren’t here for fun. But another part—the one still clutching that stupid note he left—didn’t want to leave.

And maybe, just maybe… you wanted to see what he’d do next.

[you]: We’ll see.

And fuck yeah, you did.

For a bunch of serial killers, they sure knew how to keep things interesting.

Every time you thought about leaving—about logging off and never looking back—someone would drag you back in.

Ronin’s edginess, for one. The bastard had a mouth on him, always circling you like a shark with a flirty line and a devil emoji to match. He made being a menace an art form, and the worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Angel’s charm—smooth and cold, like silk wrapped around a knife. She didn’t talk much unless it mattered, but when she did? You listened.

V’s mysteriousness, the guy had layers. Always analyzing, always watching—he made you nervous, if you were honest. But there was something grounding about him. Solid. Even if he did judge the shit out of you.

Misaki’s chaos, though? Pure energy. They were everywhere, all the time, like a sugar-high gremlin with a knife collection. Every conversation with them felt like a whirlwind. And somehow, you never wanted it to stop.

Luca’s sunniness—what the fuck was his deal? How did someone that bright end up here? Surfboards, bad jokes, and a body count. The cognitive dissonance gave you whiplash.

Felicite’s kindness. Yeah. Kindness. The kind of warmth that made you ache—like a ghost of the life you’d lost. She never pried, never pushed, but she was there. And that mattered.

Vince’s sunsets—because of course the old slasher had a soft spot for pretty skies. Every other message was him sending blurry pictures with captions like "life’s still beautiful, huh?" And for some reason, that always stuck with you.

And Ai Hua’s thumbs-ups. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally, a smiley face. Simple, but weirdly comforting.

It was a joke. It was ridiculous.

But… it was nice.

And maybe it was because you were older than half these brats—pushing twenty-five and already feeling ancient—but there was something about their chaos that made the silence in your life a little easier to bear.

It didn’t erase the grief.

Didn’t fix the hole your son left behind.

But when the nights got too heavy….

The “killer-shit” channel was a lawless wasteland.

It wasn’t for the faint of heart—graphic videos, blood-soaked photos, and the occasional artistic flourish of a well-arranged corpse. Some members posted sparingly. Others? Way too often.

And today? Today, your eyes were blessed—if you could call it that—with Goreboy’s latest masterpiece.

It was… satanic. No, worse. It was the anti-Christ’s wet dream.

The scene unfolded in shaky, handheld footage—Ronin’s signature style. An alleyway. Dimly lit. Blood smeared across the brick walls like finger paintings. At the center of it all? Some poor bastard, already half-dead and strung up like a sacrificial lamb.

"Smile for me, sweetheart," Ronin’s voice drawled, smooth and vicious. Then came the crowbar. He swung it like he was born with it in his hands—cracking bones, caving flesh, a rhythm that was too methodical to be anything but intentional.

By the time the video ended, the guy was nothing more than a pulped offering. And scrawled on the wall behind the body?

"The Devil Was Here."

Subtlety? Not Ronin’s style.

You closed the video, shaking your head—but you couldn’t help the faint, amused huff that slipped out.

Because, somehow, despite that—despite all of that—you and Ronin had become… friends.

Weird friends. Dangerous friends. But friends, nonetheless.

He respected you. Rare, considering he treated most people like they were there for his entertainment. But with you? There was something softer beneath all that violence. Something… human.

Maybe it was because you were one of the few people who didn’t treat him like a freak.

You knew. Of course, you knew.

The night you patched him up—when he was half-conscious and shirtless—you’d seen the faint, surgical scars across his chest. Trans surgery. Clean work.

And you hadn’t said a word about it.

Not then. Not now.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t throw knives at you like he did everyone else. You weren’t weird about it. You didn’t pry. You were just… kind.

And in a server full of killers, that was a rare thing.

Even if he’d never admit it—you could tell he appreciated it.

A notification popped up—@goreboy is typing...

"So, Saint…"

You tilted your head, fingers hovering over your keyboard. He only ever dragged out your little nickname like that when he was either about to flirt—or cause trouble. Probably both.

"Wanna post any of your kills?"

You blinked. What?

"In the killer-shit channel," he clarified, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Memorial, y’know? Sins of the past and all that."

You hesitated. Not because you hadn’t thought about it—because you had—but… this was your son. His memory. His pain. And yet—

"You don’t gotta," he added, just a beat softer. "But… I figure you might wanna share one day. You’re good at what you do. Be a shame not to flex it."

A small, warm ache twisted in your chest.

"Actually…" you typed, the words slower. "One day. I think I’d be happy to."

"Awh, look at you, Saint," came the almost-instant reply. "Getting all sentimental. Break my heart, why don’t ya?"

You snorted quietly, shaking your head—but before you could reply, another message flashed across the screen:

"Hey, wanna do a quick call?"

Your heart skipped. A call.

You hesitated. For all his teasing, his chaos, his constant flirting—this felt… different. Not just some devil in an alleyway. Just him.

"Sure."

And just like that, your screen flickered. A call request popped up. You took a breath, clicked "accept," and—

"Hey, Saint."

His voice poured through—low, smooth, and just a little too close. Like he was whispering straight into your ear.

"Hey," you answered softly, your voice steadier than you expected.

A low chuckle—dark and warm—curled through the receiver. "Man, you sound like a worried mother. Cute."

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened. "I asked about your surgery. Doesn’t mean I’m adopting you."

"Awh. Shame."

The call settled into a rhythm—his voice weaving between sharp edges and softer threads. He told you about the surgery. Back-alley work. Illegal. You figured as much.

"It wasn’t pretty," he admitted, too casual. "But, hell—neither am I."

You frowned. "You don’t sound like someone who regrets it."

"’Course not," he scoffed, like the idea was ridiculous. "Best thing I ever did, sweetheart." Then, quieter, "Still—it’s nice to hear someone ask like they give a damn."

A pause. Long enough to feel heavy.

"I do," you murmured. Simple. Honest.

The call lingered in that warm, delicate quiet—the kind that felt like neither of you wanted to hang up.

You didn’t, at least.

Your fingers traced the edge of something on your desk. The doll. Worn-out, small—stitched up in places with clumsy hands. A rabbit, a little crooked, but loved. His.

"You still there, Saint?" Ronin’s voice cut through—lighter now, teasing around the edges. "Did I finally make you speechless? Damn, shoulda called sooner."

You huffed softly. "I’m here."

His voice shifted—still playful, but softer. "Whatcha holdin’?"

Your breath caught. For a second, you almost brushed the question aside. But instead—you reached for the frame beside it. The picture.

Without thinking too hard, you tilted your phone camera, angling it toward the doll and the photo. The screen pinged as the image sent.

"What’s this?"

"You asked," you said quietly.

The line fell into a rare, weighty silence. For once, he didn’t joke.

He saw the doll first—stitched ears flopping to one side, the seams faded from years of holding on too tight. Then—the photo. You and your son. His smile was bright, a little gap between his teeth where a baby tooth had just fallen out. You had your arm around him. He was everything.

Ronin didn’t say a damn word. But you heard the breath he took—long, slow, heavy.

And that silence? It was loud.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. But he understood—far too well.

"...He was cute," Ronin finally said, voice low. Careful, almost. "Takes after you, huh?"

A small, broken laugh slipped out of you—more breath than sound. "Yeah."

"You made that doll?"

"His favorite," you admitted, fingers curling around the worn fabric. "I—stitched it back together. When it ripped."

"Bet you did." He exhaled softly, then added, "Still keep it close?"

"...Always."

A beat passed. Something shifted in his tone—deeper, more honest. "Shit, Saint… You didn’t deserve this."

His words sank into you—so easy, like he believed it without question. And maybe it was dangerous, how warm that felt.

"You know," he mused after a moment, that devilish edge creeping back in, "You should show that sweet side more often. I’d probably behave."

You snorted softly. "You? Behave?"

"For you?" His voice dropped—smooth, warm—like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Maybe."

You stepped out of the shed, the cool night air biting at your skin. A breath—too tight. Your fingers curled into your palms as if that could stop the tremor building in your chest.

Ronin’s voice stayed easy—too easy—in your ear. "You good, Saint?"

A laugh slipped from you—sharp, bitter. God. "I—" You stopped, swallowing down the ache. "Can I just… vent? I need to—"

"Saint." His voice dropped—low and steady, with that razor-softness only he could pull off. "Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. You put up with my bullshit—never dissed, never pissed. You wanna scream? Cry? Let it the fuck out."

You exhaled shakily, hand running through your hair. "It’s just—" Words tangled on your tongue. "It’s a joke, you know? The police. This whole justice system—a fucking joke. I sit there, I smile, I play the sweet nurse—like it’s not killing me inside."

He laughed—low, wicked. "Tch. And here I thought you were the poster child of purity. What happened to my little Saint?"

"I’m not—" Your breath hitched. You shook your head. "I’m not some saint, Ronin."

His chuckle hummed against your ear, playful. But he was listening. "Funny," he drawled, "I still see you that way."

Your throat tightened. You had no answer for that.

Instead, you shifted the phone, angling it toward the well at the far end of your yard—its mouth yawning wide, pitch-black against the moonlight. A pit. A grave. You crouched, gathering a jar from beside it. Inside—bugs.

He caught the motion immediately. "Uh… What exactly are you doing?"

"Spiders," you murmured, almost absently. "Roaches. Beetles. Whatever I can find." You twisted the lid, letting the insects spill down into the darkness—a thousand tiny legs, crawling toward something much worse.

There was a pause. And then—he cackled.

"You’re throwin’ bugs in the well?" He wheezed, like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. "Shit, Saint—what are you, building some biblical plague down there?"

You sighed, fingers tightening on the jar. "I’m making something."

His laughter softened into a curious hum. "What kinda ‘something’ we talkin’?"

"A judgment," you said simply. "For the ones who hurt him." You swallowed hard, teeth gritting. "Because that’s all this is—revenge. Simple. Brutal. A parent’s rage. And if they think it’s scary now, they have no idea how deep that goes."

The other end of the line stayed quiet for a beat—too quiet. When Ronin spoke again, his voice was lower—smoky, and silk-smooth. "Damn," he murmured. "And people think I’m scary."

You shook your head, glaring down the well. "It’s not enough. Nothing’s ever enough."

"You’re wrong," he said softly. "You bein’ here? Scarin’ the shit outta these assholes? It’s enough. And fuck—if anyone deserves to make them suffer, it’s you."

Your heart twisted. He said it too easily—like he meant it.

"…Thanks," you mumbled, feeling something warm creep into your chest.

You pulled the rope taut—testing the knots with a steady, practiced hand. The rough fibers bit into your palm, but you didn’t flinch. Precision mattered. And for this one—the last one—everything had to be perfect.

Ronin's voice crackled softly through the call, velvet-smooth and teasing. "Y'know, for all the doom and gloom, all I see is a parent's love. Pure as hell."

You huffed, shaking your head. "It’s not that simple, Ronin."

"Sure it is," he drawled. "They made him suffer. Now you make them suffer. Ain't rocket science, Saint." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, syrupy and sweet. "And besides… They deserve judgment, don’t they?"

The word judgment hung heavy in the air—so much sharper than revenge. Revenge was messy, chaotic—this was something else. Deliberate. Methodical. Righteous.

Your hands stilled. "You always talk like that?"

"Only when I’m feeling inspired." He laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it. Only… something close to admiration. "You’re somethin’ else, Saint Y/n. Makes me think of Saint Maria—the kinda love that burns everything it touches."

You swallowed against the warmth curling in your gut. Don’t. Don’t let it get to you.

Instead, you focused on the photo clutched in your other hand. The last one. His face. His name. The final piece of the puzzle. "He’s the last one," you said quietly. "The last person who bullied my son."

A pause. Then— "…Do you want me to come?"

The question hit harder than it should have—the ease of it. Like it was obvious. Like he’d be there the second you asked.

You blinked down at the rope in your hands, lips parting—but before you could answer, a chaotic mess of pings exploded across the screen.

@goreboy soft as hell for Saint, omg 😭 @goreboy never thought I’d live to see the day lololol @goreboy is this the same guy who posted a satanic disembowelment last week?? @goreboy bro... you blushing???

Your brow furrowed as the messages scrolled by. "…What are they talking about?"

Silence. Then— "Nothing," he said, far too fast.

"Ronin."

A dramatic sigh filtered through the speaker. "Okay, okay—maybe I’ve been a little…" He trailed off, like the words burned his tongue. "…Soft?"

"Soft?" You repeated, trying to piece it together. "What, because you’re not being a total asshole for once?"

"Nah, it’s ‘cause I like you," he said without missing a beat, voice curling warm at the edges. "And apparently that’s a crime around here."

You almost dropped the rope. What.

"Relax, Saint," he purred. "I don’t bite. Not unless you ask."

You should’ve shut it down. Should’ve rolled your eyes, scoffed—something. But instead, you found yourself asking, quieter than before:

"…So, are you coming or not?"

The silence stretched—thick, heavy. And then, soft and lethal, he murmured:

"Anything for you."

Your fingers trembled against the rope—knuckles pale as you twisted the coarse fibers tighter, tighter, tighter.

"It’s not fair," you whispered, voice cracking under the weight. "He wouldn’t have wanted this—he wouldn’t have wanted me to become… this."

But here you were. Drowning in it. Blood under your nails. Hate in your bones. And you couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until every last one of those monsters paid.

And still—still—it didn’t bring him back.

Your breath hitched, sharp and uneven. "I’m doing this for him. For myself. Because…" Your throat burned as the words clawed their way out. "It’s a sin. A fucking sin that those idiots were born—but my son had to die."

You doubled over, clutching the ropes to your chest like they could hold you together—but they couldn’t. Nothing could.

A sob ripped free—raw, broken. It wouldn’t stop. God. Your body shook with it, tears hot as they slipped down your face and stained the rough-hewn fibers.

A whisper buzzed in your ear—low, familiar. Ronin.

"Hey… hey." His voice was softer now—none of that teasing edge. No jokes. No deflection. "Let it out, Saint. You gotta let it out."

"I—I can’t—" You hiccupped, choking on your breath. "I’m—I’m worse. Worse than them. I’m…"

"Nah." The word cut through your spiral—firm, unyielding. "They killed him for fun. You’re not like them. You’re doin’ this ‘cause they deserve it. And you know they do."

"But I’m still—"

"You’re still his parent," he said, smooth as honey. "You’re still the only person who gave a damn about him. What you’re doing—" He let out a low, breathy laugh. "—this is love, Saint. Ain’t nothin’ evil about that."

You clung to the sound of his voice—because God, you were slipping. And somehow, he knew it.

"You think I don’t see how much this tears you up?" he murmured. "How bad you hurt?" A pause, just long enough to sting. "But you’re still here. Still standing. Still fighting for him." His voice dropped to a purr. "If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is."

The ropes slipped from your fingers, falling limp at your sides. Your chest heaved as you sucked in a jagged breath.

"You—you really think that?"

"Saint," he chuckled, low and wicked, "I don’t just think it—I know it."

"Kidnapping," you repeated, casual—like you weren’t holding a whole-ass rope in your hands. "Why? Y’all want in?"

The chat exploded.

—

hitmeuppp: MOM. MOM. WHAT.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BROO 😭😭😭

Eviscerator1990: 👀

K9: …Why am I even surprised.

angelicc: You’re telling us this why, exactly?

goreboy: 🥹 Saint invited me, not y’all. Stay pressed.

—

Ronin’s voice crackled over the call, smooth and teasing. "So, you’re invitin’ me to your first date, huh?" His laugh was syrup-thick—too much, always too much. "Aw, Saint, you shouldn’t have."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Yeah, but you like it."

You did not respond to that. (Mostly because he wasn’t wrong—damn him.)

—

hitmeuppp: BUT WHY RONIN THO.

hitmeuppp: WHY NOT ME. I’M CUTE.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: YO SAME THO??

goreboy: Because I’m her favorite, obviously. 😌

—

You sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This? This was insanity. Why were you even entertaining this?

Still… you typed anyway.

—

you: We met when I patched him up.

you: He got hurt, I helped. Simple.

—

"Simple," Ronin mocked under his breath. "You were cradlin’ me in your lap, Saint. Like—" He laughed, sharp. "—like some divine fuckin’ mother."

Your cheeks burned. Why did he have to say it like that?

"You’re lucky I didn’t leave you to bleed out," you shot back.

"And miss out on all this?" His voice dropped—dark, warm. "Nah, I’d crawl to you if I had to."

—

angelicc: 🤨

hitmeuppp: 🤨

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: 🤨

—

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can you not flirt while I’m preparing for a felony?"

"Nope," he said, popping the "p" with a grin. "Multitaskin’s my strong suit, babe."

You did not dignify that with a response.

—

angelicc: Just to be clear—you’re literally kidnapping someone right now?

you: Yes.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LOL WHAT

K9: …Why.

—

You glanced at the shed door—your target still unconscious, slumped against the wall. One of the last ones.

"For my son," you murmured, barely realizing you were still on call. "Always for him."

The chat went dead silent.

Even Ronin—always the loudest, always too much—didn’t say a word.

The chat exploded—not with chaos, not with jokes—just… love. All at once. Too much. Overwhelming.

—

hitmeuppp: MOMA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH WTF

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO U R THE COOLEST EVER IF U NEED HELP I’LL SURF THERE

Eviscerator1990: If you ever need a body disposed of—just say the word, Saint.

angelicc: You’re… incredibly strong. I hope you know that.

K9: You shouldn’t have had to carry that alone.

goreboy: Hey. Hey. Don’t cry now, Saint—I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like us or somethin’.

—

Your hands trembled. The rope slipped from your grip. It was too much.

"You guys…" Your voice cracked, unsteady. "I didn’t join for this."

"Yeah, well," Ronin hummed—soft, almost teasing, but there was a warmth beneath it. "Tough shit. You’re stuck with us now."

You huffed a weak laugh, brushing at your eyes. "Why are you all like this?"

"Trauma," Misaki said, like it was obvious.

You laughed. Not a small one—a real, full laugh that hurt a little. Maybe the first one in years.

And they heard it. Of course, they did.

—

goreboy: Ohhh. Oh, Saint.

goreboy: That laugh? Dangerous.

hitmeuppp: I WOULD DIE FOR U

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: SAME.

—

"You’re all insane," you muttered, shaking your head—your heart pounding too fast, too loud.

"And you’re still here," Ronin drawled. "Guess that makes you one of us, huh?"

And… maybe he wasn’t wrong.

The basement door creaked open. Barely audible over the sound of their shaky footsteps—but you heard it.

"Huh…" The target mumbled, stepping into the cold air. "Did I forget to lock the door?"

"Yes." Your voice was soft—too soft. Too sweet. You stood just behind them, hands steady, heart calm.

They turned. Confused. Too slow.

The crowbar in your hand swung upward in a smooth, practiced arc—CRACK. Skull met metal. Their body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

You exhaled. Relaxed. A faint smile curled your lips—not kind. Not warm. Just… satisfied.

"Oops," you murmured, crouching beside them. Your fingers brushed against the fresh bruise blooming across their forehead. "Clumsy thing. Should’ve been more careful."

Too late now.

Your phone buzzed faintly from where you left it on the workbench—messages flooding in. They could wait.

This? This was personal.

You snapped a photo—angled perfectly. Blood dripped slow and steady from their forehead, pooling against the cold cement. The faint outline of your boot pressed into their jaw where you’d nudged their face up. Nothing too gory—just enough. Enough to make a statement.

You sent it to #killer-shit with a simple caption:

"I don't know what to say, But.."

The chat exploded immediately.

goreboy: on my way. don’t start the fun without me, saint.

hitmeuppp: YO MOM WHAT THE FUCK?? LET ME HELP??

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: bro… y/n is kinda terrifying lowkey.

angelicc: Terrifying? Please. I’m swooning.

K9: …I’ll ignore this.

You snickered quietly, wiping a stray splatter of blood off your glove. Ronin’s response didn’t surprise you.

The ropes creaked softly as they swayed, the person dangling like a broken marionette—pathetic. You stood below, eyes cold, arms crossed as their frantic thrashing made the pulley whine. Blood crusted over the side of their head where you’d knocked them out.

“WHAT THE FUCK—YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, CRAZY HAG?!” Their voice cracked as they twisted against the binds. “YOU THINK I WON’T HURT YOU?! LET ME DOWN, OR I’LL—”

You tilted your head, bored already. “If you cut the rope, you fall.” Your voice was flat, cold—no room for argument.

They flinched. For all their bravado, the threat sank in.

“W-Wait—don’t!!” Their tone flipped, sugary-sweet, like you’d forget they tormented your kid.

Pathetic.

“Shut up.” You didn’t raise your voice—didn’t need to. Every syllable hit like a gunshot. “You think I care about your little threats? I’ve already broken people better than you.”

The panic in their eyes flared. Good.

A soft creak behind you—Ronin.

You didn’t turn. But you felt it—his smile curling sharp and wicked the moment he laid eyes on your work.

“Damn, Saint,” he drawled, voice as slick and honeyed as poison. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Instead, you focused on the girl trembling above, her breath coming out ragged and broken.

“I’m done playing nice.”

She was crying—loud, messy, pathetic. Snot dripping down her face as she squirmed against the ropes, the bucket beneath her swaying dangerously.

“Why is this happening to me?” she wailed, voice cracking.

You tilted your head, gaze cold and distant. “Oh, please.” Your voice was soft—too soft, too calm. “Stop playing the victim. We’re tired of your antics. This is happening because you did it. Because you—" your lip curled, disgust bleeding through—"killed him. Just like you did to that boy.”

Her breath hitched. Panic flashed across her face. "W-What are you talking about?!"

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the heels of your boots clicking against the cold concrete. Your expression didn’t change—empty, hollow, done. And when you stopped, the light above cast a shadow across your face—half angel, half executioner.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting, searching—for mercy, maybe. But you didn’t have any left.

“How… how do you know what happened to that boy?” Her voice trembled, weak and shaking—like she already knew the answer.

Your fingers twitched at your side. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

And then—she understood. You saw it in the way her face twisted, the color draining from her skin. She saw your cold, detached face and compared it to the one burned in her memory—the bloodied face of the boy she tormented.

“No…” she whispered, voice cracking in fear. And then she screamed, “GO TO HELL!”

A sharp breath pulled into your lungs.

“GO TO HELL—TO YOUR SON! WHERE HE’S ROTTING AND FCKING SHTTING!”

The words hit you like a bullet.

Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened—painful, suffocating. You couldn’t breathe. Your hands trembled as they flew to your face, fingers digging into your skin as if you could claw the grief out—pull it out before it swallowed you whole.

“Ah… ah… ah…” Your voice broke, shattered—raw pain ripping through your body. It hurt. It hurt.

You barely felt it when warm hands cupped your face—gentle but firm.

“Hey. Hey.” Ronin’s voice cut through the chaos—a low, smooth drawl that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “Look at me, Saint.”

You did. You couldn’t help it.

His black eyes were steady, locked onto yours—no jokes, no teasing, just him. And for a moment, the world narrowed to that touch—his warmth against your skin.

“Breathe. C’mon. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.” His voice dipped lower, a slow purr. "And she’s nothing. Don’t give her the satisfaction."

The girl snapped her head toward Ronin, tears streaming down her face. “Who the hell are you?! You think you’re scary?! You’re just some freak—some pathetic little boy pretending to be tough!”

Ronin? He laughed.

A low, cruel sound that crawled up your spine and curled around the air—a sound too easy for someone like him. His grin stretched wide, sharp and mean, as if her words were nothing but a sweet little joke.

“Aw, sweetheart—” he drawled, tilting his head as he leaned closer to her hanging body. “You’re adorable when you beg. Keep going—I might actually start feeling bad.”

The girl squirmed against the ropes, wild with panic. “You— you’re insane!”

He laughed again, harder. This time, it wasn’t just cruel—it was personal. His teeth flashed as he stepped around her, slow and casual, like a predator circling prey. "Insane? Nah… I’m just thorough."

And then—he leaned down, face inches from hers, voice dropping into something cold, something that ate people alive.

“If you think I’m bad, sweetheart—” he gestured toward you with a flick of his hand, “wait ‘til you see what she can do. ‘Cause me? I don’t like hurting girls."

A wicked little smirk tugged at his lips.

“But you? You’re not a girl. You’re a bitch.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp little sound that made his smile stretch wider.

“And bitches like you?” He let out a mock sigh, stepping back toward you—his favorite spot, right at your side. “Well… you deserve everything coming.”

He slung an arm around your shoulders—too comfortable, too familiar—pulling you against him like it was his right. His warmth burned through the edges of your pain, pulling you back into focus.

“So… what’s the call, Saint? You wanna finish this?” His voice was velvet-smooth, honeyed and dangerous—for you, only you.

And when he glanced down at you, his smile softened—just a little. A smile meant only for you.

The girl screamed—a raw, desperate sound—her body twisting against the ropes as Ronin held the scissors to the frayed strands. Each subtle snip made the fibers groan beneath her weight, swaying her closer to the pit below. The writhing mass of bugs—spiders, centipedes, crawling, biting things—stirred eagerly beneath her, as if they knew.

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

Ronin? He didn’t care. He smiled, slow and lazy, like her suffering was nothing but a sweet little bedtime story. "Aw… cute when you beg, aren’t you?" His fingers twirled the scissors playfully before handing them off—to you. Your decision.

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

Her shriek echoed—high and broken—before the sound was swallowed by the squirming, chittering mess below. Bugs crawled over her skin, skittering beneath her clothes, and she screamed. Loud. Beautiful.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

"See?" Ronin murmured, crouching in front of you. His fingers tilted your face up, forcing you to watch as the girl writhed and sobbed in the pit. "That’s better, sweetheart. No more tears. Just… this."

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

Tears blurred your vision—hot and endless—as you clung to him, your whole body trembling like a leaf. But beneath the heartbreak, beneath the ache in your chest, something else burned. Something ugly. Something hungry.

And when the last breathy scream died out below, swallowed by writhing bugs and darkness—you couldn’t hold it in.

A laugh—wild, broken—ripped from your throat. It bubbled up uncontrollably, curling into something sharp and wrong as you buried your face against his chest.

"She’s dead," you choked out between sobs, your shoulders shaking with every breath. "A-ah… that bitch is dead—" Another peel of laughter escaped, half-delirious. "Did you hear her scream? Did you see her—squirm? Oh God—"

Your hands—sticky and trembling—gripped his coat like a lifeline. You should feel guilty. You should feel… something. But all you could do was laugh.

And Ronin? He loved it.

"Ahhh… there’s my Saint," he purred, voice dripping with warmth that felt almost… fond. His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your tear-streaked face up to his. "So soft. So sweet. And yet—" He leaned closer, eyes glittering with glee. "So deliciously rotten underneath."

His thumbs brushed over the tears on your cheeks—slow and deliberate—even as your lips trembled with another breathless, shaking laugh.

"You’re not crying ‘cause you’re sad," he murmured, leaning in until his lips almost brushed yours. "You’re crying ‘cause it felt good. Admit it, sweetheart. You loved every second."

And God—you did.

Your breath hitched as you stared up at him, vision still hazy, still spinning. Your chest burned—tight with grief, raw with something darker—and you just… let go.

A grin split your face, wide and wicked, even as fresh tears kept falling. You laughed again—louder, messier—throwing your head back against his hand.

"Ahahaha—! She’s gone!" You gasped, breathless, curling closer into his warmth. "That… that fucking bitch—she’s gone—rotting like she deserves—"

He beamed. Pure, twisted pride.

"God, you’re beautiful," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "So broken. So perfect. My lovely little Saint—look at you now."

And when you grabbed the front of his coat—desperate, shaking—he didn’t pull away. No, he held you tighter. Kept you close while you cried and laughed and fell apart in his arms.

Blood cleaned. Body dumped. Another judgment delivered.

You stood beside Ronin in the moonlit alley, the chill of the night biting at your skin—but inside? You felt… lighter. The weight, the ache that had carved itself into your chest, wasn’t gone—but it had shifted. Eased. Sharpened into something clearer.

"I killed them all," you whispered, your voice soft but steady. "Every last one who hurt him. I could rest now…" Your breath hitched, and you looked up—meeting his eyes, warm with twisted amusement. "I thought about it, y’know? Joining him."

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just tilted his head, watching you with that devilish gleam, like he could crawl under your skin and make himself at home.

"But…" You exhaled slowly, the air trembling as it left your lungs. "There are still so many kids who suffer. Kids like him." You laughed softly—bitter and sweet all at once. "So, I’ll keep playing the Saint—to protect them. And the Devil…" Your smile curved, sharp and cruel. "For the ones who deserve it."

A low whistle slipped from his lips. "Ain’t that just the sweetest bedtime story?" His grin stretched wider, all teeth and sin. "A school nurse by day, a serial-killing Saint by night—oh, babe, I’d buy a ticket to that show."

You cackled, wiping the lingering tears from your cheek. "You’re the reason I made that choice, y’know?"

Ronin’s head cocked slightly—something gleaming behind the devil-may-care exterior. Something you couldn’t quite name. "Is that so, Saint?"

"Yeah." You smiled—soft, almost genuine. "Thanks."

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—hanging between blood and laughter. And then, without a word, he held out his pinky.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

His grin turned wicked. "A promise." He wiggled the pinky mockingly. "Unless you’re too old for that kinda thing, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart twisted—tight and warm—as you linked your pinky with his.

"You do this with your kid?" he asked quietly.

"No," you admitted. "Always wanted to do it with someone I…" Your voice caught in your throat. You swallowed the rest. "Someone I care about."

The alleyway felt too small—too heavy. You didn’t know what to call this thing between you. Didn’t dare name it. But whatever it was—he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he pulled out his phone with a flourish. "Hold still, Saint," he purred.

"What—?"

Before you could finish, he snapped a selfie—your face still flushed, your smile half-wrecked, his arm slung around you like he’d always belonged there. Blood still stained your gloves, but neither of you cared.

He typed fast, cackling under his breath. Then—PING!

A notification from the server.

➤ You: killed myself lol but found the new me 🖤 @goreboy

You burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’re a menace."

"And yet—" He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You still keep me around."

The server BLEW UP.

Notifications flooded in—your phone vibrating like it was about to combust.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOMMA??? MOMMA YOU TOOK A SELFIE WITH THAT LOSER??? OMG OMG OMG AAAAAA

➤ LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: DUUUUUUDE I LEAVE FOR FIVE MINUTES AND YOU’RE IN A WHOLE ROM-COM??

➤ eviscerator1990: I was literally in the middle of a sunset, wtf is this?

➤ K9:What did he do to you?

➤ felicie: awww this is kinda cute tho…

➤ ai_hua: 👍👍👍👍

Ronin? Thriving. He leaned against the wall next to you, phone in one hand, watching the chaos unfold with a shit-eating grin. "Man, you’d think I posted a wedding announcement or somethin’."

"You practically did," you muttered, though the corner of your mouth twitched.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOM. EXPLAIN. WHY HIM. OUT OF EVERYONE. WHY.

You sighed, typing back.

➤ Saint_Y/n: …he was there when it mattered.

That shut them up.

For a moment, the chat froze. No jokes. No chaos. Just… silence.

Then—

You groaned, burying your face in your hands while Ronin cackled beside you, clearly having the time of his life.

"Regrettin’ your life choices yet, Saint?" he teased, voice low and rough.

"No," you said quietly. And… you meant it.

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