#something unnervingly familiar

[good-beanswrites]

A drabble for an anon asking about the prisoners watching their music videos! This is focused on specifically Mikoto’s initial shock at seeing MeMe for the first time, but just know that Double comes with a whole new set of shocks as he truly listens to John for the first time ;-;

Mikoto was no criminal. 

He didn’t know how to break into locked rooms, or hack into complex prison security systems. He figured there was no way in hell he’d be able to see these so-called incriminating videos that the Warden was recording, and had resolved himself to an eternity of wondering what they could be. He was shocked when he didn’t need to do a single thing to gain access to them – Es simply adjusted the computer monitor and told him he could hit play when (and if) he wished. Then they left the room.

“A-are you sure?” he called, but they were already gone.

Mikoto blinked at the screen. It showed a stretched version of his apartment couch, near his bathroom wall, broken to reveal sky above. He thought he could spot his tarot cards at the bottom of the frame. Had Milgram broken into his home to film this? 

He scoffed, and hit play.

Distorted guitar started up. He flinched as his own face appeared for a moment – looking directly into the camera and making a wild expression he would never have made if someone was recording. His body tensed up more as he heard his own voice start to sing lyrics he’d never spoken before in his life. He wasn’t even a good singer, and here he was sounding like a professional. 

There were plenty of ways to accomplish all of this, of course. Software could mimic one’s voice, making him say anything these crazy reality hosts wanted. A team could easily add some digital effects to a stunt double and match his appearance perfectly. Knowing that didn’t make the experience any less unsettling.

He watched himself commit a nasty murder. He watched himself return home bloodied. But it was all ridiculous. How could Milgram even claim that this was him? He’d never raised a hand to anyone in his life. Were the other prisoners’ videos as outlandish as this one?

But then, a switch. 

The song shifted to a new melody. He appeared to wake up from his couch, and suddenly Mikoto got the sense that this was him.

He was struck with how familiar this new segment sounded. It simultaneously felt like a favorite song he must have played on loop not too long ago, and one that he’d never heard before. As it played, each new note and lyric felt right on the tip of his tongue. 

It ended as quickly as it began. The song returned to the heavy-metal-murder aesthetic it had started with, and once again he felt like he was watching a cheap copy of himself onscreen. He watched another murder, a shower scene (had the warden seen all that? How embarrassing…) and then he turned to his bathroom mirror.

At the same time as his musical counterpart, Mikoto leapt backwards in horror. 

His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand flew up to grab the lower half of his face. It was fake, he told himself. AI and CGI and all that. It was fake. It had to be. 

Something deep inside of him said “no. That’s real. That’s me.”

Something else deep inside of him echoed the sentiment.

The video was less than four minutes of music, but by the end he was panting and tugging at his hair as if he’d endured hours of prison torture. He burst out of the room. He sucked in breath after breath. The melodies still played in his mind, lines repeating in his memory as he tried to put as much distance between himself and that little television screen.

He found the others in the common room. They gave him a knowing look, but somehow he knew his experience had been very different from their own. Es approached him.

They studied his expression for a moment. Thankfully, they didn’t ask anything stupid, like “how did it go?” or “what did you think?” 

Instead, they just told him, “if you ever want to watch it again, just let me know, I can get it set up for you.”

He would want to see it again. Of course, it would be better, then. He would take a moment to calm down. He’d watch it later and everything would be okay. He’d have a clearer mind. He’d pick out all the little camera tricks they used to make it. He’d be sure it was a fake, and laugh about how ridiculous he was being now. 

Of course. Of course. 

He nodded to Es, unable to produce any words. Es left him.

The rules in this prison never made any sense, but in this case, he was grateful. He wouldn’t need to figure out any snooping or hacking to get access to the video again. After all, he was no criminal.

… he wasn’t, was he?

[silvergarnet12]

What if you could find the Divine Beasts in the Depths?

You’re in this dark, alien environment, strange noises echoing around you, the inescapable anxiety your only companion. Squinting in the distance, you see a frighteningly familiar shade of blue flicker, faint in the distance.

Cautiously moving forward, you begin to realise the blue belongs to something much, much larger than a possible guardian. Eventually, an ancient behemoth looms overhead, still, silent, and empty, both at rest and unnervingly calm. A strange, restless melancholy replaces the sense of creeping dread, no less uneasy than before.

Entering the resting stone, in the corner of your eyes, you see movement flicker. At first you think a spirit, perhaps the Champions still linger… but deep down you know they’ve passed on… right?

Echoing footsteps fill the silence as you press on, avoiding gloom where there had once been malice, a desecration of a sacred resting place. You see the flicker again, turn on your foot and see for a split second, a beloved friend, an uneasy rival, a stalwart protector, a steadfast leader, an ally, a painful reminder of your worst failure. Even now, years later, it stings.

You try to get their attention, but there is no response. Instead, you watch. And realise. And mourn again. There are no spirits here. Not in the vast, decaying depths, not in the final resting places of a final hope.

These are echoes of the ones you knew. You can see them in the corner of your eyes sometimes, going about preparations for that ill-fated battle. It’s eerie, made no better by the Grand Poes gently swaying, their locations random but making uncomfortable sense.

Sometimes, on unlucky days, it is not preparations that these echoes go through. Pain torn screams faintly heard as their final moments are played out, a play on an eerie stage.

Vah Medoh groans in the dark, as the image of her pilot slams limply on her back, wing torn, and struggles to get up, defiance in his glare even now.

Vah Ruta cries a warning, as her pilot slumps over the controls, never seeing her killer, her last thought to warn the others.

Vah Rudania braces herself, as the echo of her pilot does the same, but the shield shatters, a flash of phantom heat coating the area, followed by darkness.

Vah Nabooris strides steady, until her pilot, fatigued from a relentless assualt, makes one fatal misstep in her final dance, lightning crackling in the air.

The stone beasts are restless, aware of the new threat, and unable to let go of the last pilots they’ll ever have, desperately trying to fight once more. But instead, they lay still, silent, a monument to their pilots lost to time.

What if you could find the Divine Beasts in the Depths?

[smartkookiee]

How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! || Ch.1 — jjk.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀° ❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader {she/her, a fab} ❥genre/rating: strangers to lovers, 18+ ❥chapter warnings/tags: software engineer!Jungkook, writer!Reader, flirting, drinking, nothing crazy happens in this chapter tbh, idiots, have fun (I’m so excited to see what everyone says, thank you to everyone for all the love on the teaser post!) ❥word-count: 9.4k ❥Series Masterlist ❥|| Next chapter fic is cross posted to ao3 - send an ask or comment on post to be added to the tag list. ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°

Day 0

“Y/N, can I see you in my office?” Yoongi’s voice cut through the ambient buzz of the office as he appeared at your cubicle. You blinked up at him, his request causing a ripple of curiosity among your surrounding coworkers, though no one dared to show it openly.

You hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind. Was I in trouble? Did he hate my last research project? Your mind raced through the possibilities. Yoongi had praised your work just last week, but what if he’d changed his mind? The thought of him taking back his compliments made your stomach twist. With a sigh, you saved your work and rose to follow him. The walk to his office felt unnervingly like being summoned to the principal’s office in high school.

Though your colleagues barely glanced in your direction, the nerves still had your palms sweating. You tried to wipe them discreetly on your pants as you stepped inside his office.

Yoongi moved behind his desk with casual ease, sinking into his chair as though he hadn’t just rattled your nerves with his sudden appearance. You stood awkwardly for a moment until he waved you toward the chair in front of his desk.

“You can relax, Y/N. You’re not in trouble,” he said, his tone gentle but amused. It was clear he could feel the tension radiating off you.

“I know, I know. I’m just a worrywart. You know that,” you laughed softly, though it came out more anxious than you’d intended. “So… why did you want to see me?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the desk as he watched you. “I’ve have an assignment for you. Something better than your usual research work.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as he began rifling through the disorganized pile of files and papers littering his desk. You’d been at Composure for a while, mostly doing background research for other writers’ articles. But you’d been hoping for an opportunity to step out of the shadows, to prove yourself as more than just a behind-the-scenes contributor. Maybe this is it?

When Yoongi finally found what he was looking for, he pulled out an old magazine and dropped it in front of you with a soft thud. You glanced down at the cover, your eyes widening as you saw the issue was from 2003.

“How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days,” Yoongi said, leaning back in his chair with a knowing glint in his eyes.

You picked up the magazine and began flipping through it, skimming the pages until you found the article. A sense of familiarity washed over you—this was one of those interesting pieces people still whispered about around the office. “I’m confused.”

“This piece was a massive hit when it came out,” he explained, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back. “Lana, one of the higher-ups, was the editor at the time this particular piece came out. She brought it up recently, said she thinks it’s time for something like this to make a comeback.”

“You want me to do this?” you asked, still reeling from the audacity of the concept. You skimmed through the details, noting the original author, Andy. She had gone to extreme lengths to sabotage a relationship for the sake of the article. You couldn’t help but cringe at some of the tactics she’d employed.

“Not exactly,” Yoongi replied with a small chuckle. “The feedback back then was that the whole experiment felt a bit too unrealistic. Readers loved it and it was a funny read, but many thought they don’t do things this intense. Lana’s idea was to take the same concept, but… stretch it out.”

“Stretch it out?” you echoed, still trying to wrap your head around the idea.

“Yeah. Ten days is too quick for something like this. We want to make it feel more genuine. Instead of a mad dash to drive the guy away, we want to see what happens over a longer period. A month, maybe two. Let the tension build naturally.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting the idea swirl around in your head. It was ambitious, maybe even a bit reckless, but there was no denying it would be a challenge.. “So… you want me to date someone and—what? Subtly sabotage it over time?”

“Exactly. Actually date but do all the classic early relationship mistakes,” Yoongi explained, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the concept. “It’s an experiment in human behavior, relationships, and how much people are willing to overlook.”

“So like talking about something personal way too fast, or inviting yourself into their life way too quickly and then write about it?” you prattled on a bit, it was picking at the ideas in your brain in the right way.

Yoongi smiled, clearly pleased with your interest. “I brought this to you because you have more than proven yourself here. You’ve been doing excellent research, and I want to see how you handle something of this scale. Especially because this would be a feature piece.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the compliment, but there was still a question gnawing at you. “I’m glad you are trusting me with something like this, especially with such a high-profile piece. But… I have to ask, sir—why do you think I’m the right person for this?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, his expression more thoughtful. “Because I want to challenge you. I like your research and I like how you write, you understand the people who read our columns on a deeper level. I think you have more in you. I want to see if you can handle something outside of your comfort zone.” His voice softened, but the weight of his words wasn’t lost on you. “And after something like this, I’d be more than happy to move you on to bigger and better pieces.”

The subtle hint of a promotion sent a jolt of excitement through you. “Really?”

“Really,” Yoongi confirmed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It was all you could do to keep the excitement from bubbling over. An actual writing assignment, something that could elevate your standing in the magazine, was exactly what you had been waiting for.

“I don’t even know what to say other than thank you.” 

You fidget with the magazine in your hands, resisting the urge to curl the edges. Your mind raced, trying to think of what a realistic timeline for the piece could look like—something ambitious, but doable.

“How about… How to Lose a Guy in Thirty Days? A longer timeline, more idealistic. A month in is usually when new relationships start to fall apart. It’s after the initial getting-to-know-someone phase,” you suggest, throwing the idea out there, hoping Yoongi would take the bait.

“Thirty days, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes, sir.” You nod, your confidence building as you think about the possibilities.

“Good,” Yoongi replies, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied look. “Let’s start on Monday, after we get through this print run. That gives you a few days to find the poor guy.”

“Right. Thank you, Mr. Min.” You stand up, your heart racing as you try to play it cool. But as soon as you exit his office, you can barely contain your excitement.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you mutter under your breath as you rush to your desk. Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you start jotting down notes, pulling out sticky notes and scribbling ideas, trying to organize your thoughts.

Ronnie, sitting in the neighboring cubicle, leans back to peer around the divider, noticing your frenzied state. She rolls her chair into your space, sliding up next to you with a curious look.

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she watches you type furiously. A laugh escapes her when she sees the pen stuck in your mouth and the growing pile of sticky notes attached to the old magazine.

“I gob a columb,” you mumble through the pen, barely pausing your typing.

Ronnie plucks the pen from your mouth. “Try that again.”

“I’m writing my first column.” You repeat, finally turning to face her, your excitement breaking through.

“No way!” Ronnie stands, her voice a little too loud, drawing a few glances from nearby desks. She sits back down and grabs your shoulders. “That’s so awesome! Your first column! What’s it going to be about?”

You hand her the magazine, pointing to the title. “This.”

“How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days?” She raises her eyebrows in surprise, flipping through the article. “You’re seriously going to do this?”

“Well, not exactly the same,” you say with a grin, watching as she reads through the outlandish tactics in the original piece. “Just similar.”

Ronnie’s eyes widen as she reaches some of the more extreme parts of the article. “Okay, this is crazy, all the things this girl did to this guy. Oh my god.” She rocked in disbelief, continuing the read through. “Awe, ends bittersweet though.” 

“It’s going to be How to Lose A Guy in Thirty Days this time.” 

“A month?” She laughs and shakes her head, you give her a confused look. 

“What? I can do this!” You bump her shoulder. 

“Do what?” Namjoon strolls into your cubical looking between the both of you.

“Kid got her first column.” Ronnie sings she has a proud grin on her face. You spin around to look at Namjoon. 

His face lights up at the news, “That’s so awesome! Congrats!” He rubs your hair messing it up, you bat his hands away smoothing out your hair. 

“Thanks Joon.” 

“What’s it on?” Namjoon leans against your desk along side Ronnie. 

Ronnie hands him the magazine flipped open to the article. He takes it and examines it for a moment, he reads along and his eyes widen at times. You continue scribbling down some thoughts while he does this. Namjoon was a silent reader but would always share his full thoughts when he was done. 

“Woah, this is wild.” Namjoon flips back to the beginning of the article, like he had to read it over again. 

“I know the original one is a little insane but we are doing it differently this time.” You explain, Namjoon had concern written all over his face reading through the article again. 

“Quote, ‘after five days I decided to go ahead and take things to the next level between us. I completely redecorate his apartment with pink attire and stuffed animals everywhere.” Namjoon reads the section out loud. “She only knew him for five days?” 

You nod, “I don’t know how she was so brave to do all of that. Luckily Yoongi said I don’t have to be as extreme as this. Just more casually clingy and needy, do small things that most people think are normal but seem to send guys running before anything serious can begin.” 

“Yeah, I definitely hope you don’t end up ‘photoshopping your baby pictures together.’” Ronnie adds with a grin.

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, no. I’d sooner die of embarrassment. I don’t have the energy for that level of crazy.”

Namjoon leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised in slight  concern. “So, what is the plan then? You’ve got something in mind, right?”

You sigh dramatically. “Not sure yet. I’ve got until Monday to find a guy and come up with some sort of idea of how I want to do this.”

“Oh, can we help?” Ronnie’s eyes light up as she bounces in her chair, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Help find the guy?”

“Obviously, and with the torture,” she adds, looking way too enthusiastic.

“I’m not torturing him,” you chuckle, “just… irritating him a little. You know, for research purposes.”

“Uh-huh.” Namjoon’s teasing grin softens as he looks at you, a hint of doubt creeping in. “But are you really sure you can do this, like… casually?”

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, come on,” Namjoon says with a snort, gesturing vaguely at you. “You wear your heart in a pink, sparkly basket for everyone to see. Are you sure you won’t fall for the poor guy instead?”

“I don’t do that! And I will not!” You protest, but Namjoon and Ronnie exchange a look that screams they definitely think you do.

“I’ve never seen you not get your hopes up after a date or two,” Ronnie says, shrugging sympathetically.

“Well, this time will be different,” you say, folding your arms defiantly. “It’s just business. I have to get the guy to break up with me anyway.”

They weren’t wrong, though, and you know it. You’ve always been one of those people who swoon at love songs and daydream about movie-perfect endings. You were the exact type of person this article was written for in the first place. You did get attached too quickly and were getting hurt too often. But this? This was just an assignment. A game. You wouldn’t get hurt if you knew it had to end from the start.

“You’ll see.” You add with more confidence, determined to prove them wrong.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Ronnie teases, rolling her chair back toward her desk. It was well past time for her to get to her own work. 

Namjoon shakes his head with a chuckle. “Good luck to this guy, I guess,” he mutters, though there’s warmth in his voice. He’s seen you get your hopes up too many times to believe you could really keep things casual.

But this time, you were determined. No expectations. No daydreaming. It was all just work.

Across town, though, someone else was perfectly content with his easygoing, no-strings-attached lifestyle. Jungkook, waking up in someone else’s bed was just another morning for him. He opened his eyes but was blinded by the morning light. He rolled over and looked around, he had no idea where he was. Memories of last night vaguely coming back to the front of his mind. 

He looks over to see a sleeping girl in the same bed. He stands from the bed and manages to find his phone. Seeing the time. 

“Shit.” He rushes to find his scattered items and puts his clothes back on. Tip toeing his way around the room and manages to get out the front door without a fuss. 

Getting out of the building, Jungkook blinked as the morning sun hit him square in the face. He rubbed his eyes, still groggy from a less-than-restful sleep. Scanning the unfamiliar streets, he had no idea what neighborhood he was in, but that was par for the course these days. He pulled out his phone and called for an Uber, slipping his sunglasses on as he waited.

Another late night, another random bed. This wasn’t exactly new territory, but he couldn’t help feeling off. Normally, Thursdays were a quiet night in, but when Jimin and Taehyung wanted to go out, Jungkook wasn’t about to turn them down. And, as always, the night had ended the way it usually did for him—blurry and chaotic.

By the time Jungkook made it to the office, it was later than he would normally prefer to arrive. Slipping through the doors, he did his best to avoid attention although Hoseok’s keen eyes were already tracking him. Jungkook tried to get settled quietly, but it was pointless. Hoseok’s desk, conveniently right next to his, made stealth impossible.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Hoseok sang, swiveling in his chair to grin at Jungkook. He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, then gave Jungkook an exaggerated once-over. “Did you lose a bet, or is that last night’s shirt?”

Jungkook smirked as he slid into his seat. “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but in yesterday’s clothes. What’d you do? Roll straight from the bar to your desk?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow, clicking away on his mouse as he pulled up their latest coding project.

“Pretty much,” Jungkook admitted, booting up his own computer. “I’ll head home at lunch and change. No one cares what I wear to debug.”

Hoseok shook his head with a laugh. “You’re gonna blind the clients with your wrinkled t-shirts one of these days.”

“Fair enough,” Jungkook chuckled, typing in his password. “But I’m still better at the code reviews, so they can’t complain too much.”

Hoseok conceded with a nod, leaning back in his chair. “Rough night?”

Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck. “You could say that. Taehyung and Jimin were relentless. Didn’t stop until the bar kicked us out.”

“Ah, classic,” Hoseok said with a grin. “They never know when to quit.”

Jungkook smirked, though he felt the exhaustion settling in his bones. “They’ve got energy for days, man. But, hey, what about tonight? You in?”

Hoseok hesitated, glancing at the lines of code on his screen before looking back at Jungkook. “Again? You don’t look like you’re dying to go out tonight.”

Jungkook chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, I’m wrecked, but you know I’m down. Someone’s gotta keep Taehyung from getting us banned from another bar.”

Hoseok shook his head, clearly amused. “I dunno, man. I might actually take it easy tonight. Jimin’s been texting like he’s planning another big one, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to babysit.”

“You? Too tired to party?” Jungkook teased, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you just complaining last week that we only go out when you’re drowning in deadlines?”

“I didn’t say I’m backing out,” Hoseok defended, though his reluctance was obvious. “I’m just... thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it, my ass. You’ll be there. I’ll text Jimin, tell him to go easy on the plans.” Jungkook turned back to his monitor, his fingers flying over the keys as he opened the project files for their current assignment.

Hoseok chuckled. “Yeah, alright. But if I show up and Taehyung’s dancing on tables again, I’m leaving early.”

“Deal,” Jungkook said with a grin.

 Then Hoseok’s smirk deepened, and he shot a glance at Jungkook. “By the way, has she called you yet?”

Jungkook frowned, glancing sideways. “Who?”

“Claire. She’s been texting me. Again.” Hoseok’s grin turned into a mock look of annoyance. “Seriously, bro, how is she still hitting me up to ask about you? You need to fix that.”

Jungkook groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I made it clear we’re done.”

“Well, apparently she didn’t get the memo. She asked me yesterday if you were ‘okay,’ like I’m your personal messenger or something.”

Jungkook sighed, his fingers stilling on his keyboard. “I haven’t heard from her in weeks. She’s probably fishing for info, trying to get back in touch. She wanted something serious, and I was always upfront about keeping it casual.”

Hoseok raised an eyebrow. “And she didn’t take that well?”

“She acted like she understood, but... yeah, not really. I broke it off before things got messy.” Jungkook sighed. “Now she’s bugging you instead.”

“Lucky me,” Hoseok muttered. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. But seriously, dude, she’s asking me if you’re, like, in a dark place or something. I think she’s hoping for a window to swoop back in.”

Jungkook groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Tell her I’ve joined a monastery.”

Hoseok laughed. “Sure, I’ll let her know you’ve taken a vow of silence and reflection.”

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of coding and testing modules. By the time lunch rolled around, Jungkook had managed to convince Jimin to keep the plans for the night low-key—just a few drinks at a bar they liked. Hoseok seemed more on board with the promise of a relaxed evening, and Jungkook was glad. As much as he loved the chaos, even he was feeling the need for something calmer.

When they arrived at the bar that evening, it was more crowded than they’d expected. The hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses filled the air, and the warmth of bodies packed in tight hit them as they wove their way through the crowd.

“So much for a quiet night,” Hoseok muttered, dodging a couple who were clearly several drinks in.

Jungkook grinned, nudging him. “Come on, it’s Friday. What did you expect?”

“Less people and more chairs,” Hoseok replied, though the grin on his face said he wasn’t too upset about it.

Jungkook laughed, scanning the bar for a spot to settle in. Despite his earlier exhaustion, he could feel the pull of another night out with his friends, the familiar buzz of energy creeping in. There was something about the chaos of it all that he couldn’t resist.

“Over here!” Jimin’s voice cut through the noise, his arm waving above the sea of people as he flagged them down. He and Taehyung had already secured a table in the corner.

Jungkook and Hoseok exchanged a glance before making their way over, dodging elbows and weaving past groups of friends clustered around the bar. As they reached the table and took their seats, Hoseok let out a deep sigh.

“Jesus, there are so many people here tonight,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I should have stayed home.”

Jimin smirked, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand. “Aww, come on. It’s been forever since we’ve been out together.”

Jungkook chuckled, patting Hoseok on the shoulder. “It was definitely a struggle convincing him to come tonight.”

Hoseok held up his hands in surrender, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Hey, I was promised a chill night with some drinks. That’s my kind of Friday night.”

Before anyone could say more, Taehyung appeared at the table, balancing a tray of drinks with ease. “Here you go, gentlemen,” he said, passing them around with a flourish.

A round of thank-yous followed as each of the guys took their drinks. Jungkook took a long sip, letting the cool, bitter taste of his beer settle on his tongue as he leaned back in his chair, finally starting to relax.

“So,” Taehyung said after a moment, turning to Jungkook with a curious smile, “where did you disappear last night, man?”

Jungkook barely had time to respond before Jimin interjected, his tone teasing. “Where do you think he ran off to?” Jimin wiggled his eyebrows in fake suspicion.

The grin on his face made it clear he was referring to Jungkook’s extracurricular activities.

Taehyung snickered, shaking his head. “Oh, I see. Anything to tell? Did you find the love of your life?” His voice was full of amusement as he took another sip of his drink.

Hoseok snorted, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, right.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes playfully, tipping his head in Hoseok’s direction. “Hey, you never know.”

“Sure,” Hoseok said with a laugh, bumping Jungkook’s shoulder. “I’m sure she felt some kind of deep connection.”

Jimin waved a hand in Hoseok’s direction, dismissing him with a grin. “Leave him alone.”

But Hoseok wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. He shrugged, glancing around the table. “I mean, as long as I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him be serious with someone.”

Jungkook felt the familiar twist in his gut at the comment but didn’t let it show. It wasn’t that he didn’t want something serious—it just hadn’t happened in years. He took another sip of his beer, trying to brush off the remark. He had become somewhat comfortable in his solace and easy hook ups. Last thing he had to something serious was what he had with Claire, and that wasn’t even hardly serious.

Broke it off because she changed her mind about what she was wanting from him, Jungkook just really didn’t see a future with her and had always made his feelings about their relationship clear. He really came off looking like a dick but he didn’t want to drag her along. He didn’t want to drag anyone along. 

“I can be serious when I want to be.” Jungkook took another sip of his beer. 

“Yeah for like a day.” Taehyung teases. 

“Not even, more like an afternoon.” Jimin jumps on him with a laugh. 

“Try thirty minutes!” Hoseok adds on to the end before Jungkook waves them all of. 

“Thirty minutes?” he raised an eyebrow, “Give me more credit than that.”

“Fine, thirty-one.” Taehyung added on with another laugh. 

“Whatever,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “Make your jokes but I don’t see any of you pulling in any serious relationships these days.” Jungkook points the top of his bottle around the group. 

“Hey, I have a date next week I’ll have you know!” Hoseok protests.

“This isn’t about us though, this is about you.” Jimin sits back in his chair. 

“What about me?”

“You’re not a relationship guy.” Taehyung sipped his beer. 

“I’m comfortable by myself.” Jungkook crossed his arms. 

“Nothing wrong with it, I just doubt you could ever be serious with someone.” Jimin shrugs. 

“I’d be a better boyfriend than you.” Jungkook kicks Jimin's leg under the table. 

“Yeah maybe when you’re fifty and decide it’s time to settle down.” Taehyung gives Jungkook a smirk. 

“No way, I bet I could be a better boyfriend than all three of you.” Jungkook was getting too serious and Jimin and Taehyug smelt a challenge in the air. 

“Wanna bet on it?” Jimin cocks his head to the side. It wasn’t unlike the three of them to make bets and they were always stupid.

“Aren’t we a little too old for bets?” Hoseok looks between the guys but he could already tell once Jimin raised the question, Jungkook was already locked into the idea. 

“What are you thinking?” Jungkook leans his elbows on the table. 

“I will bet a hundred dollars, that you couldn’t keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks.” Jimin states and Jungkook almost feels insulted. 

“Come on, I can do better than that.” Jungkook goats Jimin, Jimin looks at Taehyung. 

“I’ll buy in. 200 bucks.” Tahyung jumps on it. 

“You guys are morons.” Hoseok shakes his head, Jungkook was up for the challenge but two weeks was insulting. 

“No, I can keep a partner around for way longer than two weeks. Come on.”

“Okay, how about a month. We’ll make it 300 bucks if you can stay with the same girl for one month.” Jimin jumps on it, between him and Taehyung they would only be out one fifty each. 

“But we get to pick who it is.” Taehyung quickly tacts on that little stipulation. 

“What? No fair.” Jungkook pouts. 

“Totally fair. Hobi weigh in on this.” Jimin nods his head to Hoseok who was hoping to stay invisible but it seems he has been brought on as the referee. 

“I guess it makes sense, if you pick the girl it makes it too easy for you to win.” Hoseok logics it out but this definitely wasn’t starting to feel fair.

“Ugh fine.” Jungkook groaned, Jimin had extended his hand for a shake, Jungkook took it and they shook on the deal. 

“Again, idiots.” Hoseok knew this was probably going to crash and burn and Jungkook would be out three hundred bucks. Jungkook was feeling very confident though and perhaps a little too competitive. He felt sure he could sucker these two out of three hundred bucks. As well as get to hang out with a pretty girl for a while. Putting on all of his best charm. 

“So when do we start?” Jungkook looks between them. 

“How about right now?” Jimin taps his glass.

While that played out, across the same bar, you were sitting at a booth with your friends.

Catching Jin up on your new promotion at work and your upcoming column to be. The bar was buzzing with life, the noise blending into a background hum as you spoke, but you could feel the excitement rising between you all.

“No way,” Jin’s face lit up as he scanned the photos of the old magazine article on your phone. You had snapped a few pictures to give him the full story, and now he was reading it with wide eyes, barely containing his amusement.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Ronnie took a long sip of her cocktail, her expression still skeptical. She shook her head as if she still couldn’t wrap her mind around what you were planning. “I mean, I seriously can’t believe you’re going to go through with this.”

“Look,” you began defensively, though a smile tugged at your lips, “I know it’s a little out there, but Yoongi really thinks I can do this. He has his full faith in me.”

It was true. Despite the fact that this assignment would push you far outside of your comfort zone, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement and determination. It wasn’t going to be easy, but you were confident you could handle it.

Jin, still holding your phone, read aloud with a dramatic flair: “A friend of mine made a good point that I shouldn’t allow him to have a boys’ night, so I decided to get a key from his landlord to interrupt their game night!” He glanced up with an incredulous look. “She really got a key from his landlord? That’s insane!”

You snatched your phone back, eyes wide. “Okay, I’m not doing that!” you exclaimed, shaking your head. “I’m just going to be clingy, needy. I’m not breaking into anyone’s house!”

“Good for her, honestly,” Namjoon chimed in, cracking open a peanut from the bowl in front of him. “The guy she picked probably deserved it.”

Ronnie nudged him with her elbow. “Didn’t you read the end? She ended up falling in love with him! Realized she was wrong and that he didn’t deserve all that treatment.” Ronnie leaned back in her chair, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Classic.”

“Of course, she did,” Jin chuckled, taking another sip of his beer. His eyes flicked back to you, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “That’s totally going to be you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I will not.”

“Please,” Jin said, laughing. “You’re such a gooey romantic. You fall in love so easily.”

Namjoon and Ronnie exchanged knowing glances, both trying—and failing—not to laugh. They knew better than anyone how quickly you could get swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. It wasn’t that you were naive, just hopelessly, undeniably romantic. And they were somewhat concerned about how this whole assignment might play out.

“Look, this is a professional column,” you said, crossing your arms defensively. “It’s not like I’m actually looking for anything serious. I just have to scare him off. That’s it.”

“Either that or he will be on bended knee by the end of it.” Namjoon teased. 

“Very funny. That’s why I have you guys here though, help me pick someone.” You really did want some help on this part. If you got help picking the guy then maybe you could pick someone who it would be easy to let go of.

“How so?” Ronnie tilted her head at your request.

“Well knowing my luck I would accidentally pick a guy who is totally perfect for me and I really won’t be able to go through with it. If you guys pick then you could objectively find someone who is someone I would never go for.” You clap your hands together, hoping your explanation is enough. 

“Oh I’m so in.” Jin rests his chin on his hands. “Plus this bar is packed, we could easily find someone tonight.”

“Well we won’t find him sitting here. Let’s go fish.” Ronnie stands from her seat offering a hand to you, Jin following close behind. The three of you taking a turn about the bar, making observations at some of the different groups that were here. 

“Let’s see.” Ronnie taps her lips with her pointer finger and glances about the room as the three of you search from person to person. “Okay, guy at the bar. Sweater, cheesy and obviously cheap silver necklace.”

You and Jin both take a glance over to him, he seemed to be here alone. Looked nice enough, maybe a good choice. He seemed like a jock type, looked like he was trying with his looks a little too hard. You were considering it before Jin shook his head. 

“Not him, hes rubbed his ring finger like four times.” Jin points, just at that moment the guy does it again, “He’s either married or just got divorced and looking for another wife. Next!” 

“Touche.” You agree and the three of you glance around again. “Okay, how about that guy?”

You point to a small group of guys who seemed way deep into a game of pool. One of the guys sinks a cool shot into one of the pockets and he and another guy cheer too loudly, you were far away and you could still hear them. He looked like he was about to break his pool stick from excitement. 

“Nevermind. Way too intense.” It would have been a good choice but you would probably end up dumping him before you could get any work done. 

The three of you run through a few more guys as you walk around, all three of you seemed to find some reason to veto them again and again. Some were too close to your type and some were just too annoying for you to be able to stand them long enough to keep this ruse up. 

“God slim pickings tonight.” You were getting exhausted. You were considering heading back to Namjoon at the table and coneiding for the night. Maybe sleep it off and try again at another bar tomorrow. 

“We can do this.” Ronnie cheers trying to keep your spirits high. “This guy is here, I just know it.” She had had more to drink at this point, she's a pretty energetic drunk. 

“I agree. No throwing in the towel yet.” Jin scans the room again, you guys had moved to many different spots and more people had moved in and out of the bar at this point. 

Jin looked around from guy to guy. Jin frequented this bar often so he had a general sense of the people who were new and the people who frequented here often. He wasn’t sure himself who would work for this, they had to be the perfect combination of nice enough to stick it out but still a playboy or asshole enough that you wouldn’t fall for them. Someone who maybe deserved a little bit of torture. Someone who needed a little due karma. 

He waited for a moment, maybe all three of you just needed to let the guy reveal himself. Before Jin thought it was hopeless was just when he got exactly what he asked for. 

Jungkook was making his way over to the bar.

“Bingo.” Jin whispered. Jungkook had left the table with his friends, the booth was tucked away in the corner so it was no wonder he didn't notice them before. “That’s the guy.” 

“Who?” You ask and then Jin points his finger, tracking Jungkook to the end of the bar. You watched him order from the bartender and then casually wait for a moment. 

“He’s perfect.” Jin was confident. 

“He’s cute?” Ronnie nods, Jin rolling his eyes at her. “What am I wrong?” 

He was very cute you thought, he sported this leather jacket and dark jean look. Large boots, it wasn’t your usually clean cut look that you enjoyed but you understood the appeal of it. 

“Okay why him?” You ask looking at Jin. 

“I’ve seen him here a lot. Always comes with a group of friends, but he never leaves alone. Never the same girl twice. I thought he stopped coming around, but nope. Looks like he’s still at it. His name’s something like Jungkook.” Jin places both hands on your shoulders, looking you dead in the eye. “Total Casanova. Leaves behind a trail of broken hearts.”

Ronnie raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make it harder to keep him around for thirty days?” 

“Not necessarily,” you say, the wheels turning in your head. “I just need him to dump me within thirty days. He doesn’t have to stick around for all thirty.”

“Longest I saw him entertain a girl for was maybe two weeks? That’s exactly what you need.” Jin shakes your shoulders and you laugh at the movement, almost dizzy after your two drinks. 

A playboy type who can’t commit for more than two weeks. It was exactly what you needed, and lucky for you you wouldn’t need to feel bad about maybe annoying him too much. You needed him to dump you no matter what. Could be fun after all, messing with a guy who is a fuckboy that Jin has seen around could be almost a perfect karma for this guy. 

“Perfect.” You say with a sly smile as you watch him walk back to his group balancing a few drinks in his arms along the way. 

Jungkook managed to set the drinks down gently, “Here you go boys.”

He passed the drinks outs but Jimin and Taehyung were deliberating about something. Jungkook looked between them and looked to Hobi for confirmation. Hoseok wasn’t totally sure what their hushed conversation was about. 

“I don’t know, seems like he could make that work too well.” Jungkook could barely make out the sentence coming from Tae. 

“No it has to be someone like that.” Jimin adds on and then they both seem to come to some silent agreement. Both sitting up straight in their spots. 

“What are you two whispering about?” Jungkook breaks the silence and they both have big grins on their faces, Taehyung is looking over the back of the booth to the bar. 

“Okay we have made a decision.” Jimin puts on an announcer voice, holding his glass like a microphone.

“You picked someone? Already?” Jungkook was surprised they had come to an agreement on this so quickly. 

Taehyung looks back to Jungkook and nods, “Over there, short maroon dress. Waiting at the bar. Has a tall guy and another girl, dark hair and black dress with her.” Taehyung points and Jungkook looks. 

It takes him a moment, but then he spots you, mid-laugh about something with your friends. A small smile tugs at his lips—you were undeniably cute. There’s something polished about the way you’ve styled yourself, striking a balance between playful and sophisticated. To Jungkook, though, you scream commitment. Your look isn’t meant to turn heads; it’s just confident. It’s a stark contrast to the more overtly flirty, bold style he usually goes for. That makes him curious—why would Jimin and Taehyung pick someone who seems so... relationship-minded?

“Her really?” He looked back at both of them. “Do you want to just hand me the three hundred dollars now?”

“I know you think it will be easy, but that is the type of girl who wants marriage. I think her need for a commitment is going to send you running.” Jimin rubs his hands together evilly. 

Jungkook looks back to you again, thinking. Jungkook felt like he could very well be committed, he could do it probably better than most people. He just hasn’t wanted to or hasn’t had the time too.

“I will be Mr. Marriage Material from here on out.” Jungkook downs the rest of his beer, “Be ready to put your money where your mouth is.” 

Jungkook stands up and leaves the table, they watch him go to work. Taehyung was now nervous and Hoseok was not even sure what he was watching anymore. Also confused by Jimin's choice. 

“Okay, I gotta say he has a point.” Hoseok leans back to Jimin. 

“Yeah now I’m kind of nervous.” Taehyung rubbed his neck, watching Jungkook who was waiting for an opportunity to maybe get a chance encounter with you. The two friends hovering around you weren’t making it easy. 

“Trust me. I’ve seen that girl here before.” Jimin smiles. 

“Do you know her?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow to him, now even more curious. 

“Not at all, but I tried hitting on her once. Very sweet, turned me down though. Seriously, the moment I walked up she read me like an open book.” This was earlier this year and Jimin didn’t care, he had some personal things going on and did it on a whim. You immediately saw through his tactics and called him out on it. 

“What did she do?” Taehyung became nervous. 

“I tried hitting her with a line, and she just looked at me and laughed. Honestly, I might’ve been offended if she hadn’t been so sweet about it. She even apologized! Said she could tell I wasn’t serious. Sent me on my way before I could even react. I swear, I was a little dizzy afterward.”

“Oh wow.” Hoseok is putting the pieces together now. “Okay, I see, so she is going to see through Jungkook right away.”

“Exactly,” Jimin raises his glass, “If he gives off even a whiff of insincerity. She won’t give him the time of day. She very clearly wants someone who is into the long term relationship game and Jungkook… never will be.”

“So you’re not concerned, not even a little bit?” Taehyung asks one more time. 

“Not even slightly.” Jimin clinked his glass against Taehyungs.

“So how is this going to work?” Ronnie looks between you and Jin.

“I’m not sure. What else do you know about him?” You look to Jin for advice on this. You came here sometimes but you weren’t as much of a frequent flier as Jin. 

“Hmm, unfortunately I usually see him hit on girls who are more… obviously here for something casual.” He gestures towards another girl at the bar, she was dressed very differently than you were. More revealing, nothing wrong with that but it was starkly different to your look. 

“So maybe it's a lost cause?” You frown.

“Absolutely not.” Ronnie protested waving her hand back and forth.

“Just means you might have to be the bold one. Instead of him coming to you, you go after him.” Jin nodded and rubbed his chin. 

You stifled a laugh, “Yeah right.” Not like you couldn’t approach someone but it was still nerve racking. “I can’t do that.” 

“It’ll be so easy. Looks he’s already coming over to the bar.” Ronnie nodded her head in his direction very subtly. You take a look from the corner of your eye and it was true. You turned your head pretending to see something else but catching a glance at him standing at the end of the bar, waiting. 

Jungkook sees you look his direction and pretends to be occupied with something else.

“Okay well if this is going to work, shew.” You wave your hands for the both of them to head back to the table, you take an empty spot in front of the bar. 

“Do you really think she can go up to him?” Ronnie nudged Jin, both of them push their way back to the table where Namjoon had been waiting. 

“Definitely. Well… normally I’d say no but she’s so determined I think she can pull it off.” Jin looks back at you ordering another drink. 

Once they both make it back to the table Namjoon takes notice, “Did she find someone?” 

“Yes, he’s so cute.” Ronnie gushes. 

“Too bad she has to get rid of him.” Jin shrugs as they all take their places and watch you from afar. 

“I know.” Ronnie sighs.

“So what’s the plan?” Namjoon raises an eyebrow. 

“She’s working up the courage to go up to him. I’ve seen the guy around before and he’s not really into her type. So she has to be bold.” Jin explains again, he looks over to Jungkook. 

Jin takes notice that Jungkook has already noticed you. He finds it odd for a moment before he sees Jungkook start to move. 

“Unless…” Jin starts. 

“Oh looks like he’s making a move.” Hoseok gestures over to Jungkook. He pushes himself off the end of the bar to start moving to you but gets cut off by a group moving close to the bar. 

“Let the games begin.” Jimin raises his glass. “We might make our money tonight.” 

“Cross our fingers.” Taehyung chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. 

“If he doesn’t blow smoke out of his ass you guys might be in for a long month.” Hoseok tilts his head watching Jungkook try to maneuver his way over to you. You were just barely getting a drink from the bartender. 

From their end of the bar, your friends could see it happening in real time—Jungkook making his way toward you, not without some difficulty from the proximity of other people. They couldn’t help but laugh at his struggle. 

“God, he’s like a moth to a flame,” Jin chuckled, crossing his arms. “Poor guy doesn’t even know what's going to happen.”

“Doubt it,” Ronnie added, leaning forward. “Y/N’s got this in the bag. He won’t know what hit him.”

Meanwhile, you weren’t so convinced that Jungkook was actually coming for you. After all, the girl beside you fit the typical type he seemed to gravitate toward—flirty, dressed to kill, and definitely giving him the look. Still, you had a plan brewing in your mind. If he wasn’t going to make the first move, you’d force his hand.

With a slight pivot on your heel right as he came up, you forced your shoulder into his chest. Just enough to stumble.

“Oh my god.” You gasp, steadying your drink that had split on your hand, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t spill on you did I?” 

Jungkook’s initial reaction was a mix of surprise and awkward laughter. “Hey, no problem,” he said, chuckling. “Just missed the splash zone.”

“I swear I have two left feet these days.” You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. Faking your embarrassment, setting your drink down and getting a napkin.

“Well it’s a good thing I have two right feet.” Jungkook easing the tension and you laugh under your breath. 

“You always this quick on your feet?” You tilted your head, offering him your hand—the one free of any cocktail spillage. “I’m Y/N.”

“Jungkook.” He took your hand with a grin, his gaze flickering over you like he was sizing up a challenge. He didn’t let go right away.

Now that he was closer, you could really take him in. He was infuriatingly attractive—the type you’d usually avoid for your own good. The type who knew he had an edge and knew how to use it. 

Now that Jungkook could get a closer look at you, he just thought that you were pretty. Pretty hair, eyes, lips. All of you was just pretty and sweet. Could see that pink glowing heart of yours on your sleeve. 

“What brings you here?” He leaned an arm against the bar, his stance casual yet deliberate, like he was marking his territory. His gaze pinned you down, leaving you no room to escape.

“Just out with friends, a celebration of sorts.” You turn and point to them, the three of them suddenly acting like their drinks were so interesting to look at. 

“What’s the occasion?” He didn’t even glance at them; his focus was still fully on you. The intense eye contact actually makes you nervous.

“My promotion,” Smiling like it was the full truth. Or rather, the promotion standing right in front of you.

He nodded, flashing a grin. “Congrats. Big deal?”

“Very big.” You rested your hand on the bar near his, just brushing the surface between you. “What about you? Out celebrating something too?”

“Just out with friends.” Jungkook gestured back to his own group at the other end of the bar. You followed his gaze, recognizing one of the guys, though you couldn’t place from where.

“I should let you get back to them.” you teased lightly, leaning ever so slightly away from him.

He tilted his head with a grin, clearly not interested in letting you go that easily. “Why rush? I wasn’t planning to be gone long, but then I got the wind knocked out of me.”

You smirked, feeling the heat of his gaze on you as you playfully patted your shoulder. “Just practicing for my football career.”

“Not a football fan but I’d watch those games.” Jungkook was going to make some form of physical contact, which is what he would have done by now but he held back. He could tell that’s not something you would appreciate.“Let me buy you another one. Since you lost half of the that one because of me.”

“That’s very sweet.” You wanted to test the limits you had with him here, would he chase you? “But I should get back. My friends may think I ran off.” 

“So soon?” He tilted his head at your sudden retreat. 

“You seem nice,” You start and lean close, “I think I’m just looking for something… more serious.” 

“Who's to say I’m not serious?” He gives you a puzzled expression. Jungkook had done so good with women lately that it felt strange to see such a sudden retraction.

You tilted your head, a teasing smile playing at your lips. “I’ve seen you around. I know your type.”

A lie. Considering you hadn’t seen him before tonight, you wanted to see if he would bite.

“So you’ve noticed me?” He stuck his tongue into the side of his cheek. 

“I’m just saying I know your type.”

“What if I am serious? You’d be running away before you could find out.” He flirted, a boyish grin on his face that dripped confidence. He was actually nervous, and the three hundred dollar bill hanging over his head was adding some pressure.

You giggled, leaning back slightly as you took a slow sip of your drink, eyes locked on his over the rim. “You don’t strike me to be serious about much of anything.”

His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, his voice softer now, “What if I want to prove you wrong?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Prove me wrong? You barely know me.”

He smirked, stepping a little closer, just enough to make the air between you crackle with tension. “Isn’t that half the fun? Getting to know someone new?”

“What makes you think I want to get to know you?”

“Call it intuition.”

Any other time, a guy like this coming up to you would have meant an immediate shut down from you. They were never serious, and they only ever wanted to hook up and never speak again. Tonight though Jungkook needed to be the bug caught in your web.

You pretended to mull it over, tapping the rim of your glass with your finger. “Hmm... cute line.”

“Not a line,” he shot back, more serious now. “But seriously, let me buy you a new drink?”

You were about to decline, but his eyes held yours, that quiet confidence making you hesitate just a second too long.

“Fine,” you said, sighing like you were giving in, but the small smirk tugging at your lips told him otherwise. “But you’re still going to have to work for it.”

“I plan to.” Jungkook leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping. “Let me get your number. I’ll take you out, show you what I mean by serious.” 

You fake contemplation and act like you really needed time to think about it, sucker. You tap the rim of your glass for a moment before you reach your free hand out to him, gesturing for his phone. Jungkook takes the silent victory and pulls his phone out, opening it for you. With a few quick taps and your contact information solidified in his phone.

The deed had been done.

“Don’t disappoint me,” you said, handing it back, your tone playful but carrying an edge of warning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Have a goodnight Jungkook.” Turning on your heel leaving him there and just letting him watch you go. You b-line straight back to your table.

Jungkook was feeling good and felt like this was going to be a breeze of a month. He had to make sure that first date went well first. He would put on his best boyfriend face forward, it’s not that he couldn’t do it like everyone thought. It’s just been a long time since he last had the chance too. 

He made his way back over to his own table, he put on a fake sad face as he took his seat back next to Taehyung. 

“Strike out did you?” Hoseok patted him on the shoulder in comfort. 

“Yeah… struck off the first day of the month.” Jungkook raised his phone, revealing your phone number. Jungkook, a smug grin on his face. 

“I’m surprised.” Jimin sat in quiet contemplation, “But it won’t last.” 

“She’s cute. You guys should have picked more carefully.” Jungkook sighed, looking back into the bar in the direction of your friends and your table. Your back was to him so he couldn’t catch a glimpse of you. 

He then remembered he still owed you a drink.

Across the bar you settled back in with your friends. 

“I caught the whale boys.” You take a small bow and small cheers round around the table. 

“Congratulations.” Namjoon cheers you, hitting his glass with yours. 

Your friends leaned in, eager for the play-by-play of your encounter. You gave them the rundown. Ronnie, the first to break the silence, grinned and raised his glass in admiration.

“That was smooth, Y/N. You had him wrapped around your finger.”

You chuckled, taking a slow sip of your drink. “It’s even better that he thinks he’s in control. There's no way he was actually serious but a fun flirt.”

Jin shook his head, a mixture of amusement and awe on his face. “You’re scary when you’re confident. I’m glad I’m on your side.”

“So what’s the next step in this little experiment of yours?” Ronnie asked, clearly invested in the unfolding drama.

“Well,” you began, swirling your drink in thought, “I wait for him to reach out. Then I’ll play it cool on the first date, get him comfortable.”

“Why play it cool?” Namjoon asked, eyebrows raised.

“Because,” you smirked, “if I’m too much, too fast, he’ll bolt. But if I ease him in, I’ll have time to start slowly being weird.”

Just then, a waitress appeared, sliding a pretty pink drink in front of you. “This one’s from the guy across the bar,” she said, nodding toward Jungkook, who was leaning against the counter, already watching you. “He said you’d know him.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the boldness. Lifting the glass slightly, you gave him a small, acknowledging wave, your friends immediately picking up on the gesture.

“What’s it called?” you asked, eyes still locked on Jungkook.

The waitress grinned. “It’s a Cosmic Encounter.”

“How pretty.” you muttered, a playful smirk forming. You brought the glass to your lips, not breaking eye contact with Jungkook as you took a sip. The sweetness of the drink contrasted sharply with the building tension between the two of you.

If the circumstances were different you may let yourself swoon at the gesture. Picking a cute drink for you. You may try to see if you really could get him to be serious. This was not that though, this was all business and you would have to continue to remind yourself.

Ronnie was the first to speak up again, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I’ll admit, he’s got moves.”

“Just don’t forget this is what he does.” Jin knowing how you are, felt the reminder needed to be put out there. That this is all temporary.

Just as you were about to continue, your phone buzzed softly in your hand. A text. Your eyes drifted down to the screen, and sure enough, it was Jungkook.

Jungkook: Hope you like it… when are you free next?

You couldn’t help the smirk that spread across your lips. “Speak of the devil.”

Namjoon leaned over. “Already? He really wasted no time.”

“Faster than I thought,” you admitted, typing a quick reply. 

:We’ll see, Jungkook. Maybe I’m busy.

The thrill of the chase was intoxicating, and as you sent the message, you could feel the game picking up speed. Both of you were circling each other, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You had no doubt, you were going to eat Jungkook alive.

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❥|| Next chapter

[eeridyllic]

MANEATER

kinich x saurian! reader

cw: no pronouns. reader is an ancient sealed saurian much like ajaw but you’re in your human form all the time. flirting and makeout. 3.5k words. not proof-read.

There were a lot of adjectives Kinich could use to describe you. Irritating would be the first, though it barely scratched the surface. 

You were cunning, nosy, and far too pleased with yourself. He could have gone his entire life without meeting you and slept soundly at night. You enjoyed testing his patience, dancing around with that sharp smile as if you knew something he didn’t. 

In your eyes, everything seemed like a game—a tiresome one, at that, with endless rules Kinich had no interest in learning. His life had been simpler—at least—before you’d come along; before your mocking laughter, your constant, uninvited insights, and that way you had of observing him, as though he were an oddity you couldn't quite figure out, or a mere prey to hunt. 

But despite everything, there was no ignoring that you had added a strange new rhythm to his days.

The memory pulled him back to that pivotal moment—the point where, he realized now, everything had shifted. 

______________________________________________

He and Ajaw had been partners for some time already, surviving one mission after another. So when another one arrived, promising a huge payment in exchange for exploring ancient ruins, Kinich barely batted an eye. The contractor was vague and evasive about the reasons, claiming he needed a specific artifact hidden within. Suspicious, maybe. But money was money.

Navigating the ruins was a gauntlet. Kinich lost count of the traps, the decaying pillars that threatened to collapse with each step, the puzzles and mechanisms clearly designed to keep intruders out. The place was a maze of broken stone and silent challenges, yet he felt a familiar surge of satisfaction with each step deeper into the heart of the ruin.

At last, he reached a final chamber, where the object of his commission stood on a dais—a fragment of the past unlike any he’d seen before, emanating a strange energy that felt older than time itself. It was no wonder his contractor had wanted it, though Kinich couldn’t begin to guess what it was for.

The moment his hand brushed the relic, a surge of ancient power pulsed through the room. Ajaw, strangely quiet but ever alert, shifted beside him, his eyes narrowing with a cautious awareness. And then, from the shadows, a voice drifted through the room, light and smooth with an undercurrent of menace.

“Well, well. Another little human wandered in.”

Kinich whirled, looking around through the darkness of the place for the source of the voice, when he finally met you.

The figure before him was both mesmerizing and unnervingly unnatural. Even as he felt his guard rise, there was no denying you were the most otherworldly, hauntingly beautiful being he had ever seen. But your draconic eyes betrayed your true nature. You were one of Ajaw’s kind, another ancient sealed entity—alive and as dangerous as the power coursing through the chamber.

Ajaw stirred, his presence crackling with a familiar hostility. “Hunf. Long time no see, (Y/N),” he greeted you, his tone a blend of wary sarcasm and grudging acknowledgment. 

You met his words with a raised brow and an amused smile.

“My, you’re still alive, Ajaw? And leaning on humans above all. How unfortunate,” you replied dryly, crossing your arms. Ajaw grumbled irritated earning a gaze from Kinich who was watching your interaction with almost amused interest. 

“So, human”, you said, your voice edged with a touch of boredom as you sat on a rock, “What do you want with me? What’s the plan? Drag me off to that contractor of yours perhaps?”

Kinich maintained his composure, though he was a bit surprised by how you already knew the reason why he stepped into your domain.

Without further ado, the hunter started to explain the details of his commission—he was the first, but surely he wouldn’t be the last either. 

The moment he finished, your expression twisted, a flicker of disdain evident.

“As if I’d go along with that. Typical mortals, always seeking what they don’t understand, eager to trap things they have no right to touch,” you hissed, earning a followed amused chuckling from Ajaw. 

You paused, the resentment burning in your chest, however, Kinich noted there was something else too as your eyes lingered on him.

Leaving your throne behind and stepping forward, your presence filling the space between all three of you. 

“I have a proposition for you only, though. A contract, let’s call it,” your smile was both inviting and taunting. “We’ll work together, for our mutual benefit. To be frank it is more for my selfish desire than to help you. I’m tired of talking to walls, you see,” your eyes traveled through his body before meeting his gaze again, “Surely, you wouldn’t want to go back with nothing, right?”

Kinich weighed your words carefully, his mind racing through the possibilities and costs. 

He already bore the weight of a pact with Ajaw, and he understood the price of balancing multiple contracts with creatures of such power. Yet the allure of your knowledge, your abilities, was too great to ignore.

Ajaw seemed to be on his edge, cursed both of you facing the absurdity of the offering and what it could bring. 

Nevertheless, Kinich’s mind was set already. With a final, steady breath, he nodded, sealing his decision. Your eyes flashed with a glint of satisfaction, your smirk widening into something altogether dangerous, seductive. You leaned on his ear, your voice dropping to a near-whisper.

“I look forward to working with you, Kinich.”

______________________________________________

That day, Kinich hadn’t earned a paycheck. However, he hadn’t left the ruins empty-handed, either.

From then on, his life became a delicate balance of managing two unpredictable forces. Ajaw, with his bristling sarcasm and an unending appetite for murder, had been challenging enough on his own. But adding you, with your teasing demands and cryptic ways, turned Kinich’s daily life into a finely tuned exercise in patience.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks to months with Kinich adapting himself to the peculiar rhythms of his two ancient companions. 

Ajaw kept volatile, ever-ready to lend his power with a razor-thin line between aid and sabotage. Kinich could call on his abilities freely; but each time, the pixelated dragon took the chance to push him to his limit, toying with him like prey and testing the boundaries of their contract.

You, however, were different. Your contract was filled with stipulations, each one more elusive than the last. Kinich could request your power, your wisdom on ancient lore and mystical ruins, your understanding of secrets hidden for centuries—but each favor required a price. 

He remember the first time he’d needed your help, you smiled wide and said, “Fetch me a Cecilia.”

At first, Kinich hadn’t thought much of it—a flower, seemingly simple enough. Then he realized that Cecilias only bloomed on the cliffs of Mondstadt, a land far from Natlan. And anyone leaving Natlan without permission of the Wayob risked losing themselves, a curse bound by ancient magic. 

That he’d managed to find one spoke to his sheer stubbornness, his ability to navigate through obstacles that should have been impossible.

When he’d finally placed the flower in your hand, your satisfaction had been infuriatingly clear.

It was never straightforward with you. Another time, he’d requested a map of an old ruin rumored to be full of hidden dangers. In return, you’d demanded a simple luxury—a crystal pendant, clear as water, something you could admire as you traveled through dark caves and shadowed forests. A trivial thing, but your smile as you held the pendant was somehow worth the trouble.

Through it all, Kinich found himself unwillingly entangled in your games, constantly navigating the space between the three of you, keeping a balance that was tenuous at best. And even as you continued to provoke him with your playful, cutting comments, he found himself grudgingly relying on you.

There were commissions where you proved to be an invaluable ally. Your intelligence was formidable; your strategies were sound, your insights swift, and you saw through traps that Kinich sometimes missed. Your pride might have been infuriating, but your strange loyalty, he realized, was something rare. 

You kept him on his toes with your challenging personality, pushing him to improve even as you drove him to distraction. And on rare nights, after a long day’s journey or a grueling fight, you’d sit in silence, the air between you calm and oddly comfortable. There were times, with the firelight flickering and casting shadows on your face, that he found himself almost… dazzled.

If he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t have done it differently. Not that he’d ever admit it to you.

Now, back to present on yet another commission, Kinich found himself partnered with you once more. 

Ajaw had declared the mission too dull to follow, muttering something about it being more suited to “(Y/N)’s ridiculous logic puzzles” than to his taste for battle. Kinich was grateful for the reprieve, though he knew the real challenge would be handling your endless demands and your habit of testing his patience.

You were intelligent and efficient, he could admit that much, but your sharp wit and flirtatious ways were exhausting. You never missed an opportunity to prod at him, to see if you could break through his carefully constructed guard.

As you two moved deeper into the cave, Kinich couldn’t help but feel your eyes on him, watching for every reaction, every flicker of emotion. 

You’ve made a sport of it, brushing close, a sly smile playing on your lips whenever you sensed his irritation, always aiming to get under his skin. And yet, you had an uncanny sense of his well-being. You’d sidestep a trap just in time, then look back to ensure he’d done the same. It was an odd, unspoken protection, one that both irritated and relieved him.

The ruin was as treacherous as any he’d encountered, with more than a few puzzles that made Kinich silently grateful for your presence. You disarmed traps, deciphered carvings he’d never have managed, and stepped through mazes with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. And though you complained all the way through, your pride and determination drove you to succeed.

You both just completed the commission, retrieving the artifact you’d come for, when you turned to him, wiping the dust from your hands. You gave him an amused look, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

“Well,” you started, your tone laced with that familiar teasing edge. “We’re done here.”

He nodded, grateful for the relative quiet that would follow—until you tilted your head, regarding him thoughtfully. “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Kinich. More than usual. A mora for your thoughts?”

Your tone was light, almost offhand, but your gaze was anything but casual. Something was probing in the way you looked at him, as though searching for an answer he hadn’t voiced. The saurian hunter held your gaze, his own expression carefully neutral, as he considered his response.

He stood still, his gaze lingering. Kinich told himself it was merely to study your expression, to gauge your intentions. But his mind betrayed him, tracing the fine details of your face—from the sharp line of your jaw to the glint in your dragon-like eyes and the slight curve of your lips that seemed forever on the edge of a knowing smile. Your beauty was the kind that defied logic, pulling him in even as he resisted.

“It’s nothing,” he replied finally, his tone measured, distant. He turned, motioning for the two of you to leave. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

But you didn’t follow. Instead, you remained where you were, arms folded, head tilted to one side as if you’d only just begun to consider something. The look you gave him was a little too knowing, the glint in your eyes far too familiar. He knew that look of yours. Most of times it meant only thing one: problem.

“Kinich,” you said, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The hunter stopped, exhaling slowly as he turned to face you. His eyes narrowed. You were up to something—that much was clear. You had that dangerous, cat-like look about you, your gaze dark and sharp, as though sizing him up, anticipating his every move. He lifted an eyebrow, his voice a shade more cautious than he’d intended.

“And what would that be, (Y/N)?” he asked.

For a moment, you didn’t reply. Instead, you took a single step closer, your eyes never leaving his. He felt his pulse quicken, though he kept his expression blank.

You moved toward him slowly, a faint, predatory gleam in your eyes. You were close now, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin, and could catch the hint of some exotic scent lingering in the air. A blend of something earthy and sweet, entirely unique to you.

Kinich steeled himself, forcing his mind to stay sharp, though he found himself captivated despite his best efforts. You paused just a breath away, your gaze flickering over him with the lazy, confident ease of someone who knew exactly the effect you had.

A hint of amusement crept into your smile. “It’s payback time,  Malipo”, you began, your voice low and smooth, laced with an almost sinister edge, “I’ve worked hard today, you see, so I’m feeling a bit… greedy.”

His eyes narrowed further.

“What do you want, (Y/N)?”

You giggled. “Oh, I could ask for any number of things,” you took a deep sigh and started to circle him. “Power… influence… control of your soul, even.”

He remained quiet. Your smile widened at his lack of reaction, your teeth flashing in the dim light of the ruins. You were enjoying this, taking your time, savoring every second as if you were unwrapping a carefully chosen gift.

“But…,” you murmured, drawing the word out, “I think I’m more fond of something else.” You paused, letting the silence build, each second stretching as you watched him, relishing his quiet wariness.

Finally, your eyes locked with his, and you spoke with deliberate slowness. “Kiss me.”

Silence.

For a moment, Kinich felt his mind go blank, his eyes widening briefly in stunned silence before he quickly regained control, his expression hardening. 

It had to be a game. Another one of your tricks, another way to unsettle him, to get under his skin. But your gaze didn’t waver, your expression calm, almost serene, though he saw the gleam of anticipation behind your eyes.

A dozen thoughts raced through his mind, each one colliding with the next. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound loud and unsteady, and yet he kept his face neutral, his stance calm. This was you, after all. You thrived on unsettling him, on watching him squirm—though he’d learned, over the months, never to give you the satisfaction of seeing his reactions.

But your eyes… you weren’t blinking, weren’t moving. You waited, utterly still, your lips curved into the faintest smirk as you watched him wrestle with himself. He almost thought he saw something genuine in your gaze, something more than the surface-level teasing, but he dismissed the thought quickly. You were you. Cocky, calculating—you had to be playing with him.

“Don’t tell me there’s something you can’t manage, Kinich,” you sighed, your tone equal parts challenge and mockery. “Well. That’s rather disappointing,” you turned, as if prepared to leave, already dismissing the moment with that same enigmatic smile.

Without fully thinking, Kinich’s hand shot out, catching you by the wrist. You stilled, surprise flickering across your face before you concealed it, though your eyes flashed with something he couldn’t name yet. 

For a heartbeat, you stood in silence, your pulse quick and light beneath his fingers. Slowly, he drew you toward him, his arm encircling your waist, anchoring you against him as his other hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

He exhaled a soft, reluctant sigh. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he murmured, his voice laced with resignation.

You only laughed softly, a sound that was both daring and pleased, and he could feel your smirk against his skin as he leaned down, finally pressing his lips to yours.

The first contact was a mere tentative brush, barely more than a fleeting touch between your mouths. It was a moment suspended in uncertainty, as though both were testing the boundaries of this unexpected closeness. 

For a breath, you held still, neither moving nor daring to deepen it. But something simmered beneath the surface, a quiet intensity that broke through the silence with an undeniable pull.

Before either could pull away, though, the kiss grew deeper, hungrier, an unspoken desire erupting between you two. 

Kinich’s hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed to his. He could taste the faint, exotic sweetness of your lips as you yielded to him instantly, only to counter with your own ferocity. But it was when your lips parted that a dam seemed to break. 

Eagerly, Kinich took this opportunity and deepened the kiss, your tongues meeting in a dance of defiance and passion. There was a taste of something otherworld in you, a hint of mystery and danger that drew him in even as it warned him. But he ignored the caution, letting himself be consumed by the moment, by the heat, by the softness of your mouth against his, the way you met his every movement with your own, never yielding, never backing down.

It was a silent battle, a clash of wills and sublime frustration as each sought to take the lead, the kiss growing fierce and excited, your breaths mingling with a fervor you could no longer contain.

Your hands slid up from his chest, your touch lingering, savoring the feel of him as your fingers trailed up his neck and into his hair. You tugged slightly, demanding, as if daring him to give you more. Your fingertips were cool yet electric against his skin, igniting something primal, something he rarely let surface.

Kinich responded instinctively, his own restraint slipping as he pressed you back, guiding you toward the rough wall of the ruin. The space between you dissolved entirely as your back met the stone as he lifted you, the pressure of his body firm, claiming.

Your breaths grew heavier. Your hands gripped both his hair and shoulder, your nails lightly pressing into his skin. His hand slid from your waist, tracing the curve of your thighs and ass, pressing your body into his as though anchoring you there. Every inch of him was focused on you, on the feel of you against him, on the pulse of energy that crackled between you, too powerful to ignore.

When you finally broke apart, the world around seemed to settle, the heavy silence filling the air once more. 

Kinich’s breathing was ragged, his pupils wide, and dilated, his pulse still pounding with an intensity he rarely allowed himself to feel. He could feel the warmth of your breath still lingering close, your lips barely an inch apart, almost as if you were challenging him to give in again.

Your expression was slightly unfocused, your usual composure replaced by something vulnerable, exposed. Kinich caught himself enjoying this version of you. There was a faint flush across your cheeks, a look of astonishment that you quickly masked, though it didn’t disappear entirely. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke the weight of what had just happened hanging heavy, charged with unspoken thoughts, things that might have been, things neither of you would admit.

And then you chuckled softly, your voice laced with amusement, your lips curving into a smirk. “My,” you murmured, your tone both teasing and provocative, “I didn’t expect that. Although I can’t say I didn’t like it either.” You tilted your head, your eyes gleaming with a playful glint. “As always, it’s a pleasure to do business with you, Kinich.”

Kinich didn’t reply immediately, his gaze steady, his expression indecipherable, but there was a depth in his eyes that betrayed him, a lingering trace of something he couldn’t quite banish. 

With a sigh, he finally stepped back, putting a carefully measured distance between you. “Anytime,” he said, his voice low, raspy. “So? Let’s get out of here?”

He turned, giving you space to follow, his demeanor returning to its usual calm, composed state. 

Yet as he moved, he couldn’t ignore the lingering taste of you on his lips, the faint, intoxicating trace that refused to fade. The rational part of him knew this shouldn’t change things—that it couldn’t. You were tied by a pact, bounded by terms he should have expected. This was simply one of your “favors,” a twist you’d added, nothing more.

But as you left the ruins, a sense of awareness settled within him, the quiet realization that for all his caution, he’d succumbed, letting himself be drawn into your orbit, your game. It was dangerous, foolish even, to think this meant anything, to risk feeling for someone who thrived on unpredictability and cunning.

Even so, he couldn’t shake the way you had looked at him, the warmth of your touch, the sensation that still lingered, refusing to be dismissed.

And though he would bury it, push it away, he knew, somewhere in the depths of his guarded heart, that this would stay with him, a taste of something forbidden, lingering, marking him in a way he’d never intended.

[nvuy]

so… about that drink you ordered — boothill

summary. boothill has a pity party at a bar and notices a familiar face that he wants to smash into two.

notes. sort of requested official unofficial sequel sort of to hijacked. you can read this stand alone. not saying you should, though. teehee. this is so uninspired. i just like this concept a lot. i also just like rivals to lovers. i’m also riding on the coattails of the “boothill is largely illiterate.” whether it’s actually canon or not who knows. let me be. he’s still not released LMAOOOO.

warnings. the usual banter, little bit of threatening, but nothing major.

Boothill was at a loss. The mission was a bust, there was no response from La Mancha, and the dreamscape was beginning to grind his gears. So many loud noises, the poster signs were following him around, and this so-called SoulGlad was not as good as it was advertised to be.

This bar sucked, too. The bartender had been giving him the stink eye for the better half of an hour now. It probably wasn’t appropriate to sick him right in the face for it, break his nose, and give him a beating.

The bartender wasn’t scrawny, though. Some big bulk of meat with tired eyes, scruff and mousy brown hair. His chest looked like it was about to pop the buttons of his vest. Dude looks absolutely repressed. Probably works minimum wage.

The bartender abandons a blue inky pen and his notebook that Boothill snoops in. Nothing interesting. Just pages of tabs and tabs of people he doesn’t know, nor care about.

There’s music from the stereos in the corners, though surprisingly, considering it’s not a club—that one is next door. It’s a conjoined building. The only thing seperating the bar and the VIP private rooms of the club is a wall and a locked door. Comforting—and Boothill would have lost his mind already.

It’s also dark. Granted, it’s two in the morning, but the low lights can’t be good for normal people. Not to mention the group of women in the corner that have been hoarding the few slot machines for about thirty minutes now.

Every so often, a chime will go off, and one of them will start busting into tears.

He’s here alone. Not for any particular reason. He’s waiting for a response from somebody, and what better way to pass the time than people watch and pretend he’s not nosy.

Also he feels super important sitting at the counter of the bar.

He almost jumps at a whisper in his ear.

A reddish drink in a ribbed coupe glass is gently dropped onto the counter space beside him. There’s a cucumber slice on the rim, and it also looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.

Boothill turns his nose up. Gross.

The bartender glances at the figure who slots into the seat next to the ranger. “Can I get you something else?”

“Hard whiskey.”

Huh. His eyes snapped to the right. Very familiar. Almost unnervingly so. Just in case, he scoots himself away by an inch, sitting closer to the edge of the barstool.

The bartender blinks, unsure as he pulls a tumbler from the rack. “For you?”

A finger prods the Ranger’s cheek. “For him.”

There’s a zap from the finger, like a small electric shock. Like static charged from the friction of the weird material of the barstools.

“Thanks, Gal.”

“No amount of flirting is gonna make me clear your tab,” Gallagher warned before sliding the whiskey over to the Ranger. Boothill had barely moved, now acutely aware of his own face plastered on a wanted poster behind the bartender’s head. “Try not showin’ up here frequently. Bad for my image if I keep serving crooks.” He points to the Ranger, and then to you. “Both of you.”

The bartender then is called over by a group of women who are giggling at a booth in the corner.

Boothill was sure he was going to lean forward and scrap with you over the counter. He could already feel the terse skin of your neck in his hands.

“You followin’ me?”

“You followed me first,” you say harshly.

The ranger let out a laugh before picking up his drink. “It was only a job. If you got offended, that’s your problem.” He then holds the glass close. “You g’nna do that thing again?”

“‘Thing?’” you repeated.

There was a smug grin on your face. You rested the chin in the palm of your hand.

Oh. He was so going to throw you over the counter and smash a bottle over your head. “Y’know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Don’t play stupid.”

You took a sip of your drink.

“Boop.”

Your finger pressed to his chest. You snickered when he stared down at the brief flashing of yellow beneath his joints.

Then, you flit your finger upwards and flick his nose.

He grabs your hand with the intent of pulling it from its socket.

“Now, that’s a dangerous game to play,” you remind him. “I’ve got you in my hands, remember?” Your free hand lets go of your glass, and there’s a small flash of yellow light on the pads of the gloves on your hands. A flicker is all it takes to showcase his entire makeup in your palm. You spin it slowly for good measure.

Then, the image disappears and you snatch your wrist from his hand.

“What do you want?” Boothill mutters. He’s absentmindedly staring into his drink while swishing it around. The ice cubes softly tap against the glass.

“Insight. You’re a Galaxy Ranger, right?” He can’t lie to you anyway. You pretty much know everything about him. Your main profession is definitely stalking and being a thorn in his side. Your fingers held his chin up softly. “Tell me about it.”

He blinks, dazed. “That’s it?”

“No.”

He removes your hand from his chin. He holds his glass protectively. “Then quit pullin’ my leg. Cut to the good bit.”

You sigh. “You’re no fun. Do you come to bars just to mope?” You pull a dramatic frown for good measure.

“Do you come to bars to piss everyone off?” he shoots back. Despite his tone, his fingers are gentle around the glass. Any more firm a hold, and the drink would shatter and spill all over the counter.

You grin.

You tap his nose again. “Just you.” Then, you shake your head. “I’m here ‘cause I got a bar crush.” You then point to a table behind Boothill’s head in the corner. “Blondie with the nice eyes and the rings.”

After a moment's hesitation, the ranger turns and follows your finger.

Sure enough, you’re not convincing him to spin around so you can shove your hand into his sockets. There is a blond man at a table dressed in green, winking at an opponent over a game of… poker? Is that poker? The game with the chips and stuff. And dice, too. They’re thrown over a board, and there’s a couple of people who have tuned in to watch the entire thing unfold.

“His name is Aventurine. Or, that’s a code name, I think. He’s Sigonian. Works for the IPC, incredibly insecure, has a gambling addiction, needs to eat lead…” You stopped short, counting on your fingers as Boothill turns back to you. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

Boothill narrows his eyes at you. “Do you know everything about everyone?”

You shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then, you make a noise. “Eh, I’m lying. Lots of people are boring. I only know the basics ‘bout most of ‘em. It’s the higher ups I’m interested in. Case in point–” You gestured to the blond man again, now scanning over his cards. “–Mister Big Shot. And all his loser coworkers. I don’t like the IPC.”

Boothill quietly sips his drink.

At least you can both agree on something.

He wants to yawn. He doesn’t have the function to do that anymore.

You talk too much.

He cuts you off, and fiddles with a few buttons on his arm. “What can you tell me–” A small image of a woman projects into view from a small lens near his wrist. “–About her?”

You lean closer to the image. Pretty.

She has lovely purple hair and eyes to match. It’s an unassuming photo. She’s not even looking at the camera, not even close to it. She’s standing next to a little boy with sparkling eyes and a uniform that starkly resembles the hotel staff in the waking world of Penacony—oh, the bellboy. You forgot his name.

You hum. “What’s her name?”

“Acheron.” He spits it nastily, as if tasting vitriol on his tongue.

You lean back against the counter. “I’d have to dig deeper. Can’t say I’ve seen her around before.”

“Well, that’s disappointin’,” he huffs before the image shrinks and disappears back into the lens. “Thought you were better than that.”

Your brows knit together.

“Are you trying to rile me up?” It was working. Curse you and your hot-head. It would get you killed one day.

Boothill grins.

Then, he raises his glass to you. “Yep.”

You wanted to pull him apart right there, like a doll.

Instead, you whisper, “tell me about La Mancha.”

Boothill casually sips the whiskey. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll dig up whatever I can find about that Acheron girl.”

Boothill then lets out a small giggle. “I already know who she is.” He wasn’t lying either. You could tell by how he grinned. “I was testin’ ya.”

Oh, great. He’s figured you out again. Not that there’s much to decode beneath the layer of self-doubt and hostility.

You could feel your face burning.

He grabs your cheeks before you can turn away.

“You ain’t here ‘cause you got some ‘puppy crush,’” he accused playfully, squishing your skin like it’s clay. “You already told me ya know everything about blondie. Who’re you really here for?”

He’s not stupid.

He’s also twirling a lock of his hair around his finger.

God damnit.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rim of your glass. The cucumber slice has since fallen into the cosmopolitan, and it’s giving the entire drink a strange watery taste.

The bar carries on. There’s a hoot from the table with blondie, who’s now, since the last time you stared daggers into the side of his head, collected some more of his poor opponent’s chips.

You pull your face from his grip. “Nobody.”

“Not even me?” Boothill presses. “You seem to love followin’ me around. In and out the dreamscape.”

You grit your teeth.

“The bartender,” you mutter finally. “I’m here for the bartender.” Currently, Gallagher is half asleep on the other side of the counter, trying to negotiate with some drunkard over the pricing of a scotch.

You eye him warily for a moment.

“There it is.” He pats your head like a dog. “Knew you’d come ‘round, pumpkin.”

You’re trembling with rage. “Kiss my ass, you cyborg scum.” You were considering throwing a punch at his perfect face.

“Rude.” Boothill flicks your nose back and you grunt. “I’m tryin’ to be nice wit’ you. You followed me here.”

You wanted to leave now. He sucks when he knows he has the upper hand, even if he’s well aware you can make his arms tear his own head off.

But you’re not going to do that. You need him. You made that clear.

The sound of a slot machine goes off somewhere to the right. There's cheering from a bunch of women.

You turn back and stare at the wall of liquor behind the bar. Maybe you should just knock yourself out. Whether by downing an entire bottle of bourbon or smashing it over your head. It was a hard choice to make.

You watch him through your peripherals, noticing he’s pinched a napkin from the pile on the counter.

“Lookin’ very pretty tonight, by the way. Hard to keep my eyes off ya.” He was writing something down with the pen from before. “If you were anyone else, I woulda had to take ya home. ‘Specially after ya bought me a drink.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Then, you pause. “Excuse me?”

Boothill folds the napkin into a square and holds it to your lips. “Open.”

“You are not–”

Too late. He’s pushed it to your teeth, and you instinctively clamp down on it.

Oh, this sucks. This sucks bad.

He knows it, too, from the way he’s grinning at you like a shark and snickering.

He presses his warm lips to your cheek. The scent of whiskey faintly wafts in the air.

You stupidly freeze, hands curled around his wrists when his cold hands tilt your head so the tip of his tongue can press to the corner of your lips. You could stop him. You could.

You didn’t.

You smell like strawberry, the same as that other night. You look just as good, too. Shame you haven’t put anything on your lips. He would’ve loved to be stained a nice pink again.

He slides his whiskey next to you.

Then, he finishes what’s left of your drink. Dickhead. “I’ll be ‘round if ya need me.” He taps your nose and stands up. “You know where to find me.”

With a tilt of his hat, he leaves.

You pull the napkin from your teeth. Are you serious?

Face burning with humiliation, you hastily unfold the tissue, fingers shaking around the glass of whiskey. It’s heavy on your tongue; disgusting, bitter, everything you’d use to describe that stupid cowboy and his abomination of a body.

Scrawled in blue ink is a line of numbers. It looked suspiciously like a phone number.

Below it in blocky letters are the words: Keep In touc H. ♡

There’s a crudely drawn horse with a hat in the corner.

[sushiyuzu]

broken promises

you (single parent) & little gumi

warning: contains themes of divorce, emotional distress, and family separation. may be sensitive for readers dealing with similar experiences.

it’s been a week since the divorce papers were signed, and you still haven’t quite adjusted to waking up in an empty bed. the house feels unnervingly silent without the familiar sounds of toji’s presence. you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to summon the energy to face the day, but the heaviness in your chest weighs you down.

then, you hear it.

“mom?”

the soft, sleepy voice of megumi calls out from his room, breaking through the quiet. you rub your eyes and force yourself to get up, pushing away the ache of exhaustion. today isn’t about you—it’s about him. you slide out of bed, your feet cold against the floor, and make your way to his room.

he’s sitting up, hair tousled, blinking sleepily as you walk in. his little arms reach out to you, and without a second thought, you pull him into a hug, breathing in the scent of him. his small frame against yours is both comforting and heartbreaking. you can feel how much he relies on you, and the weight of being his sole parent hits you hard.

“morning, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head before pulling away to look at him. his wide eyes, so much like toji’s, peer up at you, filled with innocence.

“are we making pancakes today?” he asks, his voice still laced with sleep.

you force a smile, nodding. “yeah, we can make pancakes. how about we get you dressed first?”

he nods enthusiastically, and you help him out of bed, trying to focus on the simple tasks. you guide him through the motions—brushing his teeth, getting him dressed, combing through his unruly hair. it’s all routine, but every now and then, your mind drifts to how things used to be. mornings like this used to feel lighter, easier, when toji was still around.

you push the thought away. not today.

as you stand at the stove, flipping pancakes, megumi sits at the table, chattering about the park and the new toy he saw on tv. you try to focus on him, but there’s a dull ache in your chest, a reminder of the life you had before, now shattered. when the pancakes are ready, you sit with megumi and watch him eat, his little face lighting up with every bite.

and then, out of nowhere, he asks, “why doesn’t dad live with us anymore?”

your heart stops.

you stare at him, words caught in your throat. he looks at you, expecting an answer, but how do you explain something like this to a child? you put your fork down and try to keep your voice steady, even though your heart is racing.

“well... sometimes, grown-ups have to make decisions that are best for everyone,” you start, feeling the weight of each word. “but that doesn’t mean dad doesn’t care about you. he loves you very much.”

megumi furrows his brow, clearly not understanding. you wish you could give him more, but how do you tell him the truth? how do you tell him that his father was never really there the way he should’ve been?

“does he miss us?” he asks quietly, and the question nearly breaks you.

you force a smile, even though it feels like your chest is caving in. “i’m sure he does.”

megumi nods slowly, but you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. he’s still so young, too young to understand the complexities of divorce, of separation. you want to protect him from the pain, but you know there’s only so much you can do.

that night, after you tuck megumi into bed, you collapse onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. the exhaustion isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. every part of you feels drained. just as your eyes begin to close, you hear a soft whimper from megumi’s room.

“mom…”

his voice is shaky, small, and it instantly pulls you to your feet. you rush into his room and find him sitting up in bed, tears streaking his cheeks.

“gumi, what’s wrong?” you ask, kneeling beside him, brushing the hair from his forehead.

“i had a bad dream,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “i dreamed that you and dad were gone.”

the words cut through you like a knife. you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he sobs into your shoulder. “i’m here,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “i’m not going anywhere, okay? i promise.”

but even as you say the words, you can feel the weight of the promise hanging heavy over you. how many times have you reassured him, only for life to take a different turn? you hold him tighter, hoping it’s enough to soothe his fears, if only for tonight.

a few nights later, as you sit with megumi while he colours at the kitchen table, he proudly holds up a drawing.

“look, mom! it’s our family.”

you take the paper from him, your heart twisting as you look at it. he’s drawn the three of you—you, him, and toji. all of you are holding hands, smiling. your throat tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“it’s beautiful, gumi,” you whisper, forcing a smile as you blink back tears. he’s so proud of it, so innocent, completely unaware of the reality that you and toji are no longer a family. not in the way he imagines.

he beams at your praise, and you hang the drawing on the fridge, but as you do, the ache in your chest deepens. megumi’s world is still so simple, so full of hope. you wish you could keep it that way forever. but deep down, you know that soon enough, the cracks in the illusion will start to show. and when they do, you’ll have to face them together.

[lefteagleblizzard]

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲

Mike Munroe x male reader

Summary: In the eerie sanatorium halls, a Wendigo attack leaves you injured, pushing Mike's protective instincts into overdrive.

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Mike and Jess are not together in this. Graphic description of injuries but not too deep. Angst. Happy ending. Heavy make out session.

You can consider this a part 2 of the fist fic i wrote for Mike but it can easily be read as a standalone. Thank you all so much for all the comments and likes on my first Mike Munroe story! Now I have an excuse to write more for him ☜(⌒▽⌒)☞

𝔗𝔴𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯

𝔄 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔍𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔶 𝔞𝔱 𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔐𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔥

Words counts: 4000

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

The oppressive darkness of the sanatorium clung to every corner, the air thick with the stench of rot and decay. Your footsteps echoed faintly as you and Mike moved cautiously through the long, decaying hallway.

Mike was ahead, gritting his teeth as he wrestled with the stubborn door of the room that held a shotgun and ammunition inside. He was trying everything. Shouldering it, kickin it, using his weight to force it open, but it wouldn't budge. The door was rusted and seemed to be mocking his attempts to open it.

"Come on, you piece of shit," Mike growled under his breath, slamming his shoulder against the door again with a frustrated grunt. His breath came out in harsh puffs, fogging in the cold air.

You stood a few feet behind, your eyes flickered nervously around. Every distant creak or scrape set your nerves on edge. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching, lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight.

A faint voice echoed from down the hallway. "Help... please... help me." It was Jessica's voice. Your heart skipped a beat, confusion and fear swirling inside you. Jessica? You thought she was dead.

"Mike, did you hear that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, already taking a few hesitant steps toward the source of the sound.

Mike's eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the task at hand. "What? No. I didn't- wait, what did you hear?" He glanced over his shoulder, but you were already moving down the hallway, drawn toward the voice that called out again, more desperate this time.

"Help me, please!" Jessica's voice cracked with pain, and your mind raced. You moved quicker, following the sound into a side room, your flashlight shaking in your trembling hand.

It couldn't be real. It wasn't possible. But the voice was so familiar, so desperate, that you couldn't stop yourself from moving toward it. Your legs seemed to act on their own, driven by a faint hope that somehow, Jessica had survived.

The voice came again, more desperate this time. "Help... please..."

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you moved cautiously into the room. The floor was littered with debris, broken furniture, shards of glass, and piles of crumbling wood. The walls were covered in mold, and the air smelled of damp rot.

"Jessica?" you whispered, your voice shaking slightly as you scanned the room. "Jess... where are you?"

The voice, once a call for help, turned into a twisted, distorted mimicry of Jessica's scream.

A figure dropped down from a broken window above. The Wendigo landed with a sickening thud, its bones pressing grotesquely against its pale skin.

The remnants of torn and dirty clothes still clung to its body, a reminder of the human it once was. Its face, a twisted mess of teeth and sinew, sniffed the air, its milky-white eyes darting around the room, searching for movement.

They're blind, they only see those who move.

The creature's head snapped to the left, its limbs twitching unnervingly as it started to replicate Jessica's voice again. "Help me. help..."

The mimicry was perfect, the voice identical to Jessica's, but there was something horribly wrong with the way it was spoken now that you heard it up close. It was hollow, empty, as though it was toying with the memory of the girl you had once known.

You didn't dare to move.

You didn't even breathe.

It was close now, inches from you, its breath hot and rancid against your skin. You could hear the crackle of its joints, the faint click of its jaws as they opened and closed, tasting the air.

Just when you thought the creature would tear you apart, the deafening blast of a shotgun shattered the tense silence. The Wendigo's body jerked violently as the shotgun's impact threw it against the wall with bone-shattering force. The creature let out a shriek, the noise echoing through the room.

"Don't you fucking dare touch him!" Mike's voice rang out, fierce and raw with emotion. He stood in the doorway, shotgun still smoking in his hands, eyes blazing with fury.

He was at your side instantly, his hand grabbing yours and he yanked you out of the room with a sense of urgency. "Run!" he commanded, and together, you bolted down the hallway, your heart pounding in your chest.

You could hear the Wendigos now, their guttural snarls and skittering movements echoing through the corridors.

"I swear, if you ever do something that stupid again, I'll-" Mike began, his voice tight with fear, but before he could finish, another Wendigo screech from behind you.

It was gaining on you both, its skeletal form moving unnervingly fast as it closed the distance. It leaped at Mike, its claws outstretched, aiming to tear him apart.

"Mike!" you screamed as the creature tackled him. Mike grunted as he used the weapon as a makeshift shield, blocking the Wendigo's swipes as they slashed toward his face. The Wendigo screeched, its jagged teeth gnashing together as it tried to claw its way through the weapon. Mike grunted, his muscles straining as he shoved the creature back, the shotgun rattling in his hands.

Its claws raked against the shotgun as it was knocked out of his hands in the process. The weapon skidded across the floor, out of reach, as the creature lunged at Mike again, pinning him to the ground.

For a terrifying moment, you saw the Wendigo's claws hovering inches above Mike's throat, its grotesque mouth open wide as it prepared to strike. Without thinking, you grabbed the machete that had fallen from Mike's belt and charged forward, your heart racing as you swung the blade with all your strength.

The machete barely cut through the thick skin of the Wendigo's head, but it stopped moving. The creature collapsed on top of Mike, its lifeless body twitching.

Mike let out a breathless grunt, shoving the body off him with a groan, his chest heaving from the effort as he turned to look at you.

Mike's eyes were wide, his face a mixture of shock and gratitude. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

"Holy shit," Mike breathed. "You saved my ass." His voice was thick with emotion, his usual cocky smirk absent as he stared at you in awe.

Mike's gaze softened, his lips parting as a slow, proud grin spread across his face. The adrenaline still pumped through his veins. You had saved him. You had fought for him. And now, as he lay there on the ground, bruised and battered, he couldn't help but feel a surge of possessiveness and admiration.

How did I get so lucky?

Mike's thoughts raced as his eyes traced over your form, taking in the way you stood, strong and capable and in that moment, with you standing over him, your chest rising and falling with exertion, sweat glistening on your skin, he wanted nothing more than to pull you down to him, to feel you against him. He imagined pulling you close, his hands wandering, his lips finding yours, desperate and hungry.

"You're incredible, man" Mike said, his voice softer now, more intimate. "I mean... I always knew you were tough, but that-"

He was cut short when the sound of another window breaking snapped him back to reality.

Another Wendigo burst through it, moving with a terrifying speed. Its claws were outstretched, eyes wide and blind, as it lunged directly for you. The machete slipped from your grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground as the creature slammed into you, knocking you off your feet.

You hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs. The Wendigo's claws raked across your side, leaving a fiery slash that tore through your flesh. You cried out, clutching your side as blood soaked through your shirt.

"NO!" Mike screamed, his voice raw with terror as he scrambled for the shotgun. The Wendigo grabbed you by the leg, its claws sinking into your skin as it began to drag you toward the window.

You thrashed against the creature's grip, panic flooding your senses. The pain from your wounds made it hard to focus. The Wendigo's strength was overwhelming, its bony fingers tightening around your leg as it pulled you closer to the jagged glass of the broken window. The debris on the floor slashing your skin in the process.

Mike was on his feet in an instant, the shotgun in his hands as he sprinted toward you, firing wildly at the wendigo. He kept shooting, missing a few times, the desperation clear in his voice as he cursed under his breath.

Your vision blurred from the pain, your limbs heavy and weak as you tried to fight back.

"Get off him!" Mike roared, his voice full of desperation as he fired again, this time hitting the creature square in the chest. The impact sent the Wendigo stumbling backward, its grip on you loosening just enough for Mike to reach you.

With a grunt of effort, Mike grabbed your arm, yanking you back to your feet and into the room. You collapsed onto the floor, your body trembling from the pain and adrenaline while Mike closed the door.

He was at your side in an instant, his hands hovering over your wounds, his face pale with fear.

They were deep. Three long, jagged cuts across your back, blood pooling beneath you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mike cursed under his breath. His hands were shaking as he pressed them against the gashes in your side, trying to stem the bleeding, but there was so much blood.

The pain was unbearable, but seeing Mike like this hurt even more.

"Jesus, this is bad. God, I'm such an idiot." he muttered, his voice trembling.

You groaned in pain, the agony in your side intensifying with each passing second.

"Mike..." you croaked, trying to get his attention, but he wasn't listening. His hands were still pressing desperately against your wounds, blood staining his fingers as he kept cursing under his breath.

"This is my fault. I should've-fuck, I'm so fucking stupid. Why did I let you come here? Why didn't I-"

"Mike, stop..." you whispered, your voice weak from the pain.

But he wouldn't stop. He was spiraling, the guilt consuming him as he rocked back on his heels, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"We need to get out of here," Mike muttered to himself, his voice strained with desperation. He looked down at your injured form, his gaze flicking between your pale face and the blood soaking through your clothes.

The Wendigos were still out there and you were in no condition to run. Mike's mind raced as he tried to think of anything, anywhere, that might offer some kind of safety. His eyes darted toward the hallway as he recalled the old map he had found earlier, remembering the position of the nursery.

"There might be something there," he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

He leaned down and scooped you into his arms, cradling you as if you weighed nothing. You winced at the sudden movement, the pain in your side flaring up, but Mike's grip was steady, firm, holding you as if he was afraid to let go. He held you close, bridal style, your body pressed against his warm and sturdy chest as he began to move.

"I've got you" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your labored breathing.

His heart pounded in his chest as he carried you down the darkened hallways, the dim light of the flashlight casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound seemed like a threat, and Mike's grip on you tightened with each step. He refused to let you go.

"Just hold on," Mike said through gritted teeth, his eyes darting around the narrow hallways as he moved cautiously.

Your head rested against his chest, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was pounding hard, faster than usual, fueled by adrenaline and fear. The pain in your side had dulled to a throbbing ache, and you couldn't help but notice how tense Mike's body was, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap.

"Mike" you managed to rasp out, the pain making your voice hoarse. "You're... freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," he snapped, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back to the path ahead, "I just... I need to get you fixed up. I need to-"

"Mike" You reached up, your hand weakly brushing against his chest, trying to calm him. "I'm not dying."

He didn't respond immediately, and when he did, his voice was low and shaky. "You don't know that."

You tried to force a smile, though it hurt to do so. "I've had worse."

"Yeah? When was the last time you were clawed by a fucking monster?" His eyes darted to yours, his fear masked by frustration. "You're bleeding all over the place, and it's my fault.

"It's not your fault," you said softly, trying to catch his gaze. "I chose to come with you"

"And I shouldn't have let you," Mike muttered, more to himself than to you. "I should've made you stay behind."

"You know I wouldn't have stayed behind," you replied, a weak smile tugging at your lips. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

His jaw clenched, and he didn't respond, his eyes fixed forward as he continued down the hallway, his arms never loosening their hold on you.

You didn't know how bad the injury was, but the blood that soaked through your clothes was enough to tell you it wasn't good.

You felt the world spinning slightly as he moved, your vision blurring at the edges. It was getting harder to stay awake, harder to keep focused on anything but the searing pain in your side. The sounds of the sanatorium echoed around you. All you could hear was the frantic beat of Mike's heart against your chest.

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. "Mike..." you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He snapped his head down to look at you, eyes wide and desperate. "Don't. Don't you dare close your eyes," he growled, his voice rough with panic. His arms tightened around you, almost painfully so, as he quickened his pace. "Stay with me, damn it. Stay awake. You hear me? You're not going anywhere."

But it was so hard to focus. The exhaustion was pulling you under like a heavy tide, dragging you down into the dark. Your eyelids fluttered, and you heard Mike curse again, his breath hitching. "Hey! No, no, no. Look at me. Look at me!" His voice was sharper now, laced with fear. "Stay awake. We're almost there. I swear, we're almost there."

The strain in his voice pulled you back, just for a moment, and you forced your eyes to open a little wider. His face was set in a scowl, but his eyes were wild, desperate.

Mike finally reached the nursery. It was a small, decrepit room, the paint on the walls peeling, and the furniture broken and scattered.

Mike set you down on one of the dirty beds as gently as he could, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled away. You winced again, the movement sending another sharp wave of pain through your body, but you forced yourself to stay quiet.

He hurried to the other side of the room, his eyes scanning the shelves and cabinets for anything that might help. He found an old, dusty first aid kit, half-hidden beneath a pile of debris.

Mike knelt beside you, his hands still shaking as he opened the kit. Inside were a few old bandages, a small bottle of alcohol and a torn-up sheet that he could use as makeshift bandages. He tore the fabric with his teeth.

It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

The silence between the two of you was heavy as he peeled off your shirt. Mike's hands hovered over your wounds, his face twisted in concentration at the deep gashes torn into your side.

He poured the alcohol onto the wounds, the stinging sensation making you clench your teeth to keep from crying out. He was doing his best to be gentle, but the pain was still excruciating.

"Shit... sorry... I'm sorry," Mike kept repeating under his breath, his eyes flicking between the injuries and your face. He looked as though he was about to break, his guilt consuming him.

"If you wanted to get my shirt off, all you had to do was ask." You said, your voice soft despite the pain radiating through your side.

He didn't smile, didn't give you that sarcastic comeback you had been hoping for. His jaw was still set, his lips pressed into a thin line as he focused on wrapping the gauze around your waist.

"Don't joke about this," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You're bleeding everywhere, and I-"

"I'm serious!" you interrupted, forcing a grin through the pain. "If you wanted to play the hero, you could've just asked. You didn't have to engage in a whole monster attack just to impress me."

He refused to look you in the eye, his jaw clenched as he muttered something under his breath, too quiet for you to make out.

You saw the fear and guilt etched into his face. He was scared. More scared than you'd ever seen him before. His focus was singular, driven by the overwhelming need to fix the damage, to keep you alive.

The usual cocky, confident air that surrounded Mike was gone, replaced by a quiet panic that seemed to consume him.

You knew you had to say something. Mike was drowning in guilt, and if you didn't pull him out of it, he might never forgive himself.

Time to try again.

"Come on, Mike," you said, your tone playful despite the situation. "You're not enjoying the fact that I'm shirtless in front of you? I thought this was, like, your dream scenario. You, me, a creepy sanatorium, and a lot of body contact."

You were expecting at least a flicker of amusement, a quirk of the lips, anything that showed he was still the Mike you knew. But there was nothing. His silence only made the fear gnaw at you more.

Your hand reached out to gently touch his arm. "Mike, I'm serious. You saved me. You're the reason I'm still here, okay?"

His shoulders tensed under your touch, and he finally looked up at you, his expression conflicted. You could see the guilt still etched into his features, the self-loathing that twisted his mouth into a grimace.

"But you still got hurt," Mike snapped, his voice rising slightly with the weight of his emotions. His hands clenched into fists, the bandage half-finished as he pulled away, unable to look at you. "I wasn't fast enough. I should've... I should've done more."

"Done more?" You raised an eyebrow, trying to inject a little more lightness into your voice. "What were you supposed to do, Mike? Punch the Wendigo in the face? Because I'd like to see that."

For a brief moment, you thought you saw the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Hey," you said softly, reaching out again to touch his arm, this time gripping it a little tighter. "Look at me."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but after a moment, he turned his head toward you, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'm still here," you said quietly, your voice filled with as much reassurance as you could muster. "Thanks to you."

Mike's eyes flickered with something, some internal struggle playing out behind them.

"For a guy who spends half his time flexing and trying to show off his heroics," you began, leaning back slightly on the bed, wincing a little as the pain in your side flared up. "You're really bad at taking credit when you actually save someone."

That got a reaction. Mike's brows furrowed slightly, and he glanced at you, confusion mixed with frustration.

"I'm just saying," you continued, pretending to be casual as you gestured with your hand, the blood on it had now dried up. "You've got the whole 'tough guy' thing down, but when you actually do something heroic, like, I don't know, saving my life, you act like it wasn't enough."

Mike's frown deepened, but this time there was a spark of something familiar in his eyes, something like the Mike you knew.

"Not everything is a joke, okay?" Mike muttered, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice now.

You grinned. "I know it's not a joke, Mike. I'm just trying to remind you that you're not a screw-up. I know you're used to making dumb decisions, but this wasn't one of them."

For a brief moment, Mike looked like he was going to argue, but then he let out a quiet, exasperated huff. His lips twitching in a way that told you he was fighting back a smirk.

"There he is," you teased lightly, your grin widening. "I knew you were still in there somewhere."

Mike's shoulders relaxed slightly, and for the first time since the attack, his expression softened. He shook his head, finally finishing the bandage on your side. The corner of his lips tugged upward as he tried to suppress a smile, a trace of his usual cocky confidence returning.

"You're an idiot," Mike muttered, but there was a warmth in his voice that hadn't been there before. He met your eyes again, the weight of the guilt starting to lift.

"I had to learn from the best," you shot back playfully. "You're pretty good at being an idiot yourself."

Mike chuckled softly, a sound that sent warmth through your chest despite the pain. "Yeah, well... guess I can't argue with that."

You leaned back against the pillow, the tension in the room finally easing. Mike's usual sarcastic demeanor was starting to slip back into place.

"I never really thought I'd spend a night in a creepy-ass sanatorium being patched up by a guy who probably spent his teenage years trying to impress girls with bad one-liners." You said, trying to keep the conversation going.

Mike snorted, shaking his head. "First of all, my one-liners were legendary. They even had you blushing when I dropped them on you. Second, I'm pretty sure I'm saving your life right now, so maybe a little more appreciation, huh?"

"Oh, believe me, I appreciate it," you replied with a grin. "But you have to admit, this is pretty far from a normal night out."

"Yeah, well, normal's overrated," Mike said, his tone lighter now. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his eyes lingering on the bandage he had just finished tying around your waist. "But... seriously. I'm glad you're okay."

That fear hadn't fully left him yet.

"I'm okay because of you." you said, your voice softer now, more serious. You sat on the bed, looking up at him and wrapping your arms around his neck.

Your lips were sealed tight so you wouldn’t produce any sound of the pain still lingering.

Mike met your gaze again, his expression conflicted, torn between the guilt that still lingered and the relief that you were alive. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he just stared at you, his eyes dark with emotion.

Without warning, he leaned down, his hands gripping your face with a force that nearly made you gasp. His lips crashed into yours with a desperation that took you completely by surprise. The kiss was rough, almost violent in its intensity, his breath was hot and ragged, each exhale trembling with the intensity of the emotions he was trying to keep in check.

His tongue pushed past your lips with an almost feral hunger. The roughness of his tongue mirrored the intensity of his kiss, his movements sharp and demanding, as if he couldn't get close enough to you, couldn't feel enough of you. His tongue explored your mouth, not gently, but with a wild fervor that made your heart race and your body tremble under him.

You responded instinctively, your arms tightening around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, your body aching yet craving the connection he was giving you. His weight pressed down on you more as the kiss deepened.

His breath grew hotter, more frantic. His fingers tightened on your skin, almost painful, like he was terrified to let go, his tongue still working against yours, desperate to drown out any space between you. You could feel his desperation in every frantic breath, his rough kisses stealing away any sense of time as he devoured you.

His hands slipping from your face to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, needing more.

Needing you.

You could feel the heat of his breath as he pulled back only for a fraction of a second before diving back in, his lips pressing into yours with renewed force.

Your lungs burned as the kiss deepened further, but you didn't care. All you could focus on was him. On the raw, unfiltered emotion in every press of his lips, every tremor of his hands. Mike's hands roamed your body, careful to avoid your injury, but firm enough to hold you in place. His breath was hot against your skin as he kissed you with a kind of hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you gasping for breath. His eyes were dark, clouded with emotion, his lips slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing softly against your skin as though trying to calm himself after the storm he had unleashed.

His breath was shaky, his body trembling slightly as he looked at you with a mixture of relief. "I promise. I won't let anything happen to you." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

No matter what would happen next, you had Mike. And Mike had you.

And that was enough.

If you liked this story please leave a comment, I love reading them <3. Next week I think I’m gonna post a Mike Munroe jealous fic with smut! Hope you’ll like it ♡

[sserasin]

yes, sir

cw nsfw under cut, female reader, not explicit nsfw but it’s like foreplay idk, idk what to call it but he’s taking pics of reader naked lmao, reader is a brat, spanking, not choking but he does lowkey suffocate reader, inspired by opening to smoothie!!!, brief mention of vibrator towards the end idk it’s a punishment

you just look so pretty that jaemin can’t resist taking pictures on his camera.

you’re spread out on the bed in front of him, his body in between your legs as he carefully positions the camera. he moves your body the way he likes it, ignoring the way you preen for his attention; to touch you.

“maybe we should tie you up,” jaemin’s murmuring to himself, snapping the first pic. “you’d look gorgeous.”

“jaemin,” you whine, leg trying to trap him further up your body but he quickly pushes your leg away. “touch me, please.”

“saying please doesn’t stop you from being bratty,” he tuts, not meeting your eyes before he widens your legs and hunches over to take another picture.

feeling shy at the angle, you try closing your legs but he doesn’t relent, hold on your thigh tightening, “stop. moving.”

letting out a whine, you huff and stop moving. you can feel wetness dripping down on the bed underneath you, and jaemin says, “perfect.” before you can hear the sound of the shot being snapped.

“are you done, now?” you say impatiently, eyes narrowed at him.

jaemin smiles, placing the camera to the side carefully and leaning over you, “good girls are patient. good girls get what they want if they’re nice. have you been good?”

you stare up at him incredulously, “what do you expect when you’re touching me like that for hours but not actually touching me?”

“good girls are also thankful for whatever they get,” he hums, finger caressing your cheek lightly.

“i was getting nothing,” you roll your eyes, about ready to get up and finish yourself off in the shower. but jaemin pushes you back down, grabbing your cheeks with his thumb on one side and his others on the other, squishing them together.

“and now you’re not getting anything except for a punishment,” jaemin is, as usual, calm as he says, free hand trailing down to slide his fingers up your slit, collecting the juices. he brings his hand up to his mouth, licking them clean as he keeps eye contact with you. “understand?”

you mumble something and his brow raises, “what?”

you have to fight to keep the frustration out of your voice as again, he brings his fingers to your clit and lightly begins to circle, “okay.”

“not what i meant, baby,” jaemin chuckles without any humor. you don’t say anything. he tilts his head expectantly, and you still stay silent. in one quick motion, you’re flipped over on your stomach with your ass in the air. you inhale a sharp breath as the air hits your exposed holes.

“i’m giving you one last chance, brat.”

you swallow, biting back a smile. this was what you wanted in the first place.

the forceful palm of his hand on your ass almost sends you flying into the headboard, and you let out a sharp cry, clutching the sheets tightly. his hand grabs hold of your hair, pulling you back to look him in the eye, “what was that, again?”

you look up at him with a slightly opened mouth, before it curves into a smug smile, saying a bit breathlessly, “is that all you’ve got?”

“you really should think before you talk,” jaemin shoves your head into the pillow, restricting your air for a few moments. he lets you thrash around, keeping your face down despite you trying to grab onto him. he tugs you up by your hair, “gonna be a good girl, now?”

you look up at him carefully, holding yourself up by your forearms, “no, sir.”

jaemin stares back at you unnervingly, and it’s honestly making you a bit nervously at the look on his face. did you go to far? you watch him bend over slightly for something under the bed, bringing out a familiar object. you sit up a little, mouth opening immediately to apologize, but he shakes his head, stopping you from saying something.

he presses the button on the vibrator, your body tensing up and filling with regret when you heard the vibration sounds starting, “the only thing that should be coming out of your mouth right now is yes, sir.”

[creamflix]

suguru geto x female reader; dark and 18+ content, minors or ageless blogs do not interact. heavy themes of: sex doll [p in v sex], voyeurism, dubcon, sadism. corruption kink. unestablished relationship. barista!reader, customer!suguru. unethical and unhealthy obsession. pretty fucked up fic. continuation of this drabble that deals with the same concept. saw @/prebioticsoup wanting a full fic on this, hope you enjoy ;0 — masterlist here ☆

the first time suguru sauntered into your café, he did so with an effortless elegance that felt like a scene from a movie.

tall, raven hair in a loose bun, his gaze held a sharp intensity that contrasted with the gentle smile he threw your way. it took him mere minutes to charm not only you but everyone in line behind him, effortlessly making conversation while deciding on his drink.

by the time you handed him his order, he’d already learned your name and left a generous tip, promising he’d be back tomorrow.

the usual morning rush had just tapered off when suguru had wandered up to the counter, his dark eyes gleaming with that familiar intensity. it wasn’t unusual to see him here, just… unusual to see him this close, leaning in, his voice almost intimate in how low he kept it.

"hey," he’d murmured, giving you a smile that made his eyes crinkle just so, "any chance you'd be willing to deliver today? been swamped with calls and deadlines. i’ll even tip well.” his tone had softened, and the way he held your gaze was almost dangerous, charming in a way that left a knot forming in your stomach.

he'd even pushed a piece of paper across the counter to you with an address and the keycode scrawled on it, his fingers lingering over yours for a second too long. "it’d mean a lot," he’d added with a small, crooked smile that made you feel seen in a way that was… disarming.

it was weird, sure. most customers would just ask for delivery and be done with it.

but something about his request – or maybe just him – left you both intrigued and hesitant to turn him down.

so here you were, standing in his living room, setting the cup and bag on his coffee table as you called his name softly, only to be met with silence. you were half-turning to leave, thinking of the faint, lingering scent of his cologne that seemed to fill every corner of his place. that's when you heard it. faint, but unmistakable.

the low, needy sounds, a guttural moan that sounded nothing short of desperate.

your cheeks burned instantly, heartbeat loud in your ears as your mind scrambled. logic told you to just leave, but curiosity was whispering in that sly, insistent voice, urging you to at least glance down the hallway.

you took a step.

just one.

then another.

each step felt heavier, your curiosity outweighing the pangs of guilt as you made your way closer to his bedroom door. you froze at the doorway, almost afraid of what you might see.

and there he was, broad shoulders hunched over, his head thrown back, hands gripping the figure beneath him. your jaw dropped as you took in the...doll’s face, an unmistakable likeness – the delicate features, the slight curve of the lips.

it looked just like you.

your breath hitched, shock flooding your veins like ice as you tried to process the sight. the motions were… too real, too vivid. the way his hand cupped its jaw, the low, gravelly way he moaned out your name between harsh breaths. it was as if he were savoring every moment, every touch.

"fuck," he groaned, his tone filled with an intensity that felt too raw, too personal. "god, you feel so…"

your legs felt rooted to the ground, a strange thrill mixing with the panic building up in you. he looked… desperate, completely engrossed, caught up in a rhythm that was unnervingly personal. the harsh way he held the doll’s wrists down, the feverish press of his body against it – like he was starved for something.

for you.

you were still frozen, watching as he slowed, then paused, catching sight of your stunned figure standing in the doorway. his eyes widened for only a second, but the shock was quickly replaced by something darker, the corners of his lips curving up into a small, almost pleased smirk.

"oh," he purred, still holding his position, one brow arching as if he wasn’t surprised at all. "you’re early."

you felt the blood rush to your face, your throat dry as you scrambled to find words, to do anything other than stare at the intimate position he was still in. "i–i thought you… you asked me to deliver it here," you stammered, feeling painfully out of place, your voice wavering as you struggled not to look directly at the doll that looked just like you.

"i did," he murmured, barely suppressing a chuckle as he took in your reaction, his hand trailing down the doll’s neck almost as if he was taunting you. "didn’t think you’d stick around though."

you swallowed, heat pricking at the back of your neck. "i just… i didn’t… i didn’t think–"

"that i'd be so… preoccupied?" his voice was velvet-smooth, a dark gleam in his eyes as he tilted his head, letting his gaze run up and down your body, lingering on the way you fidgeted. he finally pulled away from the doll, sitting up, his long hair falling over his shoulder as he looked at you with an intensity that felt all-consuming.

"maybe," he mused, his voice a low murmur as he stood, moving closer to you with a casual, unhurried grace. "or maybe, somewhere deep down, you were curious to see how much i’ve thought about you."

you felt your throat tighten, your thoughts muddled as he stopped inches away, close enough that you could see the flush of exertion across his cheeks, the gleam in his eyes holding your gaze captive.

"should i be flattered that you stayed?" he asked, his voice soft, laced with that dangerous, teasing tone that made it impossible to pull away. "or…" his fingers reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, letting his knuckles graze your cheek, "maybe you’d like to help me with something… a little more real."

your breath caught, feeling trapped beneath his gaze. “i– i don’t… i mean, i wasn’t —”

"you weren’t?" he repeated, eyes darkening as he took your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his. "yet here you are, standing in my bedroom, looking at me with those wide eyes… like you’re just waiting to see what i’ll do next."

it was overwhelming, his presence, his touch, the low, possessive way he looked at you, like he’d finally caught you in the trap he'd been setting all along.

“why don’t you stay a while?”

you froze, heart hammering as suguru's words sank in. the idea of staying, of being reduced to nothing more than an observer, clawed at something within you — half shock, half intrigue, mingling with the heat creeping up your neck.

“you… you can’t be serious,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper, your gaze darting between him and the doll, its face a haunting reflection of your own.

but suguru only leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear, voice low and taunting. “what’s the harm, hm? you’re already here.” he let his fingers trail down your arm, lingering just enough to send a shiver through you. “might as well stay a while, see what all the fuss is about. it’s not every day you get to watch someone with… such an interest in you, is it?”

your pulse raced, the logical part of you screaming to turn and walk out.

but something in his voice, that dark, persuasive drawl, kept you rooted in place, as if he’d tapped into a part of you you’d never fully acknowledged. the part that was curious — intrigued, even, by how far he’d go with his twisted little invitation.

“i don’t… i shouldn’t,” you stammered, swallowing hard, but suguru only chuckled softly, sliding his hand to the small of your back, guiding you to a chair near the bed.

“it’s just a bit of company,” he murmured, a gleam in his eyes as he pressed you gently down into the seat, his gaze holding you captive, daring you to pull away.

“besides… she wants it, too.” he nodded toward the doll, its vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, its features so eerily close to yours that you couldn’t look for too long without feeling a strange unease twist in your stomach.

you felt trapped, your own curiosity betraying you as he settled back down beside the doll, his hand tracing a line down its chest with practiced ease. “don’t worry,” he purred, eyes flashing as he glanced at you, “i’ll make sure you’re entertained.”

the room was unbearably quiet as he resumed his ministrations, his movements slow and deliberate, eyes occasionally flickering to you with that dark satisfaction, like he was relishing every flicker of shock and discomfort that passed over your face. his hands ran over the doll’s body with an intimacy that left you squirming, wishing for some way out, but also oddly compelled to see how far he’d go.

“i can’t believe… you actually did this,” you muttered, the words barely escaping your lips. but suguru only smirked, not breaking his rhythm, the sound of his deep breaths filling the room as he slid his hands down the doll’s thighs, fingers digging in with a fervor that made your pulse spike.

“oh, i did,” he murmured, voice soft, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he locked onto you. “you’d be surprised what a little...inspiration can do.”

the way he moaned, so raw, so brazen, had your skin tingling, a mixture of fascination and horror building in your chest as he tightened his grip on the doll.

his breaths quickened, his hips moving with a fervent rhythm, his eyes darkening as he became lost in the act, as if his entire focus, his whole attention, was still somehow fixated on you.

“don’t look away,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice rough and demanding. “you wanted to know how badly i’ve thought about you… so watch.”

you swallowed, feeling your cheeks heat at the sheer explicitness of his words, of his movements, and yet, you found yourself unable to look away.

every breath, every low groan that slipped from his lips made your own skin prickle with an intensity you hadn’t felt before. it was as if he were baring something intimate, something meant to unsettle and corrupt.

"i’d rather have the real thing," he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper, his gaze still locked on you, filled with a dark promise that made your stomach flip. "but until then… i’ll settle for your eyes on me.”

your mind felt like it was spinning, caught in a sickening whirl as suguru’s voice filled the room, each filthy word pouring out of him in a way that felt too real, too intimate, for something so deeply wrong.

he was close now, his breath shallow, body moving with a feverish intensity as he clutched the doll, but the way he murmured your name over and over made the bile rise in your throat.

“god, just like that,” he groaned, voice thick with lust, his hands possessive as they gripped the doll's waist. “so good for me… all mine. aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you wanted to close your eyes, to block it out, but you felt frozen, trapped under his gaze even as he focused on the doll, your name falling from his lips like it was the only thing that mattered.

then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, a soft, mechanical voice responded, high-pitched, artificial yet somehow unmistakably… you.

"yes, suguru… just for you," it cooed in a hauntingly familiar tone, distorted but enough to strike deep into your chest, each word an echo of your own voice in some nightmarish, robotic parody.

your stomach lurched, the weight of the situation crashing down on you in a way that left you dizzy, eyes blurring with tears as you fought to steady your breath, each strained inhale feeling harder than the last.

“aw, look at you,” suguru cooed mockingly, eyes gleaming as he watched the tears streaming down your face, a twisted satisfaction painted across his expression.

“crying just for me, are we? i thought you’d be flattered.” his fingers trailed down the doll’s cheek with a tenderness that made the sick feeling intensify, his gaze still locked on you.

"don’t cry, baby,” he murmured, mocking you with a twisted sort of sympathy. “she’s just here to keep me company, since you won’t. can you blame me for getting a little creative?"

you choked back a sob, feeling raw, humiliated, completely at his mercy as he kept up his relentless rhythm, the doll’s mechanical responses egging him on, answering every filthy question, every degrading murmur he threw its way.

"you like watching, don’t you?" he smirked, his tone filled with a cruel, taunting pleasure as he drank in your broken expression. "don’t lie… i know this does something to you."

his words felt like a blade, twisting deeper with every passing second, leaving you no choice but to sit there, helpless, as he continued to taunt you with the very thing meant to mimic your own likeness.

“god — yes, just like that,” suguru moaned, his voice cracking with intensity, holding the doll flush against him as he reached his high. his hips stilled, shuddering as he let out a long, drawn-out groan, his grip tightening as if he were clinging to something real, something alive.

“so perfect… so fucking perfect,” he whispered, pressing his face into the doll’s neck, his breath heavy, voice softening with something disturbingly close to tenderness.

“i love you, you know that?” he muttered, brushing a hand over the doll’s cheek as if it could actually feel him.

“i love you too, suguru,” the doll responded, its tone mechanical, almost monotone but laced with that twisted imitation of your voice, sending chills down your spine.

the words hit like a gut punch, so painfully distorted, and yet the very sound was familiar enough to make you feel sick.

you pressed a trembling hand to your mouth, biting back the sobs that kept threatening to spill out, each one tearing at your throat as you tried to swallow them down, praying that if you closed your eyes hard enough, this would all disappear. that you’d open your eyes, and he’d be gone, and this would be nothing but a dark, twisted nightmare.

but he was still there, watching you through half-lidded eyes, his face flushed, a lazy, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “poor thing,” he murmured, still breathless, his tone dripping with mock sympathy as he took in the way you shook, tears staining your cheeks. “can’t handle it, huh?”

you sucked in a shuddering breath, struggling to form words, but they felt caught in your throat, trapped under the weight of his gaze. “suguru… this… this is sick.”

“oh, come on now,” he cooed, tilting his head as he ran a finger down the doll’s arm, treating it with a tenderness that felt all too deliberate, all too pointed. “you were curious enough to stay, weren’t you? and look at you… all red-eyed and pretty, just for me.” he chuckled, leaning back as he gave you a once-over, eyes dancing with that twisted amusement.

“this is… this is insane,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper, hating the tremble in it, hating how small and vulnerable you felt under his gaze.

but he only smirked, completely unbothered by your shock, by your horror. “oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice low, dripping with satisfaction. “you think this is bad?” he gestured toward the doll with a smug little tilt of his head. “this was only meant to tide me over until you’d come around.”

your vision blurred with fresh tears, his words sinking in, twisting in your chest like a knife. you squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to block out his voice, the doll’s eerie mimicry of your own, everything. you felt raw, torn open, humiliated beyond anything you’d ever experienced.

“just go ahead,” he continued, taunting, his tone deceptively soft. “cry all you want. i’ll be right here, watching every beautiful, broken second of it.”

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[writinginpinkpink]

The Price of Life. [0.3]

homelander x fem!reader

summary: Homelander saved you and gave you life, but with one rule: be utterly loyal to him. Despite this, you went beyond mere obedience and provided him with what he needed most: love.

warnings: homelander, violence, swearing, smut (eventually), a bit of stockholm syndrome?

taglist: @tfamidoingwithmylife

masterlist | requests opened! | previous

When morning came, you woke up to find Homelander already up, his hair impeccably styled as he rehearsed his lines in front of the mirror. He glanced at you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good morning, YN. Today is a big day for us,” he said, his voice unnervingly peaceful. “Get dressed. We have a press conference in an hour.”

You nodded, getting up and putting on the uniform he had given you. The new suit felt unfamiliar against your skin, a constant reminder of your new commitment, but you liked how it looked on you.

“Save your concern for someone who needs it,” you retorted, brushing past her. “I’ve made my choice.”

The press conference was held in the main hall of Vought Tower. As you and Homelander stood together, facing the flashing cameras and the eager reporters, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Homelander began, his voice strong and authoritative. “I have an important announcement to make. YN and I are now in a relationship. Together, we’ll make sure to combat the lies the media spreads and show you the truth for a brighter future for America.”

You forced a smile, nodding along with his words. The room erupted in applause, and the questions started flying. You answered them as best as you could, sticking to the narrative Homelander had laid out. The applause and the attention felt intoxicating, filling you with a sense of significance you had never experienced before.

After the press conference, you found yourself alone with Homelander in a small conference room. He turned to you, his expression unreadable.

“You did well out there,” he said, his tone almost approving. “But remember, they love me, not you. If anything happens, I can turn them against you in a heartbeat.”

You nodded, feeling a strange thrill at his threat. It wasn’t a problem for you; it was just part of who he was, and you liked it. “I understand.”

“Good,” he replied. “Now, I have something else for you. A mission. It’s a test of your loyalty.”

Your heart raced at his words. “What kind of mission?”

He handed you a folder with detailed information. “There’s a supe disrupting the city. I want you to take care of it. Show me that you’re devoted to me.”

You opened the folder and scanned the contents, your eyes narrowing as you took in the details. The name and face of the target were familiar, and you realized why Homelander had chosen her, you couldn't deny him: this was your chance to prove yourself to Homelander, to solidify your place by his side.

“I’ll take care of it,” you said confidently.

As you left the room to prepare for the mission, you ran into Annie.

“YN, please. Think about what you’re doing,” she pleaded. “This isn’t you. Homelander is dangerous. You don’t have to do this.”

Your anger flared at her words. “Oh, I see what’s going on. You’re jealous, Annie. You can’t stand that someone else might be in the spotlight for once.”

“Jealous? That’s not it at all,” Annie insisted, her eyes wide with shock. “I’m worried about you. Homelander isn’t who you think he is.”

“This again?” you snapped, feeling the resentment bubble up. “We’ve already talked about this. You’ve always been jealous of me. Ever since I joined The Seven, you’ve treated me like I’m just your sidekick. Well, guess what? I’m done being in your shadow. Homelander sees my potential, and he’s given me a chance to prove myself.”

“YN, you’re making a mistake,” Annie said, her voice softer now, pleading. “This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about keeping you safe.”

-

The mission Homelander gave you was straightforward: eliminate a minor supe. As you approached the familiar location, a strange feeling hit your stomach. It was just an old warehouse; there was no reason for you to feel this way. Everything would have been so much easier if you didn’t have so many memories. However, none of it mattered. You knew Homelander, and you knew this was his way to test you, to see how far you would go for him. And you would go damn far.

You entered the warehouse, your senses heightened, and quickly located your target. Your heart skipped a beat. The supe was a young woman with the ability to ignite fire. She turned to face you, her eyes widening in recognition. Affection filled her eyes, but you didn’t allow yours to show the same feeling.

“YN? What are you doing here? Miss the team?” she asked, smiling. Her hair was different, and her face a little older, but the smile was the same. Her expression faltered as she noticed the darkness in your gaze—a look she couldn’t quite recognize. It was you, but something was different, something unsettling.

“I’m here to take care of a problem,” you replied coldly, stepping closer. You knew that to get the job done, you would have to leave it all behind—all the love for your past had to be destroyed so there would be enough space for your savior.

She backed away, her confusion evident. “What are you talking about? Is this about that shirt—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you interrupted.

Before she could react, you lunged at her, using your improved strength to pin her to the ground. She struggled, but you were stronger, you were better. You could almost hear Homelander's voice in your head, telling you how good you were being for him. You felt a twisted sense of fulfillment as you overpowered her, your hands closing around her throat.

As she gasped for air, her flames flickering out, you leaned in closer, your voice a cold whisper. “I wish I could say I'm sorry that things ended like this.” You saw Ember's tear running down her cheek, but somehow it meant nothing to you. She meant nothing to you now.

With a final, cruel twist, you snapped her neck, feeling a wave of energy and pleasure. You stood up, looking down at her lifeless body, and felt no remorse. You weren't even ashamed about it.

You wiped away a tear you didn't realize was falling. Maybe that was your last bit of humanity. But you knew that everything would be worth it.

-

Returning to Vought Tower, you made your way to Homelander’s office, feeling a mix of pain and pride. Eager to see him as soon as possible, you quickened your pace, anxious for his praise. When you entered, he looked you up and down with a smirk.

“Looks like you’ve been in quite a fight,” he said, his tone a blend of amusement and condescension. “Guess the supe wasn’t much of a challenge after all.”

“I handled it,” you replied, a rush of pride in your voice. “For you.”

Homelander’s expression remained assertive as he stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek with a calculated touch. “I know. You did such a good job, YN.” Your heart raced, the sound of it loud in your ears. You felt as if you would do it a thousand times again just to hear him say it once more.

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, his approval filling you with a sense of accomplishment. “Thank you.”

He guided you to his desk, where he began tending to your wounds. His touch was far from gentle, but you made sure not to flinch, determined to show that you could endure his roughness. As he worked, his eyes remained fixed on you, a mixture of satisfaction and possessiveness in his gaze.

“You know, you made the right choice,” he said, his voice low and assured. “Now nothing is standing between us.”

You felt a deep sense of commitment at his words, and you looked into his eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze. “I’d do anything for my family,” you declared, your voice steady.

Homelander’s eyes shifted, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Without warning, he gripped your chin firmly, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce urgency. At first, you struggled to keep up with the intensity, but soon you found yourself matching his desperation, surrendering to his need.

He used you as he pleased, and you embraced it, feeling a mix of exhilaration and belonging. The lines between pain and pleasure blurred as you gave yourself over completely.

[acciotaitlynn]

⋆｡˚꒰sharp desires꒱˚｡⋆

You hand Zayne a list, each bullet point revealing your most secret desires. Instead, he devises something infinitely better than anything you could have imagined.

⤵

⟢ zayne⌇fem!reader

⟢ 18+ graphic sexual content. unprotected sex/no pulling out. p in da v. oral. fingering. light bondage. knife play. teasing. slight sub/dom dynamic. triggering situations such as depictions of cutting, staged assault, and a staged break-in. teensy bit of blood. i don’t normally write themes like this bc i feel i can’t do them justice, but this man and his scalpel been on my mind for a whileee now

* i know that last part is probably unrealistic but i think it’s hot sue me 🙈

⟢ 4,008 words

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

You woke with a start, your senses immediately on high alert despite the grogginess of sleep. The dark room, bathed in eerie moonlight, sent shivers racing down your spine while fluttering curtains and an unsettling silence prickled your skin with goosebumps.

The digital clocks glow, flashing 2:44am, seemed unnaturally bright, amplifying the sudden creeping fear tingling through your body.

Gripping your firearm tightly, you moved with cautious steps to the kitchen, systematically checking the bathroom and closets for any signs of intrusions. Finding nothing, the unease settled deeper in your gut as you poured a glass of water and headed back to bed.

You were halfway down the hall when powerful arms wrapped around you from behind, a hand clamping over your mouth to suppress your screams. The glass shattered on impact as you struggled fervently, but the grip remained unyielding.

In all black attire, a hood masking their face, the intruder exuded a possessive aura that felt unnervingly familiar. Thrown onto the bed, you were pinned down with a roughness tempered by gentle caresses. Bright hazel eyes, burning with an intensity you'd never seen before, met yours.

Recognizing the intruder was Zayne brought an initial wave of relief that quickly dissolved under his predatory gaze. His eyes traced your form with an unfamiliar hunger as he held your arms over your head, watching raptly as your breath hitched in an intoxicating blend of fear and arousal. 

Despite your angelic demeanor, you had often shared desires for darker, more intense experiences, even recently presenting Zayne with a list that truly challenged his boundaries.

He had grappled with the idea of inflicting pain without mutual arousal, ending up in a struggle to align your fantasies with his own pleasure. Thankfully, a realization had dawned on him, igniting a surprising, twisted excitement that fueled a resolute plan.

In the midst of trying to persuade him to explore some of the acts you had listed, your main selling point was the notion that letting go in such a way could potentially alleviate the intense work-related stress he habitually bottled up. Zayne, however, failed to grasp this perspective—in his view, causing you pain would likely only escalate his stress levels. Yet, the night he had endured was nothing short of harrowing, and it was thoughts of indulging in precisely that release that saw him through the ordeal.

Apart from the moments he was forced to focus solely on a surgical procedure, visions of you beneath him—just as you lay now, eyes swirling with an utterly captivating blend of fear and desire—danced persistently in his thoughts, gradually consuming his mind entirely. Abandoning his unfinished paperwork on the desk, with plans to return to the hospital once his encounter with you concluded, he hastily made his way home.

The bag, meticulously prepared and awaiting its moment ever since he first conceived this plan, beckoned him from the edge of the bed.

“You’ve haunted my every thought today,” he confessed in a low voice laced with longing, his eyes fixed on yours, fervently searching for a response that mirrored his own tumultuous emotions. “Perhaps your theory was correct—it's as if the weight of the day is beginning to melt away… It’s intoxicating.” 

Zayne found it intriguing to see the way your eyes had flickered with relief upon seeing him, only to quickly morph into anxiety as you realized the darker intent lurking behind his gaze. There was a faint question lingering in the recesses of his mind—what was happening to him? Never could he have imagined that witnessing your struggle against him, and the realization sinking in that he had no intention of releasing you, would stir such a potent, almost primal arousal within him.

His breath brushed lightly against your skin as he drew close. His voice, low and teasing, carried a startlingly cold edge as his lips ghosted over your jaw. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? Number 5 on the list, correct? ‘Use force to use me, Zayniee. Even better if u break into the apartment and scare the ever-loving shit out of me when u do this,’ in squiggly brackets with a smiley face—technically, I’m just following orders.”  You glared at him, irritation flashing in your eyes, which only earned you a cocky smirk before his lips crashed onto yours.

There was nothing gentle or tender about the kiss—something you had come to expect from Zayne. It was bruising, possessive, and all-encompassing, his mouth devouring yours as your body instinctively stiffened under his touch.

While you had indeed asked for this, the intensity of his actions caught you off guard—the thrill he was exuding from instilling fear in you left you feeling a bit queasy. His entire demeanor was different—charged with an excitement that was both unsettling and exhilarating. But mostly, it was just incredibly hot.

His dark hair framed mocking, sultry eyes, which gleamed beneath the hood of his sweatshirt as they roved over you. Dressed casually in sweats and a hoodie, with giddy eyes and tousled hair, Zayne exuded a youthful energy that starkly contrasted with his usual professional appearance.

For so long, you had wondered if it was even possible for Zayne to let go like this. Now, seeing him so unrestrained filled you with a happiness that you could barely contain.

Fear and arousal simmered within you, battling for dominance—but the fear was a relentless force churning in your stomach, no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

Your mind scrambled to remember why you ever thought this was a good idea. The notion of someone breaking into your home to assault you had quickly lost its appeal, even if the intruder was your fiance. He kept your arms pinned above your head, his weight still pressing you into the bed. You hadn’t even noticed the black bag resting there until he reached over and rummaged through it.

Your eyes widened as he pulled out a length of rope, a smile curling his lips as he caught your hesitant expression. “Zayne?” you whispered, uncertainty threading through your voice. He stayed silent, skillfully binding your hands to the headboard before you could fully comprehend what was happening. In a blur, your loose tank top and snowflake-print pajama shorts were pulled down the length of your body, a startled squeak escaping you as the fabric was roughly yanked down your legs.

Zayne’s full weight returned to settle beneath your knees, giving him an unobstructed view as his warm finger traced your folds. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and you looked away, unable to bear the sight of his finger glistening with your arousal, which he then licked clean with a grin. “It seems like you’re enjoying this more than you’re letting on, love,” he mocked, his voice dripping with amusement.

His fingers continued their exploration, sliding deep inside you, stretching you with a steady rhythm. Your hips began to grind against his hand, seemingly of their own volition. Zayne groaned lowly, his teeth closing over his lip as he watched your body’s eager reaction to him. Suddenly, he was consumed with the desire to help you push past your fear.

He captured your breast with his lips and teeth, eagerly sucking, licking and biting every inch of skin he could find. When your eyes met again, he was pleased to see that fear was slowly giving way to arousal.

His touches grew gentler, his fingers tracing soft patterns along your stomach and sides, drawing out those adorable giggles he cherished so much. His kisses became tender and lingering, no longer bruising. Hands cradled your face lovingly as his tongue danced passionately with yours. The room filled with a symphony of soft groans, gentle whimpers, and the cool night air, creating a beautiful, intimate melody. “Let’s see if we can’t make this everything you dreamed of,” he murmured against your lips, his voice softening with his touches.

The more he thought about it as his fingers traced your breasts, the more Zayne wanted this experience to be free of fear—at least for the first time. At first, he worried that his newfound tenderness wouldn’t be enough for you—but when your body relaxed beneath him, going almost limp in his hands after you released a deep sigh of pleasure and relief, his worries melted away.

His lips roamed over the marks from his earlier roughness, soothing them gently with every touch. He continued to straddle you, but his weight eased off, and his gaze sought yours with a sudden intensity.

The idea Zayne wanted to try tonight wasn’t on your lengthy list of fantasies, and he wasn’t even sure if you’d be interested—but he found himself hoping with all his heart that you would be; letting this go would be surprisingly difficult for him. A blush began to spread across his ears and cheeks as he began to speak, a faint hint of nervousness and hopefulness beneath his words. “I’ve wanted to try something new with you for as long as you’ve asked it of me,” he admitted, returning your soft smile as his hand brushed your cheek. “But I’ve struggled immensely to find something that would be pleasurable for both of us—I’m simply incapable of hurting you if it’s not appealing to me too.” Slowly, he reached for his bag and removed two small, identical items that glinted in the moonlight. Your eyes widened, locking onto him with curiosity and a tinge of returning fear as you realized what they were.

Zayne removed the protective cap from one of the scalpels, balancing it on his fingers as he turned it over slowly. His eyes, brimming with longing, drifted back to you. “If at any moment you want me to stop, I will,” he said softly, his tone unwavering. He searched your face, and the vulnerability in his expression struck you deeply. Zayne, always selfless, was rarely ever selfish, and more rarely did he ask for anything for himself. The hope in his eyes tugged at your heartstrings, and despite the fear once again coursing through you, you nodded softly, granting him the permission he sought.

His eyes sparkled with a mix of disbelief and adoration as he processed your answer, finally rewarding your trust with another passionate kiss. His lips moved to your cheeks and eyelids, pressing soft, thankful kisses as your eyes fluttered shut. He kissed you until you were breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your breasts swaying with every movement, practically begging for his attention.

“This first blade is very dull. I’ll use it to get you accustomed to the sensation before switching to the sharper one,” he explained, his calm, professional tone instantly reassuring. You nodded again, too anxious to speak, your mind racing as the metal inched closer. Your body tensed at the scalpel's cool touch, but you quickly relaxed as you realized it was merely the backside tracing a slow circle around your nipple. A groan escaped you when the dulled edge took its place, moving gently over the sensitive bud before gliding down your stomach. His hand eagerly replaced the scalpel on your breast, kneading it firmly as he continued to explore your skin; the dull blade traveling over spots you assumed the sharper one would later revisit.

As your body relaxed, you began to surrender to its unfamiliar, tantalizing sensations—the slow, deliberate dragging and tapping motions Zayne was applying with just the right amount of pressure brought you more pleasure than you'd anticipated. “How does it feel?” he whispered. “It’s… different,” you managed, your voice barely above a murmur. “But good. Really good.” A satisfied smile spread across his face as he continued his careful ministrations.

He was absolutely drunk on your reactions, and the two of you had barely even begun. Your eyes had long since drifted shut, soft sounds of ecstasy filling his ears as the blade danced across your skin. He could see it—you had completely surrendered to the pleasure he and the blade were bringing you. Setting the scalpel aside, he captured your lips in a fervent kiss, greedily devouring the beautiful noises spilling from you.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and glistening, eyes bright with excitement as you beamed up at him. The joy he felt at your newfound eagerness was overwhelming. He couldn’t decide whose excitement was greater—yours or his—as he reached for the second scalpel, a small smile playing on his lips. You couldn’t help but burst into a wide grin at the look on his face. His smile didn’t waver as he met your eyes, raising an amused eyebrow. “What?” he asked. “Nothing, it’s just… you literally look like a giddy schoolboy right now, Zayne—it’s adorable,” you teased. He huffed a gentle laugh. “Truthfully? I feel like one.” He paused. “Would you like me to untie the restraints?” You gave him an affronted look, as if he’d just asked the stupidest question of the day. “Absolutely not,” you answered firmly. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he chuckled and moved closer, the sharper scalpel glinting in the dim light. “Alright then,” he murmured. “Let’s continue.”

His fingers brushed the soft skin of your neck as he gently tilted your head to the side. His mind wandered, imagining how that first cut would feel against your flesh, and what delicious sounds you might make in response. Leaning close, his lips grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear. “I need you to stay very still for me,” he murmured, his voice a blend of calm and command. “If you feel the need to move, let me know so I can pull back the knife first. Do you remember your safe word?” You beamed up at him, eyes sparkling with excitement as you whispered, “Yes! Now come onnn.” A note of amusement crept into his tone. “I’m not convinced you were listening,” he taunted, noticing your barely-contained squirming. “I’m not coming near you with this until you calm down.” He ran the back end of the scalpel along your arm, sending shivers through your body.

Suppressing a giggle, you closed your eyes, willing yourself to relax. The sight of Zayne holding the scalpel was insanely arousing, but you focused on your breathing, trying to ignore the hard press of his body against yours. Gradually, your muscles loosened, and your breaths evened out. Tilting your head to the side once more, he brought the scalpel near the nape of your neck. As the blade lightly traced your skin, you let out a soft sigh of pleasure. Zayne's eyes widened, fixated on the faint line forming beneath his touch. Awestruck, his fingers brushed over the mark, gaze flickering up to meet yours. Seeing your happy, aroused smile, he knew you were okay, but you didn’t give him a chance to ask. “Keep going, please,” you softly begged.

With newfound confidence, he moved the blade with precision. His focus was intense, almost trance-like, and you couldn’t help but wonder aloud if this was what he looked like during a medical procedure. Breaking your thoughts, his low voice responded, “Such a situation would be missing two crucial elements—my arousal and you. So no.” Before you could reply, your nipple was in his mouth, tongue eagerly lapping at the bud as he ground against your core. He pulled back, his fingers pinching the opposite nipple as he methodically slid the the knife across your breast. “Holy shit,” you whispered, the mix of pleasure and pain sending shivers down your spine and heat pooling between your thighs.

“More,” you breathed, heated eyes locked on the scalpel. Zayne’s hand traveled downward, and with deliberate precision, he made a cut on your lower abdomen. The sting of the pain mingled with a faint soothing sensation, causing your body to relax deeper into the comforter on a deep sigh. “You have such soft skin here,” he murmured, admiring your body beneath him. He added a few more cuts there, each one followed by gentle kisses that felt like a balm to your burning skin. Pausing, his fingers glided through your folds, playing messily in the gathering wetness. You whimpered as he circled your sensitive clit, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, resting his head against yours as two long fingers slipped deep inside you, wiggling to press that sweet spot that made your back arch off the bed in sheer ecstasy. A soft laugh escaped him as he moved to kneel between your thighs, spreading them wide, his mouth replacing his hand as he devoured you like a man starved.

Tiny kisses and licks punctuated by quick, light cuts along your sensitive inner thighs intensified the experience beyond words. The initial pain was almost overwhelming, the safe word dancing on the tip of your tongue with the second cut. But then, it transformed—pain melting seamlessly into a pleasure even more intense than the last.

Zayne relished your response, pausing to savor your taste in between each pull of the blade, feeling you grow wetter and wetter on his tongue with every cut. He lingered between your thighs, mouth working fervently, fingers brushing over the shallow marks scattered across your skin. Peering up, his blissed-out gaze met yours, sending a sharp pain of need through your core. “Go ahead and come for me, love,” he commanded, his voice low and sultry, a caress in itself. His mouth found you again, hands squeezing your increasingly sensitive thighs as your hips moved eagerly against him. Whispers of his name filled the air as your walls throbbed around his tongue, your entire body succumbing to pure ecstasy. You were still floating in your high when Zayne’s cock pushed into you. Taking his time, he stretched you slowly, filling you completely, his low groans intertwining with your soft whimpers as he watched your bodies meld together.

You became a teary mess under the intensity of his thrusts, your breasts bouncing in his face as your love-drunk voice whined, “Feels so gooood when you fill me up," on a giggle. Without warning, his cock slipped out of you, and he reached above to untie the restraints. A protest was forming on your lips, but it died when he plunged back into you, stilling once he bottomed out. He took your wrist in his hand, guiding the knife just below the inside of your elbow. “Don’t look away,” he murmured. The pain in this spot was sharp, yet fleeting, replaced quickly by the throb of pleasure as his cock twitched eagerly inside you.

He'd made this cut the faintest bit deeper. Tiny beads of blood bubbled to the surface, and Zayne groaned, hips pumping into you before stopping to choose another spot. Again, the cut was controlled, precise, just deep enough to bring the smallest amount of red to the surface.

This tormenting rhythm continued—a few thrusts, then the gentle drag of the knife. It was exhilarating, made even more so by Zayne’s intense focus. His hazel eyes were bright and enchanting, a stark contrast to the rise and fall of his chest and the steadiness of his hands.

Feeling his orgasm approaching too fast, he pulled out, capturing your lips with his. “You are everything to me. You know that, right?” Your hands tangled in his hair as you nodded, deepening the kiss with a smile against his lips. He sat back on the bed, motioning for you to join him. As he lowered you onto his cock, he pushed you hard against him, your back flush with his chest. “Good girl,” he murmured, grinning when your body tightened around him in response. You began to grind softly on top of him, squeaking when you felt the backside of the knife trace the area around your shoulder blade. “Be still,” he reminded, flipping the knife to trace your skin with the edge. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder before making a cut directly beneath the first one, then moving to the area between your shoulder blades.

Even as your body trembled and silent tears streamed down your cheeks, your blissed-out, dreamy expression never faltered. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered, setting the blade aside to hold your hips tightly. He moved inside you, the sensation of your warm, tight cunt wrapped around his length and your ass clapping against him with each movement driving Zayne absolutely wild. Breathless utterances of his name escaped your lips, enough to ruin him completely.

He stilled within you, his hand keeping its grip on your hip to keep you from moving. The scalpel traced a delicate line down your spine, your body immediately tensing with a nauseating mix of anxiety and tension. But when Zayne removed the knife and continued to grind against you, cock pressing deeper with each movement, that tension transformed into sheer pleasure.

He kissed the fresh marks along your back. His hands wandering from your hips to your slick folds, each languid circle of his fingers promising to drive you mad. “Would it be okay if I finish inside tonight?” he murmured in your ear. You smiled, nodding eagerly—he knew the answer would always be yes, but ever the gentleman, he never stopped asking. His fingers and lips softly traced the marks left by the knife as he moved inside you, gently rubbing your swollen clit while you moved over him.

Suddenly, his hands dimpled your ass, holding you just high enough for his hips to pound into you harder. You glanced down, practically drooling at the sight of his cock pumping in and out of you. When he sat you back down, you pressed hard again, forcing him deep inside as you wiggled around him. He held you close, pressing worshipful kisses along your neck and shoulders as his fingers glided through your heat with more deliberate strokes, lifting you higher and higher until you were utterly drunk on him.

Zayne's own release was approaching fast, and this time, he didn’t want to hold back. As you came undone above him, your walls pulsing wildly around his cock, he watched with rapt fascination as you gripped his thighs tightly, your release trickling around his length. Holding you open with one hand, he reached for the scalpel with the other. Neither of you breathed as the blade hovered over your glistening skin. His fingers grazed the sensitive area around your opening lightly. “This is where a group of veins drains blood from this perfect cunt,” he whispered, his voice low and controlled. Gently, he made a tiny cut, just enough to part your skin and bring the pretty beads of red to the surface. You whimpered and gripped him tight as his cock pulsed inside you, coating you with his warm essence. His thumb idly played with the little cut until you had milked him dry.

Leaning against him, you both tried to calm down, his arm holding you tight as he rocked you gently. “Well, was our first time trying something new everything you thought it would be?” he teased. You nodded enthusiastically. “And more. Your idea was far better than anything I came up with.” His breath was a warm puff against your hair as he chuckled softly. Lifting you off him, he stood before scooping you up in his arms. Meeting your quizzical stare with an amused one, he explained, “We need to get cleaned up so I can treat your wounds before bed.” Your eyes turned imploring, using that voice you always did when trying to get your way. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed his cheek and grinned. “Maybe after we clean up, you could show me how to do some of that to you…” Zayne’s response was immediate, his tone leaving no room for negotiation—“Absolutely not.”

[sophrosynesworld]

With all my love, pt. 2

I wasn't originally planning a part 2, but I actually had fun writing this. Let me know if you want a part 3!

(Do you prefer first or third person?)

Katsuki Bakugou forcefully pushes open the door to his apartment, the hinges groaning ominously under the strain. He steps into the dimly lit space, shedding his jacket with a careless toss onto a nearby chair. The absence of the usual scent of peppermint, a comforting presence in their shared home, hangs in the air like a foreboding omen. His eyes dart to the quirky cat-shaped clock on the wall, a whimsical addition insisted upon by his partner, now serving as a silent witness to the tension gripping the room.

"Hey, I'm home," Bakugou calls out, his voice echoing slightly in the silence. He walks further into the apartment, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Bakugou's sharp eyes sweep the room, searching for any clues. The kitchen, usually a scene of chaos with scattered ingredients and hastily abandoned utensils, now appears unnervingly pristine. Its surfaces gleam under the soft glow of overhead lights, devoid of the usual signs of life. Bakugou's senses are on high alert; by this hour, his partner should be on their second or third cup of tea. Yet, as his hand hovers over the cold kettle, a chill seeps into his bones. There are no half-empty mugs of tea, no crumbs scattered haphazardly, no evidence of the comforting chaos he's grown accustomed to while living together.

Bakugou's slender fingers trace the edge of the table, his frown deepening with each passing moment. A plain container occupies the center, topped with his partner's favorite pair of chopsticks. Resting atop the lid is a small sticky note.

Make sure you eat something tonight. It’s your favorite.

His mind races, considering the possibilities with a sense of urgency. Could his partner have been called away unexpectedly? Did they forget to mention plans? He opens the food container, instantly recognizing the smell of a familiar noodle dish. The silence weighs heavily on him, each unanswered question adding to the mounting tension that coils like a serpent in the pit of his stomach.

"Hey Asshole." he calls out again, his voice now laced with worry.

As he enters the living room again, his eyes gravitate towards the front door, a furrow forms between his brows. His eyes squint as he tries his best to remember—something was next to that door when he left for work. It had been there for a week, and he hadn’t thought much of it, assuming it was just part of the clutter. Now, its absence stands out, a silent testament to something he had been too blind to see.

"Katsuki, you idiot," he mutters to himself, the realization dawning on him. He moves quickly towards the bedroom, pushing the door open.

Drawers are left half-open, a few hangers lie scattered on the bed, but most noticeably, the closet is missing a significant amount of clothing. The wind outside picks up, howling through the cracks in the window, as if the world itself is mourning with him.

Katsuki stands up, his legs unsteady, as he walks to the window. His crimson eyes stare out at the city, the lights flickering in the distance, each one representing a life, a story, a possibility. And yet, here he stands, the sole reason the love of his life abandoned him. It was always his fault. He was never good at letting people in, and the person he loves understood that better than anyone.

With a trembling hand, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. Opening it slowly, he reveals an engagement ring. The diamond catches the faint light, sparkling mockingly. He had been so absent, so secretive, because he was nervously preparing for this moment, afraid he would give it away too soon. All the times he had been distant, all the moments he had missed, were because he was working up the courage to propose.

"Why didn't I see it?" he whispers to himself. The answer is painfully clear now, but it is too late. They’re gone.

The apartment that once felt like home is now a haunting reminder of what he has lost, a cold, empty space that mirrors the void in his heart. The ring, meant to symbolize a future together, now feels like a cruel reminder of what could have been.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 9 - Pneumothorax

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging

Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simon’s skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where you’ve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.

Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.

The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. “Oh god. Simon.”

The way you’d slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. “Oh, god, Simon, what do I do?”

“Punctured a lung,” he whispers, barely a breath.

“You need a doctor,” you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, “I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?”

“’M okay, Precious,” he grunts. And then he stands up, like he’s not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as you’d grappled with him. “Get the bag.”

The bag? “We’re not playing games anymore!”

“’S got medical supplies in it,” Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. “’N another gift for you. C’mon, we’ll go back to the cabin.”

Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. You’re so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when he’d tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? You’d been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, he’d run at you from the side. But that’s why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldn’t see it, so you could have the element of surprise.

“Call Price,” Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.

You look up at him, then at the cabin that’s barely ten meters away. “What?”

“Use my phone. You know the code,” he says again, “Call Price, tell him we’re at the empty north cabin.”

Before you can ask “What?” again, or even, “Who the hell is Price?”, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.

The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.

Simon’s phone isn’t on him, or in his little knapsack. It’s one of the scariest things you’ve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, it’s… familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that can’t possibly arrive in time.

This is different. The first time you’d stabbed a man, you’d meant to do it.

The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room you’d woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.

You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simon’s left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. You’re jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.

By the time someone picks up, you’re back on your knees by Simon’s side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.

“Price,” a man answers.

“Hello?” You try not to let your voice get to frantic. “Simon’s hurt. He said to call you. We’re at the north cabin.”

“Empty,” Simon grunts, barely audible.

“The empty one,” you clarify. The line is silent. “Hello?”

“He’s wounded?” Price asks, cool and almost distracted.

“Punctured lung,” you say. “He passed out, but he’s kind of conscious now.”

The man on the other end hums. “That does sound a bit serious.”

“Please,” you insist. “I don’t know where we are, please call an ambulance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And then the line goes dead.

Your hands are shaking when you touch Simon’s face. “He hung up. Simon, I’m so sorry, he hung up. I don’t know if I can get you into the car. I don’t know if there’s enough time for anyone to get here.”

“’S fine, Precious,” he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. “Been in worse shape’n this. Price’ll come.”

“We don’t need him here, we need you in a hospital!” It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. “Should I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?” You grab the backpack and tear it open. There’s gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Splash of alcohol first,” Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. “Oi.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me!”

“’M no’. Just restin’ m’eyes.”

“Not that either!” The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. “Stay awake.”

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. “Okay. Fuck. Gauze next, you’ll have to hold it down. Don’t have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.”

The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. “Simon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“’S fine,” he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. “Shouldn’a come at you from the left. Better t’ stay low and come at you from the right.”

“I still might have stabbed you,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-”

“You couldn’a known.”

“I should have,” you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. “I didn’t need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that you’d start chasing me any moment.”

“’S part of the game,” Simon sighs with a lazy grin. “Weren’ supposed t’ stab me in the chest, but tha’s on me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to stab you at all, Simon,” you sob. “I never wanted…! I don’t…!” Simon’s eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. “Simon, please, stay awake. I’m sorry. Please, Simon. I don’t hate you, I’m sorry.”

You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoever’s come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.

“Simon,” the man says. “You broken?”

“No, sir,” Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.

“She said you punctured a lung,” the man you can only assume is Price points out.

“Affirmative.”

“John Price,” he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where you’re keeping pressure on Simon’s wound, he chuckles. “Let’s get this drama queen inside, shall we?” Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.

“How’s the hobby search going?”

You can’t stop yourself from bursting into tears.

John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, there’s another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simon’s clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. He’d complimented you on a clean strike, once he’d gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if you’d really wanted to.

The sucking sound from Simon’s chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.

“You meet my girl, Skipper?” Simon eventually wheezes. There’s a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him that’s really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. It’s still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.

“I have,” John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure you’d be okay.”

It strikes your ears as… absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that there’s no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when you’re stressed. MREs wouldn’t cut it for long.

And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.

“She’s had Riley here on a leash for half a year,” Kyle informs him. He pats Simon’s cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. “Poor bastard’d been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soap’s been locked up.”

“Eight months,” you whisper. You’re sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simon’s good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. “We met eight months ago.”

“Christ,” Price says, rolling his eyes. “I told you to keep a low profile.”

“’ave been,” Simon grunts.

“And, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?”

Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. “Had to make sure our first date was memorable.”

You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since you’ve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.

“Hope it was worth it,” Price says. “You going to get rid of her, or am I?”

Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you can’t see. You take one look at Kyle’s startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.

When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Simon’s face this frigid. He’s completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesn’t even spare you a glance.

For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

“She’s good people,” Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “Hasn’t made no trouble yet.”

John doesn’t look away from Simon. “That so?”

You reach out for Simon’s hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. “Simon?”

“She’s talked to the police, you know,” John says. “After your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.”

That startles you. “I never-”

“Hush, now,” John says.

Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. “Excuse me?” You take a step forward into John’s space. “Maybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, he’d have been arrested.”

“Precious-”

“No, Simon.” you interrupt him, staring into John’s eyes. “He practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandon’s skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. I’ve been at the scene of two mass murders and now I’ve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think I’m an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?”

The man doesn’t react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.

“If you ever have him arrested, he’ll be out in a day,” John finally says. “You’ll be dead before then.”

“Oh gee,” you mock. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.”

Simon’s hand gently touches one of your wrists. “Easy, Precious. Price ‘s just lookin’ out.”

You let him take your hand. “He can do less of that, thank you very much.”

Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. “Don’t think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.”

“Well he’s my man, now,” you grit out. “So you can fuck right off, John.”

For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Kyle told me you were a little off,” John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. “Simon’s been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.”

Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come to…!

Simon’s hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. “She’s helping me find new hobbies.”

John just shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?”

“Three weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,” Kyle answers.

Simon hums. “’M gonna aggravate it.”

“Goddammit,” John swipes a hand down his beard. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.”

The murderous stalker isn’t the problem child? You snort behind Simon’s hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.

“Fun as all of this is, I’m on shift in four hours,” Kyle says, looking at his watch. “Need to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drain’s gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.” He looks at you. “Make sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.”

“No they won’t,” you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, “Fuck off, Garrick.”

“Take the damn antibiotics,” John says, standing from his seat. “Be ready for a call in three weeks.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you,” John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. “Let me know if you get tired of him hangin’ all over you.”

“So you can kill me.”

He gives you an amused grin. “I’m not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.”

“I’m sure you meant that in a way that’s not offensive,” you answer. “I’ll do my best to never call you again.”

“Smart girl.” He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.

The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you don’t feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.

There’s a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simon’s armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. It’s pink with blood and other fluids. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case he’s losing his balance. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure it’s still set.

That’s why you don’t realize what he’s done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You can’t really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.

He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where he’s getting hard.

When he speaks, it’s little more than a whisper. “You were supposed to slash my arm, you know.”

“Wha-”

He’s not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you can’t force his hand away with both of yours. It’s all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.

“Knew you’d like the gifts,” he growls down at you. “But you were s’possed to slash, hm? That’s what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.” He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. “Where’s a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.”

Had you? You hadn’t felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You can’t answer, can’t even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.

“You could have killed me, today.” He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing it’s only because he let you.

And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.

“Fear looks so good on you, Precious.”

Taglist: @mishaglass, @oceanicexolorer, @whitetiger846, @iknownothingpeople, @fruitdoom, @achillesquartz, @hindi-si-ikay, @ahopelesspedantic

[pretzel-box]

Tags: Confusion, graphic Mentions of wounds at the end, established relationship

Words: 2k

Characters: Sebastian & Reader

It was strange at best. Your feet carried you through the sticky moss, clinging to your pants like a second skin as you wandered through the deserted, dilapidated area. The moss was an odd, glowing green—close to olive, perhaps, though maybe not. You couldn’t quite say. You’d never been the type to know more than a few shades of green, or any color for that matter. But this particular shade had an inexplicable attraction to it, as if it was a tiny flicker of comfort in a place where everything else felt… off. Yes, surely, the moss was like a droplet of misplaced paint lost in an endless stretch of faded blues and greys.

As your eyes drifted over the sea of green beneath your feet, something else caught your attention: an oddly human-shaped hole in the wall. It was as if someone had neatly cut a person-sized piece from the building itself. The edges were unnervingly clean, almost too perfect, like it had been carved with surgical precision. The sight was eerie, but somehow, compared to the other strange things you’d seen—or might still see—it almost seemed natural. Natural enough to belong, at least here.

"I wonder," you murmured to yourself, your voice breaking the heavy silence that seemed to have draped itself over you like a blanket. "Did I get lost again?"The words felt strange on your tongue, like they’d been uttered before and at the same time they felt new, unspoken. You weren't sure if you had spoken them out loud before or simply thought them, but either way, the sense of déjà vu lingered deep in your head as you tired to make sense of your own logic. The path you walked seemed familiar, the steps you took echoing faintly in your mind, like footsteps you’d already taken. But that couldn’t be right—had you really been here before?

You paused, squinting down the empty grey corridor that stretched ahead. For a brief moment, you thought you could hear something, maybe in your mind—a faint whisper of a voice, a distant hum, or maybe it was nothing at all, an illusion once more. It was hard to say. Everything was hard to say. The world around you felt disjointed, like an old photograph with faded edges and the more you stared at it, the more did it became blurry.

The human-shaped hole in the wall seemed to beckon, its sharp edges almost inviting. Maybe you had walked through it before. Maybe you hadn’t. Didn’t something come out of the wall once? Something that chased you, forcing you to run until your lungs burned? Or was that just another hallucination? The uncertainty weighed heavily on your chest, like a dark cloud you couldn’t shake. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care too much. It was just another piece of the puzzle, wasn’t it?

"Maybe I should turn back," you mused, though the thought evaporated as soon as it was spoken. You couldn’t quite recall where "back" even was. Had there been a beginning to this journey? You couldn’t remember starting it. Maybe it had always been this way—just walking, just moving forward, even when everything around you felt suspended in time.

You took a deep breath, your gaze lingering on the strange, perfect gap in the wall. The silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating, and somewhere deep in your mind, a faint whisper of doubt stirred. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe it was everything. Either way, you moved forward.

Forward meant going backward, or maybe it was still forward. Directions didn’t really matter, did they? You didn’t bother to check the navipath anymore—the numbers all looked the same. Except they weren’t. Or maybe they were? Step after step, your boots echoed against the empty, too-familiar walls. The rhythm of it filled the silence, but the sound felt hollow, like it didn’t really belong. The hallways were empty, sterile—nothing to collect, nothing to see. And yet, it was all so deeply interesting. Hadn’t you passed by that painting before? It was the only thing hanging on the wall, as if someone had placed it there as a cruel joke. The painting was odd—dark, shadowy, a forest at night. The trees looked menacing, towering over the canvas like silent sentinels. But it had a shade of green in it. Pine, maybe.

Pine was another shade of green, the same as the sticky moss from earlier. The sticky moss you trudged through like a second skin. Wasn’t it olive though? Your mind grasped at the detail, a fleeting thought that slipped through your fingers like sand. You stared at the painting, trying to reconcile it with your memories. The oily texture of the paint looked old, long since dried, but there was something wrong with it. You couldn’t place what.

“But wasn’t the moss olive colored?” you muttered to yourself. The words echoed back at you, a hollow repetition. The moss had been olive, hadn’t it? Or was it pine green, like the painting? Had the painting even been there before?

Before you knew it you stood straight with both legs in the moss once more, facing the oddly human shaped hole in the wall and placed your hands on your waist. You wondered, how many moss rooms with human shaped holes existed in this facility, and why were they so fond of appearing right in front of you. More importantly, did you been here before?

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog that clung to your thoughts. You hadn't been here before—at least, you didn’t think so. You'd been walking in a straight line the entire time, hadn’t you? It wasn’t possible to walk in circles, was it? But the gnawing feeling that something was wrong wouldn’t let go. Your mind kept slipping, grasping at the truth, only for it to dissolve in your hands.

Before you knew it, your foot struck something hard and metallic, the clank echoing through the narrow hallway. You glanced down—there, beneath the sole of your shoe, was the discarded lid of a vent, forgotten like the olive painting from earlier. Except… it wasn’t olive, was it? Pine, maybe? Or some other shade of green you couldn’t quite place.

Then a voice, deep and smooth, slid through the open vent shaft like a whisper of mist. "I didn't expect you back so soon. Forget something?"

You blinked, suddenly aware of the ache in your limbs from crawling through the vent, your body bruised by the hard, cold metal. The sound of your own movements echoed in the still air, making the fish-like man before you flinch. You looked at him—wet black hair tangled with strands of algae, and glowing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you. His smile, sharp and inviting, tugged at some buried memory you couldn’t quite reach. He was familiar, wasn’t he? But also… new. You were sure you’d never seen him before. Right?

"I thought you would’ve left by now," he continued, his voice sending a strange shiver down your spine. His gaze flicked to the side, where a lantern sat beside his tail, the soft light casting long shadows across the floor. "You basically took everything but the lantern. You want it now?"

Your eyes darted down to your hip. Didn’t you already have a lantern? But your belt was empty. Had you lost it? Or… had you never had one in the first place?

The confusion settled in your chest like a weight, but you forced yourself to meet his eyes. Something about his expression, the way he looked at you, made your skin prickle. The grin widened, showing teeth that seemed too sharp, too real.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, "Do I know you?" But even as you asked, you weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer.

Sebastian’s frown deepened as he stared at you, his tail flicking in agitation. He took a deep breath, trying to mask the unease that was bubbling up inside of him. "I’m Sebastian," he repeated, but this time his voice held a softer edge, as if trying to ground you, to remind you of something you couldn’t quite grasp.

Your laughter filled the space between you, bright and full of misplaced joy. "I have a husband called Sebastian! Sebastian Solace." You smiled, lost in the warmth of memories that flickered like a fading flame in your mind. The man in front of you—Sebastian—watched, his glowing eyes reflecting the dim light of the lantern. You didn’t notice his worry, too caught up in the nostalgia that was pouring from your lips.

"I know," he replied quietly, his voice almost drowned out by your laughter.

"You know?" Your brows knitted together, confusion creeping in despite your smile. "Have you seen him? We were supposed to meet up for our anniversary date. He didn’t come, so I went to look for him. But I think I got lost… in a forest." You paused, the details slipping from your grasp. "It was night and there was Pine... or Olive?"

Sebastian’s face tightened as he studied you, his eyes tracing every line of your expression. You were speaking, but the words didn’t make sense. They weren’t connecting the way they should, and it twisted something deep in his chest. You were *you*, but you didn’t see him as *him*.

He reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "You didn’t get lost," he whispered, trying to steady his voice. "You’re home now, with me."

But the look in your eyes, the way they glimmered with that misplaced hope, told him that you didn’t believe him. Not fully. You were searching for a version of him that existed somewhere in your memories, but not in the present moment. Your words scared him.

Sebastian’s heart sank as he watched you, completely disconnected from reality, lost in a world that no longer aligned with his. "Home?" you murmured, your eyes drifting across the dimly lit, cramped shop as if it were something else entirely. The small storage room, cluttered with forgotten items and half-broken trinkets, seemed like a distant dream to you.

Your gaze dropped to the ground, and a soft, broken smile crossed your face. "Ah, it was olive after all," you whispered, bending down to touch what you thought was moss. But to Sebastian, it was just the cold, bare floor, nothing more.

He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away as your fingers brushed the empty space, as if you could feel something that wasn't there. He knew it was worse than before, and the knot in his stomach tightened. "Please..." he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he fought to keep himself together.

You were lost. So lost in your own mind, and he couldn’t pull you back. The distant look in your eyes, the soft hum of your voice, and the way you touched the floor with such tenderness—it all felt so wrong.

But it wasn’t until he saw the blood, trickling down the back of your head, that everything shattered. The blood wasn't even fresh, same as the wound. It already started to spread an infection and only god knows for how long you wandered the halls in such a state. You weren't just delusional, no you were totally dancing on the edge of death as your brain started to rip appart the boarders between reality and fiction. The more he looked at it, the more gruesome did the wound look. Parasites had probably eating from your flesh.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened. How long had it been there? How had he missed it? The dark red stream flowed down, staining your hair, unnoticed by you as you continued your quiet rambling about moss and colors.

Panic rising in his chest. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as they reached for you, unsure whether to touch you, unsure how to help. But all you did was smile, oblivious to the world around you—oblivious to the man who loved you standing right beside you, desperately trying to hold on.

[ssa-dado]

10 - The Reaper Aftermath

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: slow burn, fluff, weird stuff Summary: After a tense night together, you and Hotch navigate a strained morning at work, where the unspoken weight of your shared intimacy lingers. Rossi’s sudden retirement adds to the turmoil as Hotch steps into his new role as lead profiler amidst a challenging new case involving the Reaper, a killer whose chaotic pattern masks a deeper psychological game. Despite the emotional undercurrents, you both reaffirm your partnership, finding solace in the familiar rhythm of working side by side, trusting each other completely. Warnings: Use of alcohol, implied sexual intercourse, CM case, ungodly privation of the filthiest smut ever known to mankind. Word Count: 7.8k Dado's Corner: I don't know about you but I'm obsessed with their quick-witted humour, I could write a whole chapter of them just teasing each other. I chose to approach the Reaper case with a more psychological focus, emphasizing the emotional and mental shifts that occur during the investigation rather than the details of the case itself. (especially since the details of the case are already explored in 4x18, and I will probably touch on that in Act 2). Feel free to hate me for the lack of... you'll see.

previous chapter ; masterlist

The morning after that last night out with Hotch, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, meticulously buttoning your shirt from the bottom up. Each button felt like a tiny act of defiance against the emotions swirling inside you, your fingers pausing over the last one at the collar, the one you never left undone. This morning, you paid even closer attention, fastening it tightly as if the extra effort could hold back the flood of thoughts and emotions from the night before. You tugged at the fabric, straightening it in an attempt to hide the unease lingering beneath your usually composed exterior.

The drive to Quantico felt quieter than usual, the familiar route stretching out before you like an endless loop of half-formed thoughts. Everything felt heavy, from the overcast sky outside your windshield to the weight of your own footsteps as you made your way inside the building. It wasn’t like you to feel this out of sorts; usually – as Hotch always seemed to remind you - you were the second one in, eager to start the day. But today, you had let yourself linger too long in the quiet of your apartment, the memories of last night’s closeness replaying in your mind, making you hesitant to face the day ahead.

When you arrived, it was almost on time - not early, not rushing in at the last second, but exactly when you were supposed to be there. It was a stark contrast to your usual punctuality, and it made the bullpen feel off-kilter, like you were arriving in a world that wasn’t quite your own.

You walked past the familiar rows of desks, noting the absence of your early morning routine: the extra coffee you usually grabbed for Hotch, the quiet moments where you caught up before the office filled up. Instead, you felt the eyes of your coworkers, subtle but present, as if they could sense something had shifted between you and Hotch, even if they didn’t know exactly what.

You dropped your bag onto your desk, letting the thud of it break the silence that seemed to hang over everything. Hotch was already seated across from you, his posture stiff and his focus unnervingly intent on the paperwork in front of him. You were used to seeing him like this - calm, composed, always in control - but today, there was something else. A stillness, a carefulness in his movements that felt forced, as if he was deliberately trying not to meet your gaze.

“Morning,” you said, your voice sounding strangely formal, even to your own ears. It was a simple greeting, but it felt loaded, heavy with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

“Morning,” Hotch replied, his tone equally distant, almost clinical. He glanced up for the briefest of moments, his eyes locking with yours in a fleeting exchange that was too intense, too knowing. It was as if he was searching for something in your expression, but when he found nothing, he quickly looked away, burying himself back in his work with a determined focus that only made the awkwardness between you more palpable.

There was no banter, no teasing remarks, none of the familiar rhythm that usually defined your mornings together. Instead, you both fell into an overly professional demeanor, a sharp contrast to the easy comfort you usually shared. It felt like you were tiptoeing around each other, careful not to let your eyes linger too long or your words stray too close to the truth.

You stole a glance at him, your eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face, searching for some indication of what he was thinking. But Hotch was strangely unreadable, his expression a careful mask that gave nothing away. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his desk, a subtle, nervous habit that you’d seen him do only when he was deep in thought or wrestling with something he couldn’t quite put into words. The sight of it sent a pang of something uncomfortably close to guilt twisting in your stomach.

You knew why this morning felt so strange, why the air between you was thick with a weight neither of you dared to address. The silence, once easy and familiar, now hung heavy, echoing everything that had transpired the night before.

It was all still so vivid in your mind: the way his touch lingered when he’d pulled you onto the dance floor, his fingers grazing your skin as if testing a boundary neither of you had acknowledged but both knew existed. His voice, soft and intimate, had dipped to a lower register, words murmured close, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver through you that you couldn’t ignore.

The laughter, the shared drinks, the sway of your bodies in perfect rhythm, it all felt like a game you’d played a thousand times, only this time, the rules were different. Each step, each touch, blurred the line between friendship and something deeper, something uncharted.

And then, as if it were the only possible outcome, you crossed that line.

It wasn’t just a kiss or a fleeting moment of weakness; it was a quiet, reckless decision that led you into his bed, the unspoken tension finally breaking.

Later, in the stillness of his apartment, everything had shifted. The way he whispered your name in the dark, soft and vulnerable, filled with an emotion you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there, shattered any illusion that this was just a one-time mistake. It wasn’t casual; it wasn’t simple. It was the culmination of the months of stolen glances, lingering touches and hidden feelings that you could no longer deny.

Now, in the cold light of morning, you both knew: there was no going back, no way to tuck what had happened neatly back into the box of “what ifs.”

But you’d both agreed - silently, in that unspoken way you often communicated - that it couldn’t happen again. You were partners, first and foremost, and whatever had happened last night couldn’t be allowed to interfere with that. Yet sitting across from him now, the absence of your usual camaraderie felt like a physical ache, a reminder of everything that had shifted in the space of a few hours.

Your eyes flicked back to him, lingering longer than necessary on the bruise just visible under his jaw, a faint shadow that stood out against his otherwise immaculate appearance. You knew exactly how it got there, and the sight of it sent a rush of heat flooding your cheeks, your mind replaying the moment when you’d pressed your lips to his skin, lost in the haze of too many unspoken words and too many – but in reality just enough - drinks.

You hesitated, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension. Unable to take it any longer, you broke it with a quiet, pointed remark. “You missed a spot. Bottom left, under your jaw.” The words were soft, but they landed like a dart, sharp and deliberate. You watched as Hotch's eyes flickered with something you couldn't quite name, his expression hardening.

His hand automatically went to the spot, fingers brushing against the faint bruise. His gaze turned razor-sharp, locking onto you, and in that moment, everything you’d been avoiding was laid bare between you. It wasn’t just the hickey you were pointing out, it was the fact that you both knew last night had crossed into dangerous territory.

“You weren’t exactly subtle yourself,” he replied, his voice low, almost gruff, as he dropped his hand and straightened his posture. His jaw clenched, as though willing the conversation to end there, to move on as if nothing had changed. But the bruise remained, a visible reminder of how close you’d both come to losing control.

You glanced down at your desk, pretending to shuffle through papers you didn’t need, trying to distract yourself from the way your mind kept drifting back to the feel of his touch, the way his breath had hitched when you’d moved closer. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You’d been so sure that if you ever gave in to the tension between you, the crush you’d nursed for the past month would diminish, that it would finally be out of your system, allowing you to go back to the easy camaraderie you valued so much. But instead, it had done the opposite. Your feelings hadn’t lessened, they’d deepened, complicating everything in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

You stole another glance at Hotch, but he was focused on his work, his face a mask of concentration that did little to hide the tightness in his shoulders, the way his pen tapped absently against the desk. You wondered if he was thinking about it, too - about how last night hadn’t felt like a mistake, but something far more significant.

Before you could linger on the tension any longer, a second realization tugged at your focus: the absence of Rossi. His desk, typically the source of chatter, knowing looks, and smug remarks - especially when it came to you two - was oddly quiet. You had been bracing yourself for his inevitable teasing, the sly comments you were certain would come after last night, but there was none of that.

The papers on his desk were neatly stacked, untouched, and his chair sat conspicuously empty, the usual hum of his presence missing from the room. It was unusual, and for the first time that morning, a small sense of relief crept in.

You exchanged a puzzled glance with Hotch, the shared silence between you breaking just enough to shift your focus away from the awkwardness of your own situation. It was rare for Rossi to be late, even rarer for him to miss a morning without so much as a heads-up. You both stared at his empty desk, the unease you’d felt all morning now tinged with a new kind of worry.

Hotch cleared his throat, his voice low but steady as he spoke. “Have you heard from him?”

You shook your head, the tension between you momentarily forgotten as concern took over. “No, nothing. And he usually -”

Before you could finish, the sharp buzz of Hotch's phone broke the silence, the sudden noise jolting both of you. He grabbed it quickly, his brow furrowing as he listened, the seconds stretching into minutes. With each passing moment, his expression darkened, the tension in his features deepening. The lines of his face tightened, hardening into a mask of unreadable intensity, his eyes distant as he absorbed whatever news was being delivered on the other end.

“What is it?” you asked, the uneasy feeling in your gut growing stronger.

Hotch hesitated for just a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. Whatever he was about to say, you knew it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s eyes met yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some unspoken reassurance. He looked back down at his phone, the subtle tremble of his hands betraying his usually composed exterior. You had never seen Hotch look quite like this, caught between disbelief and a sense of duty, grappling with emotions he couldn’t quite show.

“It was Gideon,” Hotch began, his voice tight and strained. “Rossi has decided to retire. Effective immediately.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a second, you couldn’t quite grasp them. Your mind flashed back to the night before: Rossi belting out karaoke tunes with exaggerated flair, his face alight with mischief as he dragged the two of you into the chorus. He had been so full of life, so present. The idea that he had been planning this, that he was ready to leave everything behind, felt surreal.

“What?” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “He didn’t say anything last night. We were with him. He was - ” You trailed off, unable to reconcile the man who had been the life of the party with the one who had just walked away without a word.

Hotch nodded, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting to Rossi’s empty desk as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I know. Gideon said he didn’t want to make a fuss, didn’t want to say goodbye. But… it’s done. He’s gone.”

The finality of it hit you like a punch to the chest. Rossi was more than just a colleague; he was a mentor, a friend, the glue that held the team together when the cases got too dark. You glanced over at his desk, neatly organized, as if he’d planned his departure meticulously. It felt like a betrayal, not because he left, but because he hadn’t trusted any of you enough to tell you. You had thought you knew him, thought you could see through his bravado, but now you were left with the unsettling realization that maybe none of you had really seen the signs.

You tried to piece together the clues from the night before, replaying every interaction, every smile. Had there been a moment when Rossi seemed distant, a flicker of something behind his eyes that you missed? You remembered his laugh, loud and genuine, the way he had raised his glass to toast to more adventures, the way he winked at you and Hotch like he was in on some private joke. It hadn’t seemed like the last night of anything.

Hotch’s voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. “There’s more,” he said, his tone filled with a heaviness that made your heart drop. “We’ve got a new case.”

The words were like a slap, jarring you back into the present. There was no time to process Rossi’s departure, no moment to grieve the sudden loss of his presence. Your stomach tightened as you tried to keep up with the shift in focus.

“A new case?” you echoed, still disoriented. “But… who’s going to lead? Hotch, who…?”

Hotch looked at you, his expression resolute yet laced with a flicker of doubt that you’d never seen in him before. His next words were soft but firm, tinged with a reluctant acceptance of the reality before him.

“I am,” he said, the weight of the admission settling between you like a heavy stone.

You stared at him, absorbing the significance of his words. Hotch had always been driven, tirelessly dedicated to the job in a way that made him seem almost invincible. Every late night spent poring over case files, every sacrifice he made in his personal life was a testament to his commitment to this role.

You knew that leading the BAU was something he had worked toward for years. But seeing him now, his face shadowed with the weight of his new responsibilities, it was clear this wasn’t the triumphant moment he’d dreamed of.

“Hotch…” you began, but the words faltered. You wanted to tell him that he deserved this, that you trusted him more than anyone to lead the team, but you could see how deeply he was struggling with the suddenness of it all. There was no joy in this victory, no time to celebrate a promotion. It was just an abrupt shift in power, thrust upon him without warning, in the wake of a friend’s quiet betrayal.

Hotch straightened his posture, the flicker of vulnerability quickly replaced by the stoic resolve you were used to seeing. He opened the case file on his desk, his movements precise and deliberate, as if falling back into the familiarity of work could steady him. “We’re heading to Boston. Detective Tom Shaunessy requested our help,” he explained, flipping through the pages. “He’s been chasing this killer for a while, but it’s gotten out of hand. He wants us to take over.”

You nodded, the gravity of the situation slowly taking precedence over the turmoil in your heart. Hotch read the details aloud, his voice firm, but you could hear the undercurrent of determination driving every word. “We’re looking at a series of brutal murders dating back to 1995. Nineteen victims so far. No clear victimology. He kills men and women of all ages, no specific type. He’s erratic. The press has named him ‘The Reaper.’”

You listened closely, your mind already working to piece together the profile. The randomness of the victims was unsettling: no patterns, no predictability. It was the hallmark of an omnivore, a killer who could strike anyone, anywhere.

But it was the signature that caught your attention: The Eye of Providence. You knew it was more than just a calling card; it was a message, a symbol that carried layers of meaning about control, power, and perception. You could feel the challenge of the case already pulling you in, your philosophical background itching to untangle the complexities behind the Reaper’s twisted mind.

Hotch turned to you, his expression softening slightly as he acknowledged your expertise. “I need you on this,” he said, the intensity in his eyes making it clear how much he was counting on you. “Your insight, your understanding of symbolism, it’s going to be crucial. The Reaper doesn’t just want to kill, he wants to send a message, and I need you to help us understand what that is.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot of emotions still lodged in your throat. “Of course. I’m with you, Hotch. All the way.”

Hotch’s shoulders eased slightly, the faintest trace of relief crossing his features. He gave you a small, appreciative nod, and for a moment, the heavy tension between you lightened just enough for you to feel that familiar connection, the unspoken bond that had always made you such effective partners.

But then the weight returned, heavier now that you were both staring down the reality of this new chapter without Rossi. Hotch turned his attention back to the task of assembling the team, calling on Gideon, who looked as shaken by Rossi’s departure as you felt, and Peter, who was eager but visibly unnerved. Everyone was trying to process the absence of Rossi, and it left the team feeling unbalanced, vulnerable in ways that none of you were used to.

As Hotch briefed the group, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, watching the way he stood at the head of the table with a mix of determination and quiet fear. This was his moment, his chance to prove himself, but it came at a cost none of you had anticipated. The room felt different without Rossi’s larger-than-life presence, the silence of his empty chair serving as a constant reminder of how quickly everything had changed.

Hotch addressed the team, his voice strong, commanding, but there was an underlying edge to it, a strain that hinted at the pressure he was under. You could see it in the way his fingers tightened around the file, the way his eyes flicked briefly to Rossi’s desk before he refocused. He was trying to hold everything together, to be the leader the team needed him to be, even as the loss of Rossi lingered like a phantom in the room.

You looked around at your colleagues: Gideon, who was visibly struggling without his long-time partner; Peter, who had been left stunned by the news; and Hotch, standing at the helm, carrying the weight of leadership on his shoulders. It was a team in transition, a group of people trying to find their footing in the wake of unexpected change.

As you gathered your things to head out on the case, Hotch pulled you aside, his expression serious but softened by an unspoken concern. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his voice low and tinged with the hint of last night’s lingering awkwardness. “After everything… after what happened between us, I just need to know you’re okay.”

You looked up at him, feeling the familiar pull of your emotions, the ones you had been trying to suppress since that morning. “I’m okay, Hotch,” you reassured him, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but. “We got a job to do, and I’m with you.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, and you could see the gratitude in his eyes, mingling with all the unspoken things neither of you were ready to say. He placed a hand on your shoulder, a brief but reassuring touch that sent a jolt through you, a reminder of the connection you shared, of the trust that bound you together even when everything else felt uncertain.

Hotch’s voice softened as he looked at you, his eyes holding a mix of gratitude and determination. “And I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know how this is going to go, but I know that with you on the team, we’ve got a shot.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle into your chest. It was more than just professional respect, it was trust, a mutual reliance that had been built over countless cases and long nights spent dissecting the darkest parts of human nature. But now, with Rossi gone and Hotch unexpectedly thrust into the role of lead profiler, that bond felt even more vital, more fragile.

As you turned to head out, the tension between you and Hotch still hummed beneath the surface, unspoken but palpable. Every stolen glance, every touch lingered longer than it should have, and it was impossible to ignore how last night’s encounter had shifted something between you. The professionalism you were both desperately clinging to felt like a thin veil, barely concealing the emotions roiling beneath.

The ride to the crime scene was quiet, the usual banter replaced by a heavy silence. Hotch sat beside you in the SUV, his gaze fixed out the window, lost in thought.

You could sense the storm brewing inside him: the pressure to perform, the weight of filling Rossi’s shoes, and the lingering awkwardness from the night you’d spent together. Every so often, he’d steal a glance at you, as if seeking reassurance, and each time your eyes met, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of yet another new, uncharted territory you found yourselves in.

You reached the scene, a stark contrast to the quiet of the drive. Detective Tom Shaunessy greeted you, his face lined with fatigue and frustration. He was an old-school cop, worn down by the relentless chase of a killer who always seemed to be one step ahead. Shaunessy’s voice was gravelly as he filled you in, his tone edged with a mix of desperation and begrudging respect for the BAU’s expertise.

“We’ve been after this bastard for years,” Shaunessy said, his gaze shifting between you and Hotch. “The Reaper’s not like the others. He doesn’t have a type. He doesn’t play by any rules we can figure out. He’s just… hunting. For sport, for fun…I don’t even know anymore.”

Hotch nodded, listening intently, his face betraying none of the emotions roiling inside. He was back in his element now, the weight of leadership pushing him into action. But you knew him well enough to see the subtle tension in his posture, the flicker of self-doubt that lurked just beneath his composed exterior.

As you arrived at the police station, the atmosphere was thick with tension, every officer’s expression tinged with frustration and exhaustion. The walls were lined with photos of the Reaper’s victims: men, women, and children of all ages, each face a reminder of the indiscriminate nature of this killer. The room felt heavy, filled with the unspoken dread of a case that had plagued the Boston PD for years without any hope of resolution.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Hotch, examining the board filled with crime scene photos, articles, and evidence. His proximity was comforting, but today it felt charged, every brush of his sleeve against yours sending sparks that you tried to ignore. Hotch’s focus was laser-sharp, but you could sense the weight of Rossi’s absence pressing on him, every decision carrying the burden of his new role.

Hotch’s voice cut through the quiet, steady and analytical. “We’re not dealing with your typical killer. He doesn’t have a clear type, he doesn’t fit into any neat boxes. The Reaper’s victims range from teenagers to the elderly. Men, women, different ethnicities, there’s no commonality except for one thing: his need to dominate. He’s not just killing; he’s proving that he’s in control.”

Gideon, who was pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back, nodded, though his usually confident demeanor seemed muted. Without Rossi beside him, he seemed adrift, his eyes darting restlessly as if searching for the right words. “He’s a narcissist. It’s not about the kill, it’s about the power he gets from it. Every murder is a performance, a way to manipulate the narrative and assert his superiority.”

You took a step closer to the evidence board, staring at the dark, foreboding symbol of the Eye of Providence that had been carved into every crime scene, its triangular shape and watchful eye casting a shadow over the investigation. The weight of its meaning settled in your mind, and you could feel Hotch’s gaze fixed on you, waiting. He knew the significance of your insights, the philosophical perspective that often unlocked pieces of the puzzle others might overlook.

“The Eye of Providence,” you began, your voice steady but tinged with unease, “is more than just a symbol. It represents an omniscient force, an all-seeing presence that’s often tied to themes of divine judgment, control, and authority. To most, it’s a symbol of God’s watchful eye over humanity, but to the Reaper…” You paused, searching for the right words as the team’s eyes turned to you, each face a mix of focus and anticipation.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, his intense gaze never wavering. “What does it mean to him?” he prompted, his voice low, urging you to continue.

“To the Reaper,” you said, meeting Hotch’s eyes briefly before returning your focus to the symbol, “it’s more than a calling card, it’s his way of asserting power. He’s saying, ‘I see you. I am above you.’ This isn’t just a game for him; it’s a declaration of superiority. He’s setting himself up as judge and executioner, and that symbol is his throne.”

Peter, standing to the side, crossed his arms, his jaw clenched as he considered your words. “So he’s just some narcissist who thinks he’s God?” he asked, but there was an edge to his tone, a mix of frustration and anger directed at the man they were hunting.

“Not just narcissism,” you replied, shaking your head. “It’s deeper than that. Michel Foucault, a French philosopher, explored the concept of constant surveillance as a form of control. He talked about the panopticon: a design for a prison where the mere possibility of being watched was enough to alter behavior. The Reaper uses this symbol not just to leave a mark, but to instill fear and submission. He’s telling everyone that he is always watching, even when we don’t see him. He’s creating his own psychological prison.”

Hotch nodded, the lines on his face deepening as he absorbed your insight. “He’s weaponizing the idea of being watched,” he said, almost to himself, his mind clearly turning over the implications. “He’s not just taunting us. He’s controlling us, making us feel his presence every time we look at this symbol.”

Gideon, who had been listening quietly, stepped closer, with a feeling of grim understanding. “It’s a power play,” he added, his voice thoughtful. “But it’s also personal. He’s not just some detached observer; he’s putting himself in the role of a god, and he’s making sure everyone knows it.”

You glanced at Gideon, then back at the board, the discussion pulling at the threads of deeper meanings. “Philosophers like Nietzsche warned about individuals who saw themselves as beyond conventional morality. What he called the Übermensch, a figure who creates his own values, sets his own rules, and places himself above the rest of humanity. The Reaper is doing just that. By using this symbol, he’s telling us that he’s not just playing by his own rules; he’s making them. He believes he answers to no higher authority, because in his mind, he is the highest authority.”

Peter stepped forward, his arms wrapped around himself, a contemplative look in her eyes. “It’s like St. Augustine’s idea of divine providence,” he said, catching your attention, recalling your mother’s Italian literature lessons at University. “Augustine talked about God’s omniscience being active - guiding, shaping, and controlling human destiny. The Reaper isn’t just watching; he’s actively shaping the fate of his victims. He’s not passive. He’s taking on the role of the one who decides who lives and dies.”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his eyes dark and focused. “So every time he leaves that symbol, he’s reinforcing his belief that he’s untouchable,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “That he’s the one in control of this game.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of it all settle over the team. “Exactly. This isn’t just a message; it’s a declaration of dominion. He’s trying to tell us that he holds all the power, that in his mind, he’s not just a participant in this twisted game. He’s the god who sees all, who judges all, and who decides the final outcome. And until we break that illusion, he’s going to keep playing with us like we’re his puppets.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the reality of your words sinking in. Hotch turned back to the board, his jaw set in determination. The game wasn’t just about catching a killer anymore; it was about dismantling the delusion that the Reaper had constructed around himself. And until they did, he would continue to watch, and act, from above.

Gideon, who had been silently studying the photos, broke his silence. “He’s not following any set rules. He’s an omnivore. Most serial killers have a type, a preference, but the Reaper’s all over the place. It’s like he’s trying to prove that he’s untouchable, that he can kill whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the strain of the case visible in the lines of his face. He leaned closer to the board, his eyes tracing the patterns in the killings, his mind working overtime. “He’s escalating. He’s testing us, seeing how far he can push before we catch up. And the victims... the younger women, he focuses on them with his knife. It’s personal. The knife becomes a substitute for penetration, a way for him to assert even more dominance.”

Gideon’s gaze flickered to Hotch, his voice quieter than usual, filled with a sense of urgency. “We need to be careful. He’s already evolving, and if we don’t get ahead of him, he’ll keep pushing boundaries. He thrives on chaos, and the more unpredictable he is, the more control he feels.”

Before you could add your thoughts, the door swung open, and Detective Shaunessy strode in, his face pale and lined with exhaustion. The stress of years chasing an invisible predator showed in every step he took, every furrow in his brow. “We’ve got another one,” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and defeat. “But this time, there’s a survivor.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, each of you processing the rarity of that statement. Hotch’s head snapped up, his expression a mix of hope and determination. Survivors were almost unheard of in cases like this, they could be the key to unraveling the Reaper’s patterns, to finally understanding the mind of the man behind the mask. “Who is it?” Hotch asked, his voice laced with urgency.

Shaunessy handed over a thin file, his hands trembling slightly. “George Foyet. Twenty-eight years old. He was found in his car, severely injured but alive. His date, Amanda Bertrand... she didn’t make it. The Reaper got to them both, but somehow, Foyet survived.”

Hotch’s face hardened as he skimmed the report, his grip on the file tightening with every line. Foyet had been stabbed repeatedly but had miraculously pulled through. Amanda, just nineteen, had been left to bleed out beside him. And once again, the Reaper had marked his territory with the Eye of Providence, drawn in blood on the car window.

Gideon glanced over Hotch’s shoulder at the file, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “He’s getting bolder. He’s not even trying to hide anymore. Leaving a survivor wasn’t a mistake, it was deliberate. He’s taunting us.”

Hotch nodded, his focus razor-sharp. “We need to talk to Foyet. He might have seen something, heard something, that can give us insight into the Reaper’s methods. We can’t afford to let this slip through our fingers.”

But before you could move, Shaunessy’s voice cut through the room, filled with an unexpected bitterness. “It doesn’t matter what he saw. We’re shutting this down.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in Shaunessy’s tone. “Shutting it down? We’re finally getting somewhere -”

Shaunessy rubbed his temples, his expression strained. “The DA wants to cut our losses. The city’s in a panic, the mayor’s breathing down our necks, and they think we’re chasing shadows. They’re calling it. You’ve got to pack it up.”

Hotch’s composure wavered, frustration seeping through his usually calm demeanor. “This isn’t the time to back down. We’re close. We’ve got a survivor, a lead-”

Shaunessy’s voice was flat, weary. “I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner. Orders came from the top. We’re done here.”

The team was left standing in the silence of the conference room, the sting of defeat heavy in the air. It wasn’t just a case ending, it was a door slamming shut on the first major challenge Hotch faced as the new lead profiler. He stood there, file still in hand, shoulders tense, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. This wasn’t just about the Reaper; it was about his leadership, the responsibility of carrying the team forward without Rossi.

Back at Quantico, the bullpen felt heavier than usual, the usual hum of voices and movement replaced by a somber, almost stifling silence. Hotch sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the scattered files in front of him, each one a stark reminder of how close they had been, and how far they still were. The frustration and guilt hung over him like a cloud, every document, every photo another jab at what they hadn’t been able to finish.

From your own desk, you watched him, feeling the pull to reach out. It wasn’t just about the failed case; it was the unspoken weight of everything that had happened between you in the past twenty-four hours. Summoning your courage, you stood and walked over, perching on the edge of his desk as you searched for the right words.

“It’s not your fault,” you said softly, breaking the silence between you. “We did everything we could. The Reaper’s been playing this game for years, and we were closing in. You did a great job, Hotch.”

Hotch looked up, his eyes meeting yours. In that brief moment, you saw the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice raw and edged with frustration. “Rossi would’ve handled this differently. He always found a way.”

You leaned in closer, offering him a reassuring smile. “Rossi left because he trusted you to lead, Hotch. He knew you’d step up, and you have. And if he were here, he’d remind you of the same thing: it’s not over. The Reaper’s still out there, and we’re going to find him.”

But as you worked in companionable silence, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. You noticed his brow furrow, a telltale sign that something was bothering him. His eyes flicked over the crime scene photos again, more intently this time, as though searching for a hidden detail.

“There’s something off about this case,” Hotch murmured, his voice low, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Something we haven’t seen yet.”

You paused, glancing at him, your curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Hotch picked up one of the photos: the Eye of Providence scrawled in blood on the window of George Foyet’s car. His thumb brushed over the image, his expression darkening. “It’s not just about control. The symbol, the randomness… it’s all too calculated. We’ve been looking at this like it’s all part of his MO, but what if it’s more than that? What if there’s a pattern we’re not seeing?”

You leaned closer, your focus sharpening as you tried to connect the dots he was hinting at. “You think he’s using the randomness to hide something? Like there’s a method in the chaos?”

Hotch nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of frustration and determination. “Yes. It’s like he’s hiding in plain sight. We need to go back through everything: the timelines, the locations, the victim profiles. We’re missing something, and I have a feeling it’s right in front of us.”

The urgency in his voice sent a chill through you. It wasn’t just a hunch, it was the kind of instinct that had saved lives before, and you knew better than to ignore it. You picked up the nearest file, flipping through it with renewed purpose, your mind racing alongside Hotch’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said firmly, meeting his determined gaze. “Whatever he’s hiding, we’ll find it.”

Hotch looked down, a faint, weary smile tugging at his lips. The exhaustion in his eyes was still there, but your words had sparked something, a glimmer of renewed resolve. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being here. For… everything.”

The weight of his gratitude hung between you, thick with unspoken emotions that neither of you seemed ready to address. You could sense the frustration gnawing at both of you, knowing the Boston PD had shut you out of the case just as things were beginning to make sense. But you knew better than to let the burden fall entirely on him. So, without hesitation, you reached over and grabbed half of the paperwork from his desk, pulling it toward you.

“Hey,” Hotch protested, his voice tinged with both surprise and amusement.

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted, flashing a playful grin. “They made you lead profiler and then doubled your paperwork load without so much as a warning. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to,” Hotch said, shaking his head slightly, though the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a bit.

“I want to,” you insisted, picking up your pen, the one Hotch had given you a few days ago, engraved with a small ‘200’. You held it up with a smirk. “Besides, this pen is way better than the garbage I used to use. I could file reports all day with this thing.”

Hotch chuckled, a sound so rare it almost felt out of place in the tense atmosphere. “I’m still the one required to do them. You’re just trying to get out of your own work.”

You glanced up at him with a mock-innocent expression. “You’re welcome to report me to Gideon if you want. You could even throw in how highly unprofessional we were last night.”

Hotch’s smile faltered, his eyes flickering with that mix of embarrassment and amusement you’d grown to appreciate. “Let’s not touch on that,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying a dry, wry edge.

“Oh, I agree,” you teased, keeping your tone light despite the undeniable tension that lingered between you. “Highly unprofessional. I mean, drinks, dancing, and then… well, you know. I think HR might have a field day.”

Hotch shook his head, glancing back at the paperwork, but the tension between you was briefly replaced by a shared, private joke. “Yeah, let’s keep last night out of the official report.”

You both laughed, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything - Rossi’s departure, the case, the uncertain lines you’d crossed - lifted, even if just a little. But the chemistry between you lingered, unshakable, no matter how hard either of you tried to focus on work.

You tossed your pen down for a moment, giving Hotch a pointed look. “Honestly, I think we’ve moved well past ‘highly unprofessional.’ I mean, dancing that close? I’m pretty sure we crossed some boundaries that even the handbook doesn’t cover.”

Hotch gave you a mock-serious look, the smile tugging at his lips betraying him. “They’ll probably have to write a whole new chapter for us. Something like, ‘How Not to Conduct Yourself at an After-Hours Team Gathering.’”

You leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “Right? And then there’s the ‘Never, Under Any Circumstances, End Up in Your Coworker’s Bed’ subsection. That one’s definitely bolded and underlined for emphasis.”

Hotch rubbed his hand over his face, but you could see the grin threatening to break through. “You’re forgetting the appendix. The part that says, ‘Absolutely No Whispering Your Colleague’s Name in the Dark Like You’re in a Damn Romantic Drama.’”

You burst out laughing, and Hotch finally let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. You both knew how ridiculous it sounded, but there was something comforting in the banter, something that made the tension between you easier to bear.

“Honestly,” you leaned back, arms crossed, a teasing glint in your eyes, “at least we didn’t end up doing karaoke. Can you imagine the disaster if we’d ended up singing a duet on top of everything else?”

Hotch’s eyes widened in mock horror, raising a finger as if warning you. “No. Absolutely not. That’s where we’d draw the line. The second someone suggests karaoke, we’re leaving the bar.”

“Aw, come on, Hotch,” you teased. “I bet you’ve got some killer Sinatra vocals hiding in there somewhere. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ perhaps? I could see it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “I’d rather chase the Reaper through the dark again than face that kind of embarrassment.”

“Too late,” you grinned, tapping the paperwork pile between you. “You already slow-danced with me in public to Celine Dion last night. The ship of embarrassment has definitely sailed.”

Hotch gave you a playful glare, leaning in just slightly. “I think I need to file a new report: ‘Behavioral Inconsistencies in BAU Members Post-Tequila.’”

“Oh, you mean me being the perfect model of professionalism at all times?” you shot back, unable to suppress your laugh.

“Sure,” Hotch deadpanned, though the smirk was still there. “Except for the dancing. And the… well, everything that followed.” He paused, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary, and you felt the tension ripple back between you. He chuckled softly, but his voice was more serious now. “Let’s not make ‘that’ a habit, okay?”

You winked, leaning back in your chair, your voice light but with just the slightest edge. “What’s ‘that’ exactly?!”

Hotch’s lips twitched at your response, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious expression. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You know what ‘that’ is,” he said, his tone low but teasing.

You laughed, folding your arms across your chest, challenging him with your gaze. “Oh, come on, Hotch. You’re going to have to be more specific. Dancing? Tequila? Or maybe it’s the part where we-”

He cut you off, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Okay, point taken.”

The moment stretched between you, a mixture of playful banter and something deeper lurking beneath. It was a balancing act you both seemed to be performing, skirting around the edges of the unspoken while pretending everything was back to normal. And yet, somehow, it felt like you were falling back into your rhythm, the natural back-and-forth that made you such strong partners on the job.

“Partners,” Hotch finally said, his voice steadying, as though reminding both of you what mattered most. “We’re partners first. Whatever else happened… that’s what needs to stay the priority.”

You nodded, feeling the seriousness return, but also the reassurance that this conversation, this acknowledgment, wasn’t meant to push you apart, it was to bring you back to where you belonged.

“Agreed. Partners first,” you echoed, softening the weight of your words with a smile.

The tension in the room seemed to ease, and Hotch’s expression reflected the same. His shoulders relaxed, and the silence between you shifted from awkward to comfortable again, like slipping into something familiar after a long day.

“So,” you continued, leaning forward and placing the paperwork back on his desk with a deliberate thud, “shall we tackle this mess, partner?”

Hotch nodded, that quiet, steady determination settling back into his features. “Let’s get to it.”

As you both dived into the files, it felt like old times, just the two of you, working side by side, falling into the familiar groove of sharing ideas, analyzing details, and teasing out the patterns that made sense of the chaos. The banter flowed easily now, with Hotch giving you subtle smiles every so often, and you returning them with your quick-witted remarks, each one a reminder of why you worked so well together.

Hours passed, the silence between you only broken by the occasional flip of a file or the tap of fingers on the desk. It felt like the old days again: before the case, before the night out, before things had gotten complicated. There was comfort in that, and you were grateful for it.

Finally, as the evening started to creep in, Hotch leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. “You’ve still got some paperwork left,” he pointed out, glancing at the pile on your side of the desk.

You looked at the stack, then back at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. You’ve barely made a dent.”

Hotch’s smirk returned, that rare, dimpled smile that he only showed when he was truly at ease. “I’m the lead profiler. I delegate.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Uh-huh. Convenient.”

He pushed his chair back slightly, standing up and stretching more fully now. “Come on. We’ve done enough for today. Let’s get out of here.”

You stood too, collecting your things, feeling a sense of peace that you hadn’t expected. The tension between you had simmered down, replaced by something more solid, friendship, partnership, and that unspoken bond that you both knew was there, but didn’t need to be addressed right now.

As you walked out of the office together, side by side, Hotch glanced over at you, his expression softer than usual. “You know,” he started, his voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his words. “Hotch-”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “I mean it. We’re a team. And I trust you. More than anyone.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted again, a quiet understanding passing between you both. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic confessions, just the acknowledgment of what had always been there, the trust, the bond, and maybe something more that didn’t need to be named.

You smiled, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “Right back at you, partner.”

Dado's Corner pt.2: Is it okay if I say I am unwell? With this we mark the end of Act 1. I'm going to miss them so much, especially because in part 2 there will be the whole team as well, so we won't probably have as many solo moments between the two. They're so cute, help I'm obsessed. Also in Act 2 there will be Unit-Chief Aaron (aka grumpy Aaron, dad Aaron and much more). I will miss this light-hearted version of him so much - although this doesn't mean it will be lost forever. I've only written the 1st chapter of Act 2 so - if you have any suggestions - feel free to share them! Also - prepare yourself to cry for the interlude. Probably it will be the most bittersweet chapter so far. BYEEEEE

[quidell-fics]

Here's a snippet of my Black Myth: Wukong Fanfic! I have a lot of it outlined...the reason why the OC got sent (isekai lol) into the world, her purpose, the small changes her presence will bring about, as well as...the ending of the game. Everything in between, I'm still outlining, but here's a rough draft of the first beginning part of chapter 1.

Please note that this might change slightly when I finish the chapter and edit the crap out of it, haha. I'm also trying to get the tone down. Still not 100% sure how I want to write the OC.

Still trying to decide on a name for this fanfic 🤔

"This simply won't do. You're soul…” I was paralyzed, as if ice had seeped into my veins, numbing me without its familiar sting. The world around me blurred, lost to the creeping dread that curled around my thoughts. The voice that had shattered the silence dripped with venom, a dark melody of displeasure that echoed through the emptiness, leaving me hollow and unsure. "But perhaps this will suffice, though it seems even beyond my understanding.” He was close, his voice brushing against me like a whisper on the wind, yet I couldn’t see him. The darkness pressed in, so deep, so consuming, that it swallowed everything, leaving me stranded in its suffocating void.  “But this,” he said, and I felt something slip from my grasp, the only sensation in the endless void. It was something I hadn’t even realized I was holding, “must be set aside for now.” A pause. “I'll return it to you once you've aided,” another pause, this one heavy with contemplation, a silence that lingered like a held breath, “him on his journey. And if, in turn, he helps you... well, should that come to pass, everything will change. Truly change. And at long last, his wish will be fulfilled." His words drifted past me like smoke, their meaning lost in the haze of my confusion. I couldn’t piece together who he was talking about, or what any of it meant. But my mind clung to the last fragments of what I knew—my bakery, the comforting warmth that lingered as I retired to my room for the night. And then... then, the world slipped into nothingness. No. Not into nothingness, but into a descent, a slow, inevitable fall. Now, I had found myself suspended in this void, floating in an abyss where sound, other than this voice, was swallowed whole and movement was a distant memory. My voice was silenced, my limbs were bound by unseen chains, and the darkness stretched on, unbroken and all-consuming. But despite the emptiness pressing in on all sides, I was unnervingly calm. Hollow, yes—adrift in this sea of uncertainty—but calm, as if this strange, bleak serenity was the only thing keeping me tethered to whatever was left of myself. "Do not disappoint me, little one. You’ve been granted a rare chance, but if you falter, the cycle will continue unbroken, and Reincarnation will not grace an outsider such as yourself. You will be lost to the void, your existence erased. Do you grasp the gravity of this?” No. I really didn't. "If yes, then perhaps there's a glimmer of promise in you after all. But don’t grow too confident—the true trials are only just beginning.” And then, the darkness swallowed me whole, and in that suffocating void, it felt as though I truly ceased to exist, because I no longer knew anything.