#that being said if anyone wants a beta reader lmk please!!

[doingmylevelbest]

I am here to submit an official complaint to Roy Harper ao3 writers everywhere.

Why is it that Roy Harper fan fiction doesn’t seem to exist without some relationship pairing involved? Or if he isn’t in a romantic relationship he’s a background character and the actual focus is another hero’s angst? Or if it is a romantic relationship it’s just smut??! (I get it, it’s Roy, but please)

I just want Roy Harper angst. I beg of thee. I don’t mind when he’s in relationships and the background character but please I need some variety! I just want to see him struggling, maybe a good fic with him and Ollie’s dynamic idk

Anyway. If you have fic recs for Roy let me know; I went on such a deep dive into ao3 last night and felt so much despair I ended up rewatching Green Lantern (2011)…

[water-to-drink]

Be a Gladiolus in a Field of Belladonnas pt17

“Degenerates Like You Belong in Prison”

(Synopsis): After being captured by Fontainian authorities you are placed in confinement and are forced to come to terms with the fact that you’re on your own

Part 1 Last Part Next Part

✧ Masterlist ✧

(Characters): traveler!Lumine, Paimon, abyss prince!Aether, Childe, Wriothesley, Sigewinne, Neuvillette, Jean, Al haitham, Kujo Sara, Ayato, Ganyu, Ningguang, ???, ???, ???, & ???

(Tags/Warnings): This takes place before Fontaine’s archon quest, gn!reader, harm is done towards the reader, not beta read, possible ooc characters, (if i missed anything lmk)

(A/n): I can’t embed links in post anymore, if anyone has any suggestions or ideas than please feel free to share

(Word Count): 2k

Heavy footsteps echo throughout the lavish halls. A soldier clad in golden armor makes her way to a large door that leads to their Grace’s quarters. With an equally heavy hand she pushes the door open and there she sees your doppelgänger sitting on their golden throne

They turn their attention towards the lowly soldier and the look in their eyes sent shivers down her spine

“What is it?” Your doppelgänger spoke coldly

The soldier bowed before them and hesitantly whispered “Uhh, the imposter… was captured, your Grace…”

“Where are they being held?”

“In a maximum security prison in Fontaine, your Grace…”

Suddenly the room was filled with a maniacal laughter, the soldier looked up to see your doppelgänger doubled over in laughter

“Finally! That rat has been caught! I bet they’re a crying mess!” Your doppelgänger cackled out while falling out from their throne before standing up at full height, towering over the kneeling soldier. “Hehe, you’re dismissed. I have to make arrangements for that filthy imposter’s execution.” They said with an evil smirk that also uncanny

Rough and calloused hands grab your arms and drag you into an underwater prison, which you learned it’s named the Fortress of Meropide

Your feet drag against the iron floor, the guards don’t let you walk, preferring to drag you wherever they are taking you. You take in the surroundings and see that the walls and floors are all made of iron and has dingy atmosphere, you just can’t help wallow in your own misery

Finally the guards stop in front of a door with a deadbolt lock on it, a third guard presses in a code and the door opens. The guards shove you into the room and slowly walk through the door. You look up at them to see they’re taking out their batons. Realizing what’s going to happen you instinctively curled up into a little ball, making sure to protect your head and stomach

The guards bring their batons down on your helpless form, their blows mercilessly and brutal. You don’t know how you were beaten for you just pay attention to the floor, mainly the bolts protruding from it. Examining each unique scratch the bolts have was all you could focus on, even counting every scratch you could see, you were so focused that you didn’t notice the loud sound of the door opening

“What is the meaning of this?!” The strong voice broke you out of your trance and made the guards stop beating you

“Your Grace! We’re just-”

“I don’t want to hear it! Get out before your punishment is worse than it is right now!”

The footsteps of the guards quickly became more quite as they rushed out of the room. You lifted your head to see a muscular man with black and white hair kneeling over you

“Don’t move, I’ll get Sigewinne to look at your wounds.”

Your eyes felt heavy and before you knew it

A small girl with two unusual horns on her head that look soft to the touch entered your room, she looked uncomfortabled in your presence. She slowly walked towards you and stopped by your bed

“I’m going to need you to take off your jacket.”

You followed her instructions and put the Fatui jacket right next to you. A look of horror filled the young girl’s face, you saw a few tears forming in her tear line. Before you could ask Sigewinne what’s wrong she blinks away her tears and starts to bandage your bruised arms

The two of you didn’t utter a word to each other and after she finished patching you up she handed you a cup filled with a strange liquid

“Drink this, it’ll help with the healing process.”

You wordlessly took the drink and examined it, the concoction gave you an uneasy feeling like this drink wasn’t meant for human consumption

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.” You looked up to see the same man from before. “It’s safe to drink but it will taste weird.”

Your eyes felt don’t have much confidence but at least if is poisoned your death won’t be at the hands of your imposter. You downed the drink and instantly your mouth is filled with an unpleasant taste, it almost taste like that awful medicine your parents forced you to take as a kid whenever you were sick

Your parents…

You wonder how they and your friends are doing?

How long has time past since you’ve been gone? Have they filed a missing person case? Your taken out of your thoughts when Wriothesley speaks

“Since you’re an usual case, I have decided that you will be in solitary confinement. You will be given 3 meals a day and be allowed some time out of your room.” He heads towards the door and Sigewinne hesitantly follows him, before he could close the door you see Sigewinne wordlessly mouthing a word that you can’t quite understand

Before you think you a grasp on it the door is closed and you hear it locked leaving you alone with only your thoughts to keep you company

Outside Wriothesley walks into his office and makes a phone call

Half way across the world a phone rings and a woman picks it up

“Hello this is the Liyue Qixing, Huixin speaking.” The secretary spoke with a little hesitation due to her limited experience working a telephone. “Yes, he’s here. Wait one moment.” Huixin stood up and handed the phone to a man with long white hair. “Mister Neuvillette you have a call.”

“Hello?”

“Neuvillette, the imposter is in my custody, they’re in solitary and have way of escaping.”

“That’s good to hear. I will let them know.” Neuvillette puts the phone down on the base before turning towards the other envoys and sharing the news with them

“That’s a relief.” Jean said

“We shouldn’t celebrate just yet, we must take every precaution to ensure that they don’t escape again.” Al haitham stated

“I don’t know why their Grace insist on waiting and not killing that vile imposter.” Kujo Sara crossed her arms

“Questioning their Grace’s actions, that’s almost blasphemous.” The Natlan high priestess joked

“Chimalma is right, we are no position to question the actions the highest among the gods.” Ayato advises

“So who is going to make their Grace, aware of this recent update?” Ganyu asked looking around towards the others in the room

“Their Grace is already aware.” Nigguang announced causing the others to look at her in surprise

“H-how did they take the news, relieved I bet.” Ganyu asked

“They weren’t relieved. I would say more elated.” Ningguang explained while leaving the part out where your imposter looked maniacal. The Tianquan won’t forget the look of fear on the poor soldier’s face as they described their Grace’s features to look almost demonic like

Staring up at the same wall you’ve been staring at for the past couple of days, the only reason you know a few days have past is because of the food the guards have given you

You can recognize some breakfast food items, like toast with butter, eggs, pancakes, and a few strips of bacon. The food is okay, most times the food is tolerable while some it feels almost inedible. You miss the food you grew up with, the smile on your face it brings to your small features

Without anything to do you think back on your home

Your friends and family

How are they doing? Have they notice that you were gone? Have they even file a missing person report? All questions that rumble around in your mind

Another question that you often asks yourself is where are the twins and Childe?

Were they captured along with you? No, Aether could easily open up a portal to the abyss when things get too hot, so why hasn’t he opened a portal in your cell? Have they decided that your too much trouble to save? All of this mess started when you first arrived here, everyone was happily living their lives until everything went out of whack

Perphaps the twins and Childe thought that it was better for you to be killed off by your doppelgänger

Tears filled your vision, you curled up into a ball and cried

You cried and cried

Until you had enough of crying

“I going to get out of here.” You told yourself. “I’m not going to lay here and wait to die.” You stood up from your cot and wiped away your tears. “No matter what. I will get out of here!”

You hear the lock on the door and it opens to reveal Wriothesley. He has a lunch tray in his hands, he walks in and put the tray on the desk in your cell, a pleasant and welcomed surprise compared to the guards just throwing your food on the floor and making it spill onto the floor

Wriothesley looks around to see the baroness of your room. “I came in to see how you’re holding up.” Wriothesley sees your tear stained face and had to fight the urge to go over to you and to hug you, take you somewhere that isn’t this hellhole. He doesn’t know why but he composed himself before continuing on. “Since you aren’t allow out of your cell like the other inmates, can I offer you some form of entertainment? Within reason of course.”

You took a while to think of what you want to say before deciding on something that might help you

“I want a book.”

In the depths of Teyvat, there a sky of deep blues and purples is looked at by a certain harbinger. A sense of nostalgia fills his chest, but before he can get too wrapped up in his old memories he turned towards the twins, mainly Aether who is trying and failing at composing himself

“What do you mean, their Grace is in the Fortress of Meropide?!” Yelled the prince

“That is what our intel suggests, your highness.” Spoke an abyss mage

“If their in the fortress of Meropide, then why can’t we sneak in and take them out of there?” Paimon asked

“It isn’t that simple, all of Teyvat knows that we’re on their Grace’s side and will do everything in their power to stop us. They might even try to kill us if they see us approaching the prison.” Lumine explains

“Maybe we can get one of the lectors to disguise themselves and enter the prison?” Aether wondered aloud

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Childe spoke

The twins and Paimon turned towards the ginger, Aether stormed other and grabbed him by the collar

“What the hell do you mean, harbinger?!” Aether hissed out. “Their Grace is in a maximum security prison and their execution is quickly approaching, time is of the essence!”

“We both know that the Fatui wants their grace safe and sound, so don’t think I’m not as concerned as you!” Childe grabbed onto the blond’s wrists

“You two, stop it! We’re all worried about their Grace!” Lumine shouted as she got in between the two men

“I know that the news has already reached Snezhnaya, and knowing a certain associate of mine, she’s already has a plan to get their Grace out.”

In the overworld of Fontaine, rounds of applause are held in a theater

Even some roses are thrown on the stage where a young magician and his assistant are standing. The two look nearly identical except for his sister who had cat ears and a tail

“Thank you, you all have been wonderful tonight!” Spoke the magician before walking off stage and returning backstage

There a blonde boy was waiting for them with a phone in his hands

“Lyney. You have a call, it’s Father.”

Going up to the young man, Lyney takes the phone and puts it against his ear

“Hello Lyney.”

“Hello Father.”

“I have a special assignment for you and Lynette.”

Taglist:

@chuuya-brainrot @creation-magician @tartarsaucechi1de @vvyeislazzy @aludicpoet @undecidingfate @annoying-mary @randomnatics @bore2808 @esthelily @yurivision @angelamelamela @chocolatekuns @mmmhyperfixation @legendaryexperthideout @lapinaenmicoche @sinsdumbdrabble @ghost-mint @rebeccawinters @imyme20 @nymphsdomain @sun7lowxr @blackcoffex @itz-luna @flowerpesky @land-of-eternity @deathcvltcivilofficial @d4y-dr3amer @yuriclouds @artwitch @mercy-not-merci @xyaxyn @starxvs @dreamoffireflies06 @desirabletravel @bidisasterforever @dxprived4-starboys @angstylittleb1tch @lhaol

[hornyhornyhimbos]

"Somethin' In The Way You Make Me Move" ~ E. Munson

Summary: When Eddie catches his producer singing a rather sensual song, he wonders if she has anyone in mind as she's singing. Turns out, she did—Eddie.

Pairing: Modern!Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Producer!Reader

Word Count: 2,683

Content Warning: MINORS DNI (18+ content) slightly protected piv sex (pls wrap b4 u tap or u'll die), Reader is on the pill tho, creampie, mentions of handjobs, mentions of oral both!receiving, NICKNAMES OUT THE WAZOO (princess, doll, baby doll, pretty girl), lots of teasing from both parties but mainly Eddie because he's an ass, lmk if i missed anything!!!

Extra Notes: having to repost because i found out the link is broken 🤪

Based On: a conversation me and @rupsmorge had

Originally Written: 02/04/2023 through 02/05/2023

Beta Read By: @writer-in-theory

"Alright, boys. I think we're good!" you said into the microphone. "If we need any more takes, I'll call you."

The four men emerged from the recording booth, sweat dripping down their foreheads from the precision they'd put into playing their respective instruments the best they ever had. Eddie, the oldest and prettiest (in your opinion), had been playing the hardest, and you couldn't say you didn't notice.

You constantly noticed him. How could you not? From the way he called you "doll" to the way he was constantly finding reasons to brush against you, he made it well known that he noticed you, so how could you not do the same?

The four muttered some form of a goodbye (Eddie's accompanied by a wink) before making their way out of the studio. You stood from your seat, making sure you were alone before sliding one Airpod in and beginning to clean up your equipment.

You'd almost finished cleaning up all your things during the first song, but when Spotify decided to play "move!" by NIKI, you worked a little slower, wanting to savor your favorite song.

"Maybe it's the way that," you sang along, swaying your hips as you continued to gather your things. You waltzed into the recording booth, feeling every word you sang, "you make me wanna lay back."

You had barely finished the first verse when you heard someone clear their throat behind you. Oh, God, please don't be my boss.

"I was just coming to retrieve my jacket but I see you're singin' about me again," an all-too-familiar, deep voice said behind you.

You slid your Airpod out of your ear and into its case before clearing your own throat. "Eddie…" you managed to say, swallowing down a hard lump in the back of your throat.

He grabbed his coat from the chair where he'd left it, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Who were you singing about, anyway? You got a boyfriend I don't know about?" he smirked as he stepped into the recording room.

You swallowed again, shaking your head.

His hands landed on his hips. "So you were singing about me?"

With the roll of your eyes, you scoffed. "In your dreams, Munson. Just because you're a big, popular rockstar now doesn't mean I want you too."

His hand flew to your wrist, pulling you closer. You can't say it didn't make your stomach turn, in a good way of course. He eyed you up and down, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You think I don't notice the way you bat your eyelashes when you compliment my guitar skills? Or when I hit certain notes when I'm singing?"

He pulled away, chuckling deep. "I bet those are notes you wish only you could make me hit."

Your breathing hitched, and he smirked again. "I'm not too far off, am I?"

You tried to find some way to discreetly cover how your thighs were starting to clamp together. But Eddie being Eddie, he noticed immediately. "I knew it," was all he said, watching as your thighs clenched around nothing.

You slowly shook your head in response to his previous question. "I bet you say the same things about me," you uttered, slightly impressed by your sudden boldness. "I bet there's so many sounds you wish I'd make only for you."

He chuckled, brushing a loose hair away from your cheek. "I'd love to hear them. If you ever wanted to show me, that is."

You casually glanced down, noticing the tent forming in the front of his jeans. You placed a hand on his chest, toying with the collar of his black flannel. "No, I think I wanna hear all the noises you can make first."

His lips crashed into yours, and almost habitually, your legs wrapped around his waist. He carried you to the wall, your back arching away from it as his lips moved to the crook of your neck.

He chuckled as he sucked hard on your neck, a bruise was sure to appear the next morning. He pulled away for a beat, smirking. "I think I wanna hear your noises first."

"Too bad," you sighed, sliding your hand down to the bulge in his pants, "you're gonna make all those handsome noises for me first."

He sucked in a groan, his pride overcoming him. "What was that first line of that song you were singing?" he said, diving back into your neck. You bit your lip, hiding a moan, and he rolled his eyes. "Somethin' about laying back?"

"Uh-huh," you managed. "The way that you make me wanna lay back," you corrected him.

"Is that what you want? Or were you just singing along?"

You nodded before placing your lips back on his. An opened mouth kiss, leading to your tongue slipping into his mouth, savoring the taste of the peppermint tea he'd been drinking earlier.

He picked you up once again before turning and crouching down to his knees, lying you flat on the floor of the studio. His hands moved to his buckle, but you stopped him with a, "Wait…"

You took a moment to savor him like this: those brown eyes you loved so much looking down at you with lust, his arms flexed in that tight, red flannel he wore all the damn time, his hand that had moved from his belt to grip the fat of your waist. You gave him a small smile, and he knew. It was your way of saying, "I wish we could stay like this forever."

Your attention went back to the buckle of his black, leather belt. "Can I?" you practically begged, hooking a finger through one of his belt loops.

He nodded slowly, and you were a little too eager to reach for the metal fastening. He toyed at your pants' button as you slid down his jeans, your eyes widening at how pretty the thatch of his happy trail was. You hooked a finger into his boxers, pulling him out promptly, sighing deeply at how nice he felt in your hand. You ran a thumb over the tip, going glassy-eyed at the sight of how pretty and pink and big he was.

"Shit, princess," he grunted, and you smirked. You'd won. "Putting those fingers to good use. Good to know they're good for more than just hitting buttons on a computer."

You stroked down the length of it, letting out a short breath. "Oh, I can't wait to show you all the things these fingers can do."

"Next time, princess," he told you, pulling your pants down the rest of the way. "Need to be in you right now."

His hands made quick work of your blouse, tossing it aside and pulling your tits out of your bra. One of your hands was still settled on his dick while the other tugged at his flannel. "Take it off, please?" you nearly whined. But you couldn't help yourself. You needed a perfect view of the white tee shirt beneath it and how it clung to his inked biceps. Needed it, like air to breathe.

He slid it off agonizingly slow before moving his palms back to your chest. His thumbs massaged small circles on the buds, finally eliciting a mewl from your lips.

"That's it, pretty girl," he whispered. "Make all those sweet noises you've been saving for me."

Your attention moved back to his cock, pulling him toward your entrance. You slid the mushroom tip against your folds, biting down on your lip to hide a moan.

He took control, moving your hands away from his cock. He slid in easily, prompting him to groan, "Oh, shit. You always this wet?"

You shook your head, managing to whimper out a weak, "Only for you." Your teeth clamped down your bottom lip, you were surprised you didn't taste the metallic tang of blood. Your hands flew to his biceps, digging crescent moons into the rose tattoo inked on his left arm. He slid further in, the stretch already feeling so nice that your lips had fallen into an open "o" shape.

"Fuck, Eddie, please," you whimpered, "need a sec to adjust."

He chuckled, causing his cock to move inside you, and eliciting a moan from your lips. "Aww, is it too big for your greedy, little hole?" he faked a pout, his bottom lip puckering outward.

Your hips bucked slightly, catching him off guard. "You're a dick, Eddie Munson."

"No, but I have one. And from the looks of it," he paused, grinding further down, causing your lips to fall back to their previous "o" state, "you're looking forward to milking it dry, hmm? Aren't you, pretty girl?"

You didn't move, you weren't sure you could. He pushed down further, finally reaching the hilt. When you didn't answer, one of his hands moved to your cheek, pulling your face to look at him. "You should probably answer me, doll. I could just as easily pull out and finish this myself as I pushed in."

You nodded weakly, earning you a scoff from the man above you. "Use your words, baby," he instructed, slightly pulling himself out of you.

You whimpered from the friction and the small, empty feeling of him not completely filling you up anymore. You nodded again with a whine, your eyes squeezing shut as he slid almost the entire way out.

He continued pulling out, which finally got you to form words. "Yesyesyes, Eddie," you cried out, your hips lifting from the floor, in search of that full feeling again. "Can't wait to be cock-drunk on y-"

"Eddie!" Jeff and Gareth called out as they entered the building again.

Eddie's hand flew to your mouth, giving you an expression of seriousness. He bent down, leaving a ghost of a kiss on the shell of your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear those noises you reserved for me, now, would we?" he whispered.

Your eyes widened, but you nodded in response. Your hands landed on his chest, softly running your fingertips over his nipples. Two can play at that game, Munson. His head fell back as he let out a silent, deep breath, his grasp on your hip tightening.

"Where the hell is he?" Gareth asked.

Eddie hips ground into yours, a chuckle threatening to fall from his lips. You let out a soft mmm behind his palm, your eyes nearly rolling to the back of their sockets as he wriggled inside you.

"Guys, his jacket's gone. He's probably just already left for the restaurant," Grant said, sounding the most level-headed of the three.

Eddie slammed down hard, his balls slapping against your ass, your eyes widening and your teeth grinding together. He thrusted again, hitting your G-spot, and it took all the willpower you had to not scream with pleasure.

After a moment, you heard the door close again and you waited a good thirty seconds before removing his hand from your mouth. "I hate you."

"Yeah, but you love my dick, don't you?"

He thrusted again, and he knew you were close by the way you gasped when his balls hit your ass again.

One of his hands flew to your mound, rubbing quick circles at your clit. "Come on, you know you need to."

"N-Never," you told him. "G-Gonna make you c-cum first."

"When did this become a competition, baby doll?" He quirked a brow, rubbing your clit harder.

"The second you walked in here and said you wanted to hear all the noises I could make for you."

Your veins burned with every movement, your eyes screwing tightly shut as his other hand played with your nipple. "Come on, pretty baby," he whispered. "Need to see those beautiful eyes."

You forced your eyes open as the coil in your stomach started to snap. Your pussy clenched around him, causing his dick to twitch.

"Fuck, princess," he moaned, slamming into you, "I might cum first if you keep that up."

"That's the plan," you smirked, pulling his hand away from your mound and up to your mouth, sliding his index finger through your lips. You tasted sweet on your tongue, but not nearly as sweet as you imagined he would taste.

"Uh-uh," he tutted in disapproval, removing his opposite hand from your boob and down to your clit to replace the other one.

The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the recording booth, and you were the snap of a finger away from your orgasm. You clenched around his length again, making him groan gutturally.

"Fuck- OK, do I need to pull out?" he asked.

Your eyes widened, both from the twitch of his dick and his question. "And have my boss asking why there's a mysterious stain on the floor? I'd rather take my chances."

"Are you-"

"I'm on the pill, scout's honor."

One last roll of your hips and you both came undone. Ropes of thick cum shot through you as your walls spasmed around him, your chest heaving and dripping sweat as you chased your high.

The air was a mixture of Eddie's "fuckfuckfuck!" and your "hhnnnngggh, Eddie!" as you both came down from your highs. He slowly pulled out of you, and whimper after whimper escaped your lips. You both lay there, limp, side-by-side, the air becoming thick with heavy breaths.

After a minute or two, Eddie reached for his flannel, cleaning you up with soft circles on your core so as to not overstimulate you. When you started to wince, he cooed, "I'm sorry, doll. Gotta make sure you get all cleaned up though."

You reached down, swiping up a stray drop of his cum that had landed on your stomach. You licked it off your thumb, savoring the tiniest taste of his essence.

"Shit, you trying to make me hard all over again?" he chuckled, pulling your pants back up to your hips.

"Needed to at least see what you taste like. Since you won't let me suck you off," you pouted, eyelashes batting just like he'd talked about earlier.

"In due time, princess," he smiled, pulling his jacket on. "But I wanna taste you first."

"No fair! Why do you get to go first?" you asked, pulling your shirt back on.

He helped you up out of the floor before pulling you in for a soft, distracting kiss. His hands rested lightly on your butt, giving it a small squeeze, earning him a soft squeak from you. When he pulled away, a grin appeared on his lips, a cheeky grin. "Because I made you cum first. It's only fair I get to taste you first too. Think of it as my reward."

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, slapping a hand across his chest. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Munson. But the way I saw it, it was definitely the other way around."

"Oh, you little-"

Suddenly, the door burst open again. Gareth and Jeff stood with expressions of aggravation wiped across their faces. "Where the hell have you been, Eddie?" Gareth asked, his hands tight on his waist.

Eddie grabbed your laptop bag before turning to face only you, giving you a wink. He turned back to the boys, a mischievous tone settling on his tongue. "I was just helping her move."

You swallowed hard, thinking of a cover up. Sure, that may have not sounded like an innuendo to anyone else, but it did to you. You racked your brain, searched and searched and-

"She's moving offices so I offered to help her carry some things upstairs," he said, his tone calm and even.

"Well, we've been waiting for you for like fifteen minutes. We're starving."

"You two are so stupid. You could've just grabbed something to eat without me."

With an eye roll (and some under-their-breath mutters), the two walked out of the studio for a final time, leaving you alone with Eddie once again.

"You know, doll," he said with a wink, "I'd be happy to help you move again any time you need it."

-> taglist: @rupsmorge @dungeons-are-too-cold @esoltis280 @crazyworldofsiani @mybeautifulbrowneyedboy @myosotisa

[elizmanderson]

Wondering about how to find beta readers? Especially finding those who would understand what your writing. The previous question you answered was SO INCREDIBLY HELPFUL LIKE OIGHSODPIHGDL K - Especially about how to respond and work with beta reader feedback.

because my family had been my previous 'beta readers' which... the 'best' time was when I got into a huge slump and hated my comfort writing because my parents said my MC was too 'overdramtic' when I was just... describing and trying to process feelings that I've felt before with characters? It did not feel nice whatsoever and sent me spiraling. Another time I got kicked out of the house for the day for not wanting my NON-HUMAN characters to be gendered... but I digress.

Which brings me to my next question, how would I find people (preferably online) who can give me feedback and beta read? It's been difficult to find people IRL who are as excited/understand what I'm trying to write with my plant fairy escapism comfort.

Thanks for answering my questions! It means a lot to me. :)

this is, alas, a tricky question, because...guess where I used to meet beta readers? if you answered "Twitter," you are correct! and that's obviously considerably less viable than it once was (and less viable every day).

with that in mind: if anyone else reads this and has suggestions for similar events/hashtags/ways of connecting on other platforms (including Tumblr), please rb or comment!

at any rate, in general social media can be helpful for finding betas because there are often hashtags to use when you're looking for readers. sometimes there are even specific events to help writers connect with each other for critique purposes! again I'm unfortunately most familiar with this on Twitter, but for example there's been an event there called like CPmatch or something like that where folks would pitch their books and then interested people would comment like "wow yes I'd love to read this!"

personally most of my virtual beta readers are friends I met online just by talking about my books and learning about their books! while several of us are agented and/or published now, we all started in the same place: writers finishing up projects and hoping for good luck in the query trenches. so we'd all just shout excitedly about our books on Twitter, and that's how we found each other.

(hashtag events for writers - weekly, semi-weekly, or monthly events at a set time where the host asks questions/provides prompts and writers answer them and comment on others' answers. I'm sure they exist somewhere other than Twitter, but that's the only place I've seen them. not to be a broken record lol but I fear my knowledge about connecting with people online is more useless day by day because of the incompetent grapefruit now destroying my favorite platform.)

anyway, sometimes you'll be more excited about someone's book than they are about yours or vice-versa, but overall being genuinely interested in other writers' work and making friends with them over your shared interest is the best way to find future virtual betas, particularly betas who will understand what your books are trying to do (as opposed to what you described coming from your family).

and I know you said "preferably online," but just in case you ever have interest in in-person meet-ups: depending on your location, you may have a home region on NaNoWriMo (dot) Org, the official site for National Novel Writing Month. (I think I mentioned that in my last post, but if you're like "what the hell is that," lmk and I'll explain.) various regions may have in-person events in November, which is a great way to meet people irl!

(actually, speaking of NaNoWriMo, it's a great time to meet other writers virtually, too! use the tags "NaNo," "NaNoWriMo," or "National Novel Writing Month" to declare your participation and find other writers who are also doing it. the official site also allows group chats - I think there's a maximum of 20 people per chat - and don't quote me but I think you can request to be sorted randomly into one in case you don't already know anyone there.)

additionally, try googling writing groups in your area. there may not be any (and I have zero tips on how to start one, as I am much happier joining an existing group), but it's worth taking a look. in my area, we have an unofficial NaNoWriMo group that chats throughout the year on Discord (so online even though we're also close enough to see each other in person!), plus a weekly critique group that meets up at a Panera to share feedback, plus a weekly writing group that meets up at a local coffee shop to chat and get some writing done! even if your area doesn't have a critique-specific group, you can meet other writers in your area if that's something you're comfortable with and able to do.

(of course you should always meet people in a public place until and unless you get to know them well enough to feel comfortable meeting them somewhere private.)

I feel like this was basically no help at all because all my virtual meeting-other-writers experience came from Twitter, but:

tl;dr

use hashtags to indicate that you're looking for beta readers (don't ask me which hashtags; I've never personally done it this way)

join hashtag and beta-matching events on social media to meet people

connect with other writers on social media by shouting excitedly about your projects and theirs

if you participate in NaNoWriMo, meet people using relevant hashtags or on the NaNoWriMo website

to meet other writers in person, google writing groups in your area or check your NaNoWriMo home region to see if a group is active near you

[snackhobi]

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear. 

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​ for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!​

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable. 

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance. 

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t. 

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business. 

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always. 

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot. 

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to. 

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating. 

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?” 

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel. 

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs. 

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth. 

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement. 

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good). 

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself. 

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.” 

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too. 

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says. 

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him. 

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness. 

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy. 

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern. 

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin. 

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says. 

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates.  Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away. 

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him. 

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare. 

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead. 

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob. 

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment. 

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull. 

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair. 

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy. 

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features. 

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

 You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart. 

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you,  pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself. 

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause. 

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words. 

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness. 

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult  @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou  @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

[hqrbinger]

"HAPPIER THAN EVER."

summary; after finding out the rules of the game, you decide that you would do anything for him. pairings; xiao x reader (no pronouns used) warnings/tags; no beta/not proofread, lowkey squid game spoilers, squid game!AU, marble game but instead of sae-byeok and ji-yeong its xiao and you, major character death (you oops), angst no comfort, mentions of guns, death, and blood notes; so this is probably gonna flop/ someone has probably already done this before BUT !!! my sae-byeok brainrot has been THROUGH THE ROOF lately and i cant write for her so instead i did this lol, if it does well maybe i'll do more squid game crossovers ??? lmk if anyone wants a pt 2 with more charas bc this was meant to have more but its 5 am and i am exhausted LMAO reblogs are highly appreciated! songs; lonely shredder; mac demarco - happier than ever (edit); billie eilish

the small, glass marble was heavy between your fingers, the decision you were about to make hanging uncomfortably in your chest. your partner's marble was well a ways away in the alley you were playing in, pretty much securing the win if you were to play your cards right.

or in your case, playing them wrong.

because you were choosing to lose.

⊹XIAO

your marble slipped from your grasp only a foot or two from the line, landing with a pathetic thumb against the sandy floor. you glanced up at his marble, nestled in the gritty dirt several meters away. xiao had won.

you straightened your back, not really sure what was going to happen next or just how long you had left before your time was up.

"what are you doing?"

you winced just slightly when xiao spoke, hearing his footsteps approach behind you until your collar was grabbed roughly, pushing you back against the nearest wall.

"i lost," you said, weakly.

his eyes were swirling with confusion, anger, fear. it pained you to look into them. he wore a blank expression but you saw right through his stupid, icy facade.

just like you always could.

"why the hell would you do that?" he seethed, gripping your jacket tighter and shaking you roughly. you could tell how hard he was trying to be angry, to hate you for what you were doing. but you knew he didn't. he couldn't.

"hey, butter fingers, what can you do," you tried to crack a smile, but you knew it wasn't going to help.

xiao looked dumbfounded, brows knitted together in an emotion you weren't very well acquainted with seeing on his face:

fear.

"why are you doing this?" his voice was softer now, yet his tight grip on your collar remained steady. you didn't like seeing him like this, but it was all for the best. love makes you do crazy things, after all.

"whatever it takes," you whisper, despair and nausea washing over you as your choice was being set in stone. "i'll make sure you win."

his eyes widened slightly as your words truly sunk in, the gravity of the situation hitting harder than any bullet ever could.

anger suddenly took over his features again, fingers curling into fists around the fabric of your blood-stained jacket.

"you think i'm going to be grateful for this?" he spat, the malice in his tone not enough to counteract the horror in his glistening amber eyes. "take another throw. don't..."

his voice cracked and his eyes finally tore away from yours, his grip on you slacking once again. his breaths came heavy, and the quiver in his lip told you it took everything within him not to cry. "don't do this. please..."

you reached up, running your hands through his hair gently, relishing in the feel of his silky strands for what would be your last time feeling them. xiao squeezed his eyes shut, unsure whether it would hurt less to sink deeper into your touch or push you as far away as possible.

why? why did it have to be this way?

"you can't die," your voice is shaking and you have never been more terrified in your life, but the thought of xiao walking out of the bloodied room unscathed and safe was enough to keep you going. "i need you to live for the both of us. make it out of here for us, xiao..."

you tried to smile, feeling the familiar sting of tears burn at the back of your throat. but you wouldn't cry. not in front of him.

hot tears streaked single-file down your lover's cheeks, unbridled hopelessness pooling in both of his honey eyes. you reached up to wipe them away, but two masked guards rounded the corner, the lethal weapon present with one of them sealing your fate.

you were practically dragged off of the wall and out of his arms, the other guard simply leading xiao down the other way.

"xiao!" you called, catching him just before he was taken from the hellish room.

it was suddenly so much harder to speak, each word you wanted to scream getting caught in your throat. you knew you only had mere moments left, but you didn't have any idea what to say.

"thank you," you choked, smiling back your tears even though his back was turned. "thank you for being my partner."

the clink of a gun sounded much less scary seeing xiao out of harms way, and in that moment, you felt at peace.

"player 240, eliminated."

[liaslight]

OBEDIENT

Pairing: Pervy boss!Kuroo x Bimbo fem!reader

Summary: Working as Kuroo’s new intern was hard since he seemed hell bent on being a complete asshole to you. After asking him for a holiday, you end up finding yourself in a compromising position with your boss, who you absolutely despise.

Content Warnings: Dub-con, Blackmail, degradation, dumbification, bullying, hate fucking, oral sex (male receiving), face/throat fucking, hair pulling, use of slut and whore, sir kink, crying, dacryphilia, bondage, slight slapping, cum eating, shoe fucking¿. That’s about it but if i missed anything lmk please. ALL CHARACTER ARE AGED UP (POST TIMESKIP)

Word Count: 3.k

A/N: This is my piece for Anilysium's 'Crying and Creaming' collab. Please check out the masterlist of the collab to see the work of all the other amazing authors and artists :))

Thank you to @oneblonded and @stopisa for beta reading <33

You hated work. Absolutely despised your office and everyone in it. Especially your boss. You wondered why you had to come in everyday and subject yourself to his torture. These thoughts swirled in your head as you walked towards your boss’ cabin with a steaming cup of hot coffee. He usually takes an espresso shot but today he requested you get him a decaf. Working as his intern was hard, he found flaws in everything you did.

As you set his coffee down on his desk, he looked up from his screen, staring at the coffee with molten eyes. Kuroo Tetsuro might be a complete asshole, but he was undeniably gorgeous and anyone would be blind to not notice it. He stared at the coffee for a solid minute before asking in his cold voice, “where is my espresso?”

“S-sir, you said you wanted decaf today, so that’s what I got you.” you stuttered out knowing that for some reason you fucked up. “Well now I changed my mind and I want an espresso,” he said with a tone of indifference. You were shocked at his antics, how dare he change his mind at the last second. “Well am I gonna have to wait all day or will I be getting my coffee soon?” he mocked. “Yes sir I’ll be back with your espresso.” you said with anger seeping through your voice.

You suppose you should be used to it by now. It’s been three months since you started here and he has not let up on you even once. If it was up to you, you would’ve left the week after you started here, but you needed this job because it paid surprisingly well. Maybe it wasn’t much of a surprise considering how much bullshit you had to deal with here.

Kuroo thinks you’re horribly dumb. Based on how many mistakes you’ve made since you started here, he would’ve fired you within the first week of you starting here. But you were such a pretty thing to look at, so he kept you around. And you started to get the hang of the work after a few weeks, but he just couldn’t help but mess with you just to see your face twist up in anger. You were so helpless and all you could do was just sit and take whatever he dished out, even though it might not have been your fault. He loved it. He relished the control and power he had over you.

He was burdened with work today so he more or less left you alone after the espresso incident. You kept your distance to a minimum too and spoke to him only when necessary. As he swirled around his chair, wondering what exactly he wanted to do with you, because even though you were fun to mess with, you weren’t exactly an asset to the company. And his duties as a boss came before his needs as a man. He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of your heels clicking on his office floor. You walked towards him with a bunch of files in your hand. “Sir I got the files regarding the new client, where would you like me to keep them?” you asked. He pointed towards the table towards his right, swirling his chair to watch you walk to the table. Did he need the files to be put on that table? No, not really. They would've been more useful on his desk, but he wanted to see you walk to the table and bend over as you put the files down. You had a beautiful body and anybody would be a fool to not notice that. You probably noticed him staring, but it’s not like you could say anything and if you were really uncomfortable you would’ve called him out. He knows this because you did exactly that when another co-worker had stared at you inappropriately.

It was getting dark out there and it seemed like it was just the two of you on the floor. You shuffled on your feet nervously before asking “Sir I’d like it if I could have tomorrow and day after off for some personal reasons.” Huh, so you wanted a two day break without telling him why. “What personal reasons?” he asked as he stood up from his chair, walking towards the front of his desk and leaning on it. You were a little flustered from both his question and the proximity between the two of you. “Uh, I don’t think it’s necessary for me to tell you why I need the holiday and I say this with utmost respect” you said defiantly, your tone was the complete opposite of utmost respect.

So this is how you wanted to play it out, he thought and tried his best to suppress the grin that was forming in his face.

“Well if you want a break I need to know why and if you don’t want to tell me then I guess I can’t allow you the two days off” he said casually while loosening his tie. God why did he have to be so fucking good looking. It was making it hard for you to stand your ground and get what you want. You knew you weren’t the best worker and you made more mistakes than a lot of people here, but why did he pick on you and only you? Truth be told, you were scared of him and scared of losing this job, but there was only so much you could take before you snapped.

“I don’t think you need to be privy of my personal life and if you aren’t willing to give me the holiday I’m more than okay with you cutting my salary for the days off” you said, anger evident in your voice. “Miss y/n if you want to walk out of here with a job, you’re just gonna have to tell me why you need the holiday.” he stated simply while looking at you with something unreadable in his gaze. Dread washed over you at the possibility of losing your job and you realised you had no choice but to give in to him. “I have to go out of town for my friend’s wedding” you said while gritting your teeth in frustration.

“That wasn’t so hard now was it?” he smirked down at you, clearly pleased with the fact that he won. God you hated him and hated that stupid smirk on his face. He walked closer to you and all you could do was stare at the hint of skin that was visible after he unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and loosened his tie. Why did he have to be so attractive? It was a damn shame that he was a dickhead even though he looked like that.

“So is it okay if I take two days off?” you asked, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of winning the argument. “Hm, I suppose so. But I’d like it if you work for a few more hours today so that you could get some actual work done before you leave for your holiday” he taunted. “I’m sorry but what do you mean by actual work sir?” you asked, irritation clearly evident in your tone. It was probably a huge mistake talking to him like this considering he was your boss, but you had enough and you were done taking his shit.

He seemed to be enjoying himself as you got more and more irritated. “I suppose the meaning of actual work would be lost on someone like you anyway” he said with his voice cold and his grin even colder. He was clearly looking down on you and testing your patience. “Let’s see, did you send in the shipping updates for the London client?” he asked, and shit you clearly forgot about that. “Uh- no, i’ll get on it right away” you said while averting your eyes from his gaze. “How about the minutes for today’s meeting? Did you email it to everyone present there?” he asked, knowing very well you didn’t do it. “I’m sorry sir, I’ll finish all of it right now if you excuse me” you stuttered. “I’m not done yet. What about the cost sheet I asked you to make yesterday? I suppose you forgot about that as well” he said, veiled anger and irritation seeping through his tone.

“The reason I asked why you wanted to take two days off is because I simply could not let the most incompetent worker in my company take days off for a stupid reason. You are on thin ice y/n and taking days off while not doing most of your work is clearly not helping your case” he stated with authority.

“I’m so sorry sir, is there anything I can do to make up for my insubordination?” you asked, clearly worried about the prospect of losing your job. At this point, you were ready to do whatever it takes to get on his good side. This job paid for your rent and living expenses and with the market so bad, you knew if you were fired it would take months for you to get another job. If you had to suck up your pride for keeping this job, you would without hesitation no matter how much you hated him.

“Well there is something you can do, but I’m not sure if you’re going to like it” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I-I’ll do anything sir, I really need this job” you answered honestly. “If that’s the case then get on your knees” he said casually while standing up to his full height.

Your mind went blank. He wanted you to get on your knees. You knew what that implied and never in your life did you think you would be here in this position. But the thought of being on your knees in front of him didn’t fill you with disgust. You were scared and surprised but not opposed to it. You hated him for making you do this, even though you were the one who offered to do anything.

You snapped out of your thoughts when you heard him say, “I don’t have all day and if you want me to go easy on your incompetence then be a doll and get on your knees.” God this was so so wrong but you did as he said and got down on your knees, looking up at him and waiting for his next instructions. “Let’s see if this mouth of yours is any good, yeah?” he said with a shit eating grin.

He took off his belt and walked behind you. He crouched down to your level and you were confused as to what exactly he was doing. Then you felt your hands being pulled back and tied with his belt. You felt a tinge of panic but it turned you on knowing you were immobile and completely under his mercy. He stood up and walked in front of you. He put two fingers below your chin and made you look up at him and said, “you look so pretty like this.”

His hand left your chin and went to work unbuttoning his pants, all while holding eye contact with you. He pulled the zipper down and finally pulled his dick out of his boxers. Your eyes widened at the size of him. There’s no way you could take him all the way in your mouth and you felt genuine terror at the thought of doing so. You couldn’t help yourself when you said, “You’re so big.” “Yeah? And you’re gonna take all of it.” he commanded.

You gulped as you looked at his dick. He was long and thick, with tiny veins running through the shaft. His tip was flushed pink and tilted slightly to the left. His hand came up to grip your hair from the back and he forcibly tilted your chin up, making you look at his face. His other hand gripped his dick and he tapped your lips with it. “Open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out,” he said.

You did as you were told and he pushed himself inside your mouth, groaning at the feeling of the wet heat. You looked up at him, blinking innocently and waiting for his instructions on what to do next.

His grip on your hair tightened and he pushed your head down. Fuck he was so big and you were sure you couldn’t take him any deeper than this. You tried to pull back a little but he was having none of that and pushed your head all the way down. Tears started to spill from your eyes and you gagged on dick. He pulled you back, watching in awe as you coughed and spluttered. He slapped your left cheek with his hard length and said “do you want more?” he asked while he kept slapping your cheeks lightly with his dick. “Yes, I do,” you begged. This whole act was so demeaning but you were incredibly turned on. You felt your panties get slick with arousal and it frustrated you knowing your hands were restrained and you couldn’t pleasure yourself. “Yes what?” he asked in his domineering voice, while rubbing precum all over your lips. “Yes sir,” you replied obediently.

He pushed you down on his length again and this time you willingly took all of him inside your throat. It was uncomfortable but the thought that he was pleased was bringing you pleasure. “Such a good little slut” he said while his hips started to move, lightly fucking your mouth. You moaned around his length and the vibrations of your mouth made him groan. “This is all you’re good for aren’t you? Your dumb little brain clearly doesn’t work but it doesn’t matter when your mouth is full right?” he said condescendingly.

The degradation seemed to make you wetter and your hips started to move, trying to get some friction to alleviate the tension between your legs. Kuroo noticed and said, “What a dirty little slut! This is turning you on isn’t it? Well you’re not gonna get any relief because this is a punishment” he said as he pulled out of your mouth. You hated him so much but at this moment all you wanted was to be his obedient little slut. You moved forward to take him back in your mouth, your face flushed and eyes full of tears. “Beg.” he said while teasing you by hovering his length near your lips.

You were sobbing now, lip trembling and eyes watering as you said, “p-please sir, I want you in my mouth, please!” Kuroo was enjoying this too much, he knew you were an idiot but to think you’d be so cock drunk made him harder than what he already was. He let you take him back into your mouth and then he stroked your hair and said, “such a good slut, if only you’d put this much effort in your work, then we wouldn’t be here now would we?” Then he started to facefuck you, his hips pushing into you and shaking your whole body with the force. You started to gag and choke loudly, your mouth so full of him. You could taste his precum and you hollowed your cheeks and tried to keep up with his thrusts.

As you bobbed your head on his dick, you felt something near your clit and you jolted in surprise upon realising that it was his shoe. He lifted his shoe so that it rubbed against your slit and you moaned around him at the friction. “Since you’re being so obedient, I’ll let you get yourself off on my shoe,” he said while thrusting into your mouth. You were so wet and needy that you greedily obliged and started to move your hips on his shoe. The friction on your clit felt so good and you were so sensitive and turned on that just a little touch could make you cum. You chased your own high while letting Kuroo use your mouth as he pleased.

“You got my shoe dirty with how wet you are. You’re gonna lick it all clean after we’re done aren’t you? That’s how bad you want this job, don’t you baby?” he said through gritted teeth. The thought of him making you do something so demeaning made you clench and you started to move your hips faster, desperate to finally reach the peak. The vibrations from your mouth were bringing closer and closer to his orgasm and after thrusting for a few more seconds, he pulled out of you, fucking his fist while watching you chase your own high.

He looked so good with his sleeves rolled up and the veins in his hands flexed as he moved his fist up and down his length. Your senses were clouded and when he lifted his foot up to apply more pressure to your clit, you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore. You whimpered as you finally came, eyes rolling back at the intense pleasure. Seeing you like this was enough for Kuroo, and you could see he was close.

“You want my cum don’t you baby? Stick your tongue out for me.” he said and you obliged. He stroked himself once, twice and then groaned as he came all over your tongue and face. You patiently waited till he was done, eyes closed in pleasure. You swallowed all of his cum and looked up at him with doe eyes. He used his thumb to gather the cum that was on your cheek, and then pushed it inside your mouth. You sucked at his thumb greedily, moaning at his taste.

“This is all you’re ever gonna be good for, baby. But it’s okay right? You’re happy being my cumslut aren’t you?” he said. He didn’t wait for your answer as he tucked himself back inside his pants and bent down to untie your hands. After fixing himself up, he said “Enjoy your holiday miss y/n.” and walked out of his office, leaving you wondering what exactly you got yourself into.

All content belongs to LIASLIGHT © 2021. Do not modify or repost.

[homoose]

Winning is a Habit

Hi y’all! Okay sooooooooo this is my first time writing fic??????? Like omg please be nice lmao. I don’t have a beta reader, so if you catch any mistakes pls lmk! I saw this challenge and the world is total garbage, so why not write our own realities????? Ok here goes!!!!!!!!!! Written for @veraiconcos fic challenge

Summary: The BAU gets called to investigate two high-profile murders in a college town, only to find that they are part of a much bigger, more complicated picture. No real pairings, although you could make it happen if you want lol ;) This is an idea I’ve seen floating around the fandom for a little while now, and I really wanted to see it fleshed out. Set around season 4 or 5.

Category: some angst, sort of fluff? I wouldn’t say it necessarily qualifies as an AU, but it’s outside of canon.

Warnings/Includes: some brief descriptions of violence/CM type stuff; mentions of rape (no details)

Word count: 6.1k

———

“Stillwater, Oklahoma,” JJ said, navigating the map off screen and pulling up the crime scene photos. “Two college seniors— Tyler Allen and Leon Williams, star football players for Oklahoma State University— both found dead the day before the playoff qualifier.”

“Do we know the cause of death?” Spencer asked, thumbing through the case file.

“The ME report concluded that both boys died of acute alcohol poisoning,” JJ informed them.

Emily looked up from the file. “And the locals don’t think this could just be a case of college kids having a little too much fun?”

“Before a major playoff game? I doubt it.” Derek leaned back in his chair. “Especially considering OSU’s having a record-breaking season. I’d guess the coach had players on a pretty strict lockdown.” He raised his hands and joined them in a steeple over his chest. “Showing up to a game hung-over— particularly one as important as this— would be a major conduct issue.”

“That, and there was a pretty specific message left on both victims,” JJ added, arms crossed and eyebrows lifting into her hairline.

“On them?” Rossi questioned.

JJ motioned with her hand back to the screen. Six sets of eyes moved over the photo; the words “U LOSE” scrawled in ink across the foreheads of the two men.

“Resorting to murder to win a football game?” Emily asked, eyes narrowed.

“And why use the forensic countermeasure of staged alcohol poisoning, only to backtrack and assert it as a murder?” Spencer pondered, pursing his lips.

“Whatever the reason, we’ve got two dead college students and a definite signature. Wheels up in 30,” Hotch told them, closing his case file.

⧭⧭⧭

“No sign of forced entry.” Derek walked through the entry hallway and into the living space. “Doesn’t look like there was any struggle, either.”

Rossi thumbed through the mail on the kitchen counter and peered around the small space. “Everything you’d expect in a boys’ college dorm room: dishes in the sink, generic decor, general mess. Nothing that stands out.”

“Agents, thank you so much for coming.” A tall man in a dark suit stepped across the threshold of the apartment. He stuck out his hand for Rossi to shake. “Steven Barrett, Dean of Students.”

“I’m Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi. This is SSA Derek Morgan.” Derek nodded from his place in the living room.

“I apologize for not meeting you when you arrived. We’re dealing with a grieving campus,” Barrett said, running a hand over his face. “I’m actually on my way to speak to the Board, but I wanted to check in with you before. I’m not sure I can be of much help, but I can try to answer any questions you might have.”

“These boys were seniors, but they still lived on campus. Is that typical?” Rossi asked, gesturing around the apartment.

“Uh, yes, it is for student athletes,” Barrett confirmed with a nod. “OSU teams have demanding, sometimes grueling practice schedules. Being on campus simplifies things, allows students to get to classes and practices, as well as utilize the dining halls.”

“Does this building have security cameras?” Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. All of our buildings do. I’ll let Campus PD know you’ll need access to the footage.” Barrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it and punched the button to answer the call. “Yes. Yes, I—I’m finishing up with the FBI now. I understand. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone. “I’m sorry to leave you, gentlemen. Our top priority right now is supporting our students and community through this tragedy. Part of that healing process is finding out who did this to Tyler and Leon. So anything else you need, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

Derek shook his head. “I’m glad I don’t have to do that job right about now.”

Rossi gave another glance around the nondescript apartment and sighed. “Call Garcia and ask her if she’s found any other cases that could be related. And let’s hope there’s something useful on that security footage.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Based on lividity and rigor mortis, I was able to put the time of death between 8:00 and 10:00pm on Wednesday evening. The blood alcohol content for both boys was over five times the legal limit. I’ve never seen anything like it,” the medical examiner mused.

Emily looked over the bodies, her arms crossed. “Dr. Saraj, about how much would they have to drink for the level to be that high?”

“When drinking, the level of alcohol in our blood reaches a peak before it drops off after the last drink ingested,” Spencer supplied. “In a typical night of drinking, spread over the course of several hours, the average man can have 8-12 drinks without ever reaching lethal levels. But considering each victim weighed around 230 pounds, they’d have had to ingest approximately 180 ounces of beer or 18.75 ounces of liquor to reach a lethal blood alcohol content.”

Dr. Saraj glanced at Spencer before adding, “Look, this is a college town. Kids drink. But... to have had this much alcohol still detectable in their system post-mortem indicates that these boys drank at least the equivalent of a 30 rack, by themselves, in less than an hour.” She flipped up the first page of the report in her hands, eyes scanning the second. “And the toxicology screen also found trace amounts of ketamine.”

Spencer bent over the examining table and adjusted the wrist of one of the boys with a gloved hand. “Doctor, are these ligature marks?”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. Saraj agreed, nodding. “They’re relatively faint, so I almost missed them. But I found similar marks on both boys on the wrists and ankles.”

“So,” Emily said, gesturing with her hands, “the unsub doses them with ketamine to gain control, ties them up, forces them to drink lethal amounts of alcohol, and then— what?” She looked to Spencer. “Waits for them to pass out before removing the restraints and leaving the message?”

Spencer examined the marker scrawls. “Were you able to determine what the message was written with and if it was left pre- or post-mortem?”

“My guess would be it was written with some type of permanent marker, but I can’t say for sure,” Dr. Saraj said. “We’re analyzing the residue now, and I can send the report your way as soon as I have it. As for when it was written, I couldn't tell you.” She shook her head. “The one simple mercy is that these boys would have been out cold for a while before they died.”

⧭⧭⧭

“I’m so sorry. I know how difficult this is. Anything that you can tell us will be helpful in finding the person who did this,” JJ encouraged softly. “Anyone that Tyler might have had an argument with recently or who he mentioned having problems with?”

“No, no. He was—he was just your typical boy,” Mrs. Allen sniffled. “Playing football and hanging out with his friends,” she said, voice hitching. “Oh my god.” She dropped her head into her hands.

“He didn’t have time to have problems,” Mr. Allen asserted. “He spent all his free time on the field. Coach had them out there for two-a-days until classes started. He’s the quarterback. He was leading that team to the first national title since 1945.” He stood to his feet, hands clenched at his sides. “Some lunatic murdered my boy and you’re sitting around talking to us while they’re out there, walking free.”

“Sir, I promise you that we have some of the best agents in the country working on your son’s case,” JJ assured. “But in order to help them do their job, we need to know as much as we can about who Tyler was.”

Across the bullpen, Hotch sat across from Mr. and Mrs. Williams. “Leon was a good boy. Football was his life. He loved being a part of this team. It was the season of a lifetime,” Mr. Williams said.

“We taught him better than to be drinking and carrying on,” Mrs. Williams added.

“Can you think of anything or anyone he might have mentioned recently that was out of the ordinary? Anything that was bothering him or causing him distress?” Hotch questioned.

“He was feeling pressure about the season, but he’s been handling that kind of thing since he was twelve years old.” Mr. Williams shared an almost indiscernible look with his wife. “He got into—into the same kinds of trouble any college kid gets in. Nothing that could have gotten him murdered.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Yeah, baby girl, what d’ya got for me?” Derek held the phone out so that Rossi could listen in as they waited in the OSU security office.

“Well, my handsome knight, I wish I could tell you more but so far, I’m coming up empty with similar cases,” Penelope sighed. “Nothing that matches our alcohol poisoning M.O. or the signature. I just expanded the search to surrounding states, and I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Anything on our two victims?” Rossi asked.

“Now that’s where it gets interesting,” Penelope mused, tapping the fluffy end of her pen into the palm of her hand. “There’s nothing. Zilch, nada.”

Rossi narrowed his eyes. “And that’s interesting because...?”

“Come on, sir,” Penelope scoffed. “Two young, athletic, good-looking college football stars and there’s nothing at all? Nothing scandalous on social media. No run-ins with campus PD. Not even a write up from an RA.”

Derek tilted his head in thought. “Hotch and JJ said their conversations with the parents told a similar story.”

“Okay, but no one is this squeaky clean, particularly not at a Big 12 college. Everyone has some dirt,” Penelope insisted. “I haven’t found it yet, but there’s gotta be something out there. When I have it, you’ll know it!”

“Thanks, Garcia,” Derek drawled.

“Over and out!” Penelope jabbed the button to end the call.

The OSU officer waved them over with his hand. “I’ve got it queued up to 6:24pm. You can see the boys here,” he pointed on the screen at the two victims, “entering the north entrance of the dining hall.”

Derek leaned toward the monitor. “So they leave practice, come through the dining hall for dinner. When do they leave?”

The footage sped up on the screen, then stopped. “Here. 7:01.”

“Rossi, you seeing this?” Derek slid his eyes over.

Rossi nodded. “Is there any way to enhance these frames?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders. “Not on this system. Honestly, the camera quality isn’t great. I’ve been trying to get them to invest in an upgraded OS, but you know—budget woes. Your analyst might be able to do more.”

“It’s not going to matter.” Derek sighed and straightened up. “She’s careful of her angles.”

“I couldn’t find them on any grounds cameras, but they pop back up entering the dorm. Here, at 7:12.”

“All three of them,” Rossi noted. He looked at Derek. “And like you said, she’s discreet.”

“They all go upstairs to the apartment,” the officer continued, “but only the girl leaves. At 8:43.”

⧭⧭⧭

“We have a witness from the cafeteria that confirms that the boys ate with a dark-haired young woman in a red coat,” Hotch said, arms crossed. “But other than those two details, the witness couldn’t recall anything else and said they’d never seen her before.”

“So we’ve got the two victims entering their apartment with an unknown woman. They’re upstairs for an hour and a half before she leaves,” Emily recounted.

Derek stood with his hands on his hips. “And in that time, she manages to dose and gain control of two boys that are more than double her size and funnel a lethal amount of alcohol into them. Now the question is why?”  

As the team converged around the conference room table, a uniformed officer entered into the doorway. “Agent Jareau? There’s a possible witness—says she might have some new information.”

JJ nodded to the team and moved to the doorway. A petite young woman stood in the center of the bullpen, wringing her hands. When her eyes landed on JJ, she let her arms fall to her side. As JJ approached, she motioned with her hand for the girl to sit at the closest desk. “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I heard you wanted to speak to someone about this case. Can I have your name?”

The girl nodded. “Um, I’m Cassie. I saw the announcement you made. About the woman in the red coat. I heard you say that she had brown hair. Is that true?”

JJ cocked her head slightly. “Yeah, the witness and security footage we have shows a woman with dark hair walking with Tyler and Leon. Why do you ask?”

Cassie’s eyes darted around the bullpen, and she drew her arms tightly over her chest. “I just— um—well, I—”

“Would it help if we moved somewhere a little quieter?” JJ suggested. When Cassie nodded and stood, JJ placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and directed her toward an empty interview room. Cassie sat in the chair farthest from the door, and JJ sat opposite her. “Is there something you wanted to tell me about the woman? Or is it something else that’s on your mind?”

Cassie let out a long breath. “When I heard that they were dead, I— I was relieved. That sounds awful, but it’s true.”

JJ tread lightly over her next question. “You felt relieved. Why was that?”

Cassie looked directly at JJ. “I’ve been looking over my shoulder everywhere I go for the last seven months. I won’t have to do that anymore.”

“Can you tell me more about what you mean?”

Cassie took a breath and closed her eyes for a long second, before opening them and continuing. “There was a huge party in the spring. I mean, there were, like, hundreds of people there.” Cassie’s eyes went wide. “I never go to parties like that. But it was the end of the year, and my friend—well, I went with my friend. She got invited.”

“Were Tyler and Leon at this party?” JJ asked.

“Everybody was. I mean, everybody who’s somebody at OSU was there. We saw them right away. The whole team was there, but people treated those two like kings.” Cassie looked down at her hands. “We were drinking... a lot. At some point, Laney and I got separated. I tried calling her phone a bunch of times, but the party was really loud. I—I didn’t want to leave without her, but I was getting really messed up. I had a guy friend from one of my classes walk me home.” She swiped at her eye with the back of her hand. “Laney didn’t get back until the morning. Her clothes were all torn up, her hair had... blood in it, and she—she had a bruise under her eye.” She looked up at JJ, eyes shining with tears. “They raped her. I left her behind, and they raped her,” she whispered.

JJ reached across the table for Cassie’s hand. “Cassie, I’m so sorry. What happened to Laney was not your fault, or hers. Do you understand me?” JJ paused before continuing. Cassie looked down. “Do you know if she reported it?”

Cassie nodded. “I’m the one who went with her to the infirmary. They did a kit and confirmed it. When we went to Campus PD, they did nothing. Said Laney was wasted, and there was no one that could back up her story.”

JJ squeezed her hand. “So there was no official report filed?”

Cassie laughed coldly. “Oh, they wrote a report. I think if we ask them to, they have to. But they wouldn’t name Tyler or Leon in it. Said they didn’t want to ‘give legs to any gossip.’”

JJ’s mouth stretched into a thin line. “Where’s Laney now?”

“I don’t know.” Cassie shook her head. “She didn’t come back to OSU this fall. I haven’t really talked to her since—” She looked at JJ. “I can’t get the image of her out of my head. How she looked when she came through the door that morning. What they did to her… I’m not sorry that they’re dead.” Her eyes were shining with rage. “People knew what happened… and no one did anything. And those two were still the kings of campus.”

⧭⧭⧭

The team absorbed the new information quietly. “So Garcia was right. They did have something to hide.” Derek’s phone buzzed. “Speaking of. Hey mama, you’re on speaker.”

“I hope you’re all sitting down,” Penelope warned. “I expanded the parameters of my original VICAP search to include the surrounding states. No hits on suspicious deaths by alcohol poisoning. However, the U LOSE signature? Seven hits across Texas, Arkansas, Missouri, and Kansas.”

“So our unsub’s been traveling across the South—” Emily started.

“Oh, I’m not done,” Penelope continued. “Just to double check, I expanded the search area to the continental US. Our unsub has been busy. Over 30 murders with this signature, all across the country, dating back to March 2007. All different M.O.s: gunshot, stabbing, strangulation, you name it. But all with U LOSE scrawled across their forehead in—get this—liquid eyeliner.”

“Anything tying the victims together, Garcia?” Hotch asked.

“All men, mostly white, but all across different ages, occupations, and marital statuses. At first glance, there’s no real connection,” Penelope answered.

“What about on second glance?” Hotch prompted.

“Way ahead of you, sir. I did a little digging.” Penelope shrugged. “Okay, a lot of digging—most of it legal. Every single one of these victims had at least one sexual assault allegation. Some are official police reports, some are HR complaints, some are sealed court records. But in every case, the victim’s cause of death is directly related to the details of the assault records. Women that were held at knifepoint, their attacker was stabbed to death. If they were choked, he was strangled. If they were held at gunpoint, he died of a gunshot wound. Et cetera, et cetera.” Penelope twirled her pen. “The differing M.O.s combined with the fact that the unsub kept crossing state lines kept local PDs and field offices from making the connection.”

“Garcia, can you search OSU PD records for an incident report?” JJ asked.

Garcia tapped rapidly across her keyboard. “Absolutely, sugar, when would it have been filed?”

“It would’ve been this year, sometime at the end of April or beginning of May,” JJ answered. “The victim would be named as Laney Collins.”

After a few moments, Garcia peered through her green cat-eye glasses at the report. “Mmm, I’ve got one incident report, filed on May 7th. And woof, this report is not much to go on. The responding officer wrote a whopping three sentences. According to him, Laney was incapacitated and thus was not a credible witness.” Garcia twirled her pen. “The alleged attackers, who are not named, denied Laney’s account of what happened. Because there were no other witnesses, Officer Thorough deemed that no further action was necessary.” She jabbed her pen in the direction of the screen. “And this, my friends, is why women don’t bother reporting.”

“Good work, Garcia,” said Hotch.

“There’s one more interesting detail from the report,” Garcia continued. “The dean of students signed off on it.”

“So Barrett knew about this the whole time,” Derek fumed.

“And again, people wonder why women don’t report,” Garcia repeated, ending the call.

“So our unsub is seeking justice for women she believes have been failed by the system. We’re looking for a vigilante, carrying out revenge killings,” Rossi concluded.

Derek nodded. “And she’s organized and efficient; she finished with Tyler and Leon in less than two hours.”

“She’s smart and she blends in, doesn’t draw too much attention to herself,” JJ added.

“She’s meticulous and has at least some knowledge of forensic countermeasures, considering there’s no physical evidence tying her to any of the scenes,” Spencer remarked.

“And she knew enough to keep her face off the security footage,” Emily finished.

“Rossi, Emily, and I will stay here and deliver the profile,” Hotch directed. “JJ, I’d like you to speak to the families again, see if they knew about the rape. Reid, Morgan, talk to Barrett and see what else he might be trying to keep quiet.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Makes you wonder just how many people knew what happened,” Derek considered, closing the car door.

“It’s estimated that twenty percent of student victims of sexual assault report it to their university, but less than one percent of assailants receive any type of disciplinary action,” Spencer cited, making his way toward the sidewalk.

Derek shook his head. “And so the victims don’t see the point in reporting it. Your attacker gets to walk around like nothing even happened. Cassie told JJ that she felt like she had a target on her back once they reported Laney’s assault.”

As they walked up the blacktop driveway to the entrance of Barrett’s home, Spencer slowed his steps as he noticed the front door. “Morgan.” He nodded at the door, slightly ajar.

Derek drew his gun and moved ahead of Spencer. He pushed the door slowly open and called out, “Mr. Barrett?” In the foyer were the remnants of a broken vase and a small trail of blood. “Call Hotch, let him know we’ve got trouble here.”

Derek and Spencer worked to quietly clear the rooms, one by one. Derek stopped at the bottom of the stairs and motioned to Spencer. As they started up the stairs, a woman’s voice called out, “Shut up! You had nothing to say before. So now, you’re just going to listen.”

Derek reached the top of the stairs and started down the hallway. He reached the open door where a woman stood, her back to the door. Behind her, Derek could see Barrett, sitting on the floor, blood dripping from a gash on his head. His hands were raised in front of his chest, palms facing out. Derek stopped, his gun trained on the woman, and murmured, “Laney?”

The woman pivoted her body, her short blonde hair whipping around. Derek saw tears in her eyes and a revolver in her hand. “Don’t,” she warned.

“Laney, my name is Derek. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk. I need you to put the gun down.”

“No!” Laney screamed. “You don’t know what he’s done.” She shook the gun in Barrett’s direction, and Barrett closed his eyes.

Derek spoke softly. “I do, Laney. I do know. I know what happened to you. I know that he kept Tyler and Leon’s names off the report. I know that he didn’t help you when you needed it most. I know that he let them get away with--”

“Rape. He let them get away with rape. Because he cares more about reputation and football than what happens to women on his campus. They ruined my life.” Laney turned away from Derek and put both hands on the gun. “They ruined my life, and you did nothing. And then they walked around campus like they were invincible, because you taught them they were.”

Derek moved further into the room, into Laney’s eyesight. Spencer moved into the doorway, covering Derek. “Laney, look at me. I’m putting my gun away.” Derek held his hands up and then moved to holster his gun. “Doing this won’t make the pain go away.”

“How many others? How many other women did he do this to?” Laney let out a painful sob. “If I don’t stop him, it never ends.”

“Listen to me.” Derek took a step closer to her. “Killing him won’t change what happened, Laney. It won’t. Believe me. I know how you feel.”

“People love to say that when they’re trying to shut you up. How could you possibly know how I feel?” Laney spit out.

“Someone hurt me, just like they hurt you. And nobody was there to help me. No one was there to listen.” Laney froze, eyes shifting to meet Derek’s. “I wanted to hurt him, Laney. Wanted to make him feel the same pain I felt. I wanted him to suffer.” He moved another step closer. “I know that those men hurt you, and I know that he let them get away with it. And I am so, so sorry. But you’re stronger than anyone knows, Laney. You are the only person who has the power to help others who didn’t get justice. I have a friend who’s spent her whole life helping survivors, and I know she’d love to talk with you.” He took another step. “You are the only person who can stop it from happening to someone else. You can make sure he’s held accountable for what he’s done. But if you pull that trigger, you can never go back,” Derek warned.

Laney looked at Derek, his hand outstretched, wordlessly asking her to give him the gun. She looked at Barrett, crying and silently begging her to show him the mercy she never got. “I wish I’d been the one to kill them,” she whispered.

The gun dropped out of her hand as Derek stepped forward to catch her. He kicked the gun into the doorway, and Spencer recovered it. “I’ve got you,” Derek said, helping Laney out of the room. “Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Spencer moved to lift Barrett off the ground and helped him into a chair by the window. Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer caught a flash of red below the window. He stumbled over Barrett, nose almost pressed to the glass as he stared out. The woman froze, eyes locked on Spencer’s. His mouth opened slightly as he stared at her, bewildered. By the time his brain caught up, she had already disappeared from view.

Spencer turned and raced down the stairs, clinging to the railing as he nearly missed a step. He burst out the front door into the driveway, sprinting around the side of the house. He heard Derek call his name, saw the other SUVs pulling up, but he kept running. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the backyard, and then spun in a full circle, eyes frantically scanning the perimeter.

Hotch approached from the side of the house, gun drawn. “Reid! Are you all right?”

Spencer took a last look, scanned from east to west. “Yeah, yeah. I just—I thought I saw—I thought I saw something.” He shook his head. “Barrett’s inside. He’s got a head laceration, but he’ll be fine.”

Hotch lowered his gun and nodded. “And Laney’s not our unsub. So we’re back to the beginning.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Strauss is asking us to head back to Quantico.” Hotch pocketed his phone and looked at the team. “We’ll move the cases to our watch list and flag the signature for hits in VICAP. From what we know about the unsub’s behavior, we know she’s no longer in the area.” He gestured to the evidence board. “Our best course of action is to keep the profile in our periphery for now. We can do that from the BAU. It’s late. Go to the hotel, get some rest. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“I’m absolutely starving.” Emily slipped into her jacket and headed for the door. “Anybody want to hit up that 24 hour diner?”

Derek and JJ quickly agreed, following Emily from the conference room. JJ turned back, eyeing Spencer. “You coming, Spence?”

“I’m just really tired.” His voice lilted up, almost a question. “Next time, though.”

JJ gave him a look but didn’t press him. “Have a good night, Spence.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He gathered up the case files, not quite ready to put them away.

⧭⧭⧭

Spencer’s eyelids felt heavy as he walked through the lobby of the hotel. He really was tired. He blamed the exhaustion for what he thought he saw through the window at Barrett’s. His fatigued mind was seeing things that weren’t there. He practically floated into the elevator and up to his room. Sliding the room key through the slot, the door beeped open and Spencer stepped inside. He flicked on the light and dropped his bag on the floor, loosening his tie as he walked toward one of the sling back chairs sat by the window. He paused just before he reached the chair, his gaze lingering over something on the desk. A note hastily scrawled on hotel stationary.

623.

Spencer lifted the note with two careful fingers. “623?” He turned it over, looking for the rest of the message, but the paper was blank other than the number. He lowered the note, and his eyes landed on a small plastic card where the paper had rested on the table. Not just a card. A room key.

⧭⧭⧭

Spencer stared at the door of the room. Room 623. He turned his head and slowly looked up and then down the hallway. He took a breath and raised his hand to the door. He knocked in the familiar rhythm: five knocks, pause, two knocks. He pressed his ear close to the door, listening for any movement inside. When he heard nothing, he knocked again; the same pattern, but a little louder. He listened again. Nothing. Spencer felt a bead of sweat creep down the nape of his neck. He thought about turning around, about walking back down the two flights of stairs to his room and getting into bed.

Instead, he pulled the keycard from his pocket. As he lifted the card with one hand, he used his other to raise the strap on his holster. He held his breath as he swiped the card through the slot and heard the beep of the lock. Drawing his gun from the holster, Spencer slowly turned the handle of the door.

The room was mostly dark. Only the yellow glow of one of the bedside lamps illuminated the space. Spencer stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. Again, his mind said to turn around. Yet his feet carried him further into the room. He could see now that the sling backs were facing toward the window. There were two glasses from the mini bar on the table between them.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” a familiar voice mused.

Spencer startled and then swallowed audibly, a cartoon character realizing he’s in serious trouble. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“You can put the gun away,” she continued. “Really. Come sit down, Reid.”

Hearing her say his name sucked all the air out of his lungs. He closed the remaining distance between them, staring dumbly at her perched in the armchair. She gave him a small smile, warm despite the nervous energy in the air. “Hey, Reid.”

“Elle.” Spencer sunk into the chair across from her. “I—I thought I was seeing things. Earlier. At Barrett’s.”

She studied him quietly. “This hair is a good look for you.”

“Thanks,” Spencer blushed, smoothing down the hair at the nape of his neck. He quickly dropped his hand. “It was you then.”

“What was me?” Elle asked innocuously.

“You were at Steven Barrett’s house today. In the yard.” Spencer folded his hands to keep from wringing them. “You were wearing a red coat.”

Elle lifted one of the glasses to her lips, taking a sip of the clear liquor, ice cubes rattling. She swallowed and gestured to the other glass. “Have a drink.”

“I, um, I don’t drink anymore.” Elle raised an eyebrow. “A lot has happened since… the last time I saw you.” Spencer smoothed his hands down the tops of his thighs. “You were there today. Elle, did you—are you…” He wasn’t even sure what question to ask.

Elle ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. She was quiet for a long time. Spencer fidgeted in his seat, but stayed quiet, waiting. Elle set the glass down.

“Do you remember that night in Dayton? In the hotel room?” Spencer looked at her pointedly. Elle let out a laugh. “Sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to; of course you remember.” Their eyes met. Spencer felt she was looking right through him. “You told me that I’d won. That because Garner was dead, and I was alive, I won.”

“Elle—” Spencer started.

“You asked, Reid. This is my answer.” She screwed the cap off the bottle of gin. Pouring the remainder of the bottle into her glass, she continued, “It took time, but I started to feel safe in my own home again. I could close my eyes without seeing his face. I could take a shower without bringing my gun.” She downed the rest of her glass. “When I killed Lee, I gave that same freedom back to the women he’d raped. They could exist in the world knowing that he would never hurt them, ever again.” She smiled ruefully. “And it felt… good. It felt right. And after years of having watched people be destroyed by monsters… I don’t know. It was just something I had to do. To bring that freedom and that safety back to other women who had been hurt and broken and alone. To destroy their monsters.” Elle looked at him then, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t expect you to understand or approve. But the answer to your question is yes.”

Spencer took a breath and asked, “Why’d you put the key in my room? You could have just… disappeared.”

Elle shook her head. “I chose this. I knew what I was doing and what it would mean. Most of the time, I’m fine, great even. Because being able to give these women justice is the greatest gift. But with this work, you can’t really keep anybody close. No holidays or birthdays. No dates or girls nights.” She shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to see what would happen. What the boy genius would do.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Spencer admitted.

“Well, that’s a first.” Elle smiled, but Spencer could see apprehension in the rigidness of her shoulders, in the slight bouncing of her leg.

“I should probably arrest you,” he considered.

Her leg stopped. “You probably should.”

Spencer looked down at his hands. He ran his fingers up to the crook of his elbow, ghosting over the scars there. His mind raced from memory to memory: Elle on the train car; Tobias Hankle standing over him; Elle in the hospital bed; the needle in his arm; Elle in the hotel in Dayton; the click of an empty chamber.

“Elle, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for telling you that you’d won.” She was motionless, staring at him. He continued, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what it was like. To be consumed and overcome by a memory.” Now it was Spencer’s eyes that shone with tears. “I didn’t know that the trauma could… fester in your brain like an infection that you can’t get rid of. I don’t know if winning is even possible after something like that.” He rubbed his hand under his eye and cleared his throat. “It was an awful thing to say. And I’m sorry.”

Elle tipped her head back, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “All’s forgiven.”

Spencer reached out and gently grabbed Elle’s hand. “I’ve been so tired recently. I thought I saw something through the window at Steven Barrett’s house. But when I did a perimeter check, I didn’t find anything.” Elle dropped her head back down and turned to look at him. “We’re headed back to Quantico in the morning. We’ll, um, be keeping tabs on VICAP hits on the signature.” Spencer gave her hand one soft squeeze before standing. He let a small, bittersweet smile move over his face.

He made it to the door before he heard her voice again.

“If I asked you to stay, would you say yes?”

Spencer swiveled back to look at her, the door just barely open. Elle’s arms were crossed over her chest. Her eyes were dark and wide and full of storms. “Just for a little while longer?”

Spencer turned and moved his eyes up the length of the doorway, considering. He heard Elle let out a breath. His own breath stuttered. He closed the door softly. He put his hands in his pockets and turned back to her. “I’ve got a little while.”

[maddiefriendlovesbilly]

TW/CW: Ranting, use of caps/text yelling, mentions/discussions of depression, suicidal thoughts, low self-esteem, and cringe-culture, no language indicators (everything is /genuine), large chunks of text which may be hard for some to read (please lmk if anyone would like a bulleted or split up version /gen), complicated words and concepts (again, please lmk if anyone would like a version w simpler words or more explanations!! /gen!!!)

Topic: Writing, Cringe-Culture, and Freedom to Express Yourself

Not to get like, personal and serious on this silly YouTube roleplay side-blog but here’s some writing advice for you writers out there. Literally no one will notice if you put two “-ly” words in your story.

As long as you are using basic sentence variation in your story — aka complex sentence, compound sentence, simple sentence, compound sentence again, repeat in a pattern that seems to get your point across best (long sentences are best for describing situations or when a character is rambling, simple sentences are best for times that you want your words to punch the reader in the face with words alone or crush their little hearts while cackling maniacally) — nobody other than pompous gits will notice if you say “Oh, he thought, wishing desperately for something to do with his hands.” Because no one actually nitpicks stuff like that if they’re properly immersed in your story (obviously beta readers are different, they’ve been paid to look for your mistakes lol). (more below the Keep Reading. Warning!! Triggering topics/actions start right here! :] <3!!!)

And even if you DO fuck up and put a couple too many “ly” words or too many “he said/she saids?” WHO CARES. THAT IS THE POINT OF WRITING. TO IMPROVE. MAKE SHITTY SELF-INSERT FICS. WRITE FANFICTION TO PRACTICE. WRITE A REALLY BAD ORIGINAL STORY ABOUT OVERPOWERED OCS WHO YOU’VE HAD SINCE YOU WERE ELEVEN. EVERY TIME YOU WRITE YOU IMPROVE. IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING ENOUGH TO DEDICATE HOURS OF YOUR LIFE TO IT YOU DESERVE TO LOOK BACK ON IT AND SAY “I made this thing out of love. By making this I made someone happy, and that someone was me. I deserve to be proud of this, because I worked hard on it.”

NEVER regret your old shitty writing. NEVER regret your current writing. Yes, you can spend hours nitpicking every detail and every word like I used to. But you have years to figure out your writing style; years to gauge whether you like first or third or second person POV — or even something else entirely — best; years to experiment and and learn and love new and different things. You will improve, it is an inevitable, inescapable part of being human, being alive.

So please, please write whatever you want, whenever you want. Write cringe! Write badly! Write poorly planned out stories!! If it makes YOU happy, who fucking cares what some bozo using the anonymity of a faceless online profile to bash your earnest, hard work about something you care about says? Why do THEY have any right to your happiness? Your self-esteem? Do what makes you happy, even if it’s bad, or self-indulgent, or god-forbid “““cringey.””” You know what’s cringey? A grown ass adult human being who knows better making fun of someone working hard to improve a skill, or simply enjoying the freedom that writing gives. You have the gift to create. No one starts out writing like a pro. Don’t let others shame you out of expressing yourself in a healthy way that brings you joy.

This is one of the many reasons I have left several nearly untouched, original records of my fic A Small Slice of Ethereal P.I.E, which was written of the course of two years. I am PROUD of how lackluster and empty and basic the beginning of that fic is in comparison to the final chapter — I was fucking 15 years old, had undiagnosed depression and anxiety, and it was the first piece of writing I ever loved enough to finish even after two years, of course it was BAD. It was utter SHIT dude! I was coping with heavy amounts of trauma through a safe, comforting medium through a character I related to deeply. I’m alive because of that fic. It kept me going until I could get help. If writing does that for you; if you think “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow, but if I don’t, then I can’t write that fanfic/story/oneshot/daydream I’ve always wanted to/haven’t completed/dream of publishing one day” then cling to that. Use it. Whatever keeps you going til tomorrow.

Your passions, your interests, have value. I’m so sorry if anyone has made you feel that they don’t. I’m sorry if people have told you your writing isn’t good enough to keep making. Every piece you make is a gift to yourself. I guarantee there are people out there who will. Who do. Even if it’s only future you. Even if it’s only current you. Your joy, fleeting or not, is worth more than you could ever imagine.

Keep writing. For you. Not for anyone else, because you deserve to. You deserve to love something passionately. You deserve to write poorly. You deserve to love what you make anyways. This got a little out of hand, I didn't really mean to say all this, but I feel it's important to my point so whatever haha. seriously though, if anyone wants me to delve further into any of the topics discussed here, especially about sentence variation and where to use complex, compound, and simple sentences in a paragraph/scene/description or what POV to use for the type of story/scene you want to convey to your reader, I'd be literally over the moon lmao. I LOVE talking about the importance of cadence and impact, and how it basically overrides basic grammatical rules like "he said/she said" and "-ly words" and "remove every 'was' in your story." Alright, I'll stop pestering y'all now haha, both my ask box and my dms are open if you want to ask any questions about this!

[bangtanficrecs]

Lost & Found Batch #6

Been a while, but here’s a new batch of fics that us admins couldn’t find! If you happen to know the fic, reply to this post or send us an ask with the request number and title/author. Thank you! ~ Admin P

1)  hi! theres a fic i've been searching for recently. it's relatively new (i think) and it's taegi. tae is kinda feminine and wears jeans with flower patches (i think?) and is a stripper. yoongi is a mob boss/ganster and has a private session with tae. i think jimin or jungkook find out about yoongi requesting tae and warn him? thats as far as i got. thanks so much!!

2)  Hi! I was looking for a hybrid/shapeshifting au that I'm p sure hasnt been updated in a long time but I still wanna reread (and it's lost in my hundred subscriptions,,) Jimin is abused pretty fuckin awful by his past caretaker/the homeowner who's backyard he was borrowing. Namjin(?) finds him in an alleyway or smth covered in burns and injuries. They take him to a hospital but he's took weak to shift to hybrid form n stuck as a dog n unable to communicate. Thats all I remember 😩

Burn by Jimout

3)  can you help me find this yoonmin fic where jimin had a crush on jungkook but jungkook started dating taehyung and jimin was getting rly jealous? and yoongi was his tutor i think? there was this scene where yoongi was sleeping next to jimin or smthing and mumbled his name and jimin said smthing like "hyung you can't" i wanna find it so bad!!

Of Heartbreaks and Not-Too-Hidden Solutions by yoonmint

4)  hey! i was wondering if you knew this super power au fic where jungkook and taehyung are the pairing ? i think they're forced to have sex but smth happens to taehyung's powers? - hello !!!! it's the super powers anon ?? i don't think taekook had sex ??? but i remember taehyung created this large barrier with his power and only jungkook pushed through ?

Naughty Readings For Naughty Readers by Supermans_crib, chapter 12

5)  does anyone know the fic where i think it's yoongi and jimin who are art students and they run into each other when yoongi goes to get paint and like they're like wow cutie mchottie and then they get stuck in an elevator and have sex, I don't remember where it's from, sorry ;-;

Blame It On the Elevator by dom_joonie

6)  Hellooo. I was wondering if you could help me find a doc bc I'm slowly going insane over here in my dear search for it lmao. I don't remember the title but it's Yoonmin & the plot is that Jimin has a ~thing~ for Yoongi's voice, Yoongi finds out and teases him with it and I don't remember what else unfortunately :( help would be appreciated but if not it's cool!! thank you so much xx

Love at First Sigh by Elemir

7)  Hey! If you don't mind helping me I'm looking for this jikook fic, it's like an ot7 relationship but jin won't let jungkook join in with the 'adult' stuff until he's actually an adult. So on his 18th birthday he jumps jimin and adult things happen X''D Thank you so much!!!

Jungkook wants to Play too by staycute1234

8)  Hey I was wondering if u know a smut with jungkook where the reader is a chubby cheerleader and jungkook likes her and asks her to meet him outside after a basketball game he played and they get it on etc ❗️❓❗️❓❗️ - NOTE: Please do not send us anymore asks regarding reader fics. It’s in the FAQ, we don’t read them, we’re not much help, @bangtanreaderficrec are much better equipped to help you

9)  Do you know the fic where everyone made fun of Jk and then Namjoon told them to stop and later Jk made Namjoon suck his dick??

10)  Hey i know this sounds weird but im trying to find this fanfiction where jungkook forces Yoongi to have sex and yoongi gets recenge by tying jungkook to a pipe or sonething and doing it back. I love your blog so much thanks!

I Want To Have You by jenistark

11)  hi! I've been searching for a Yoonmin fic since forever and I just can't recall the name! basically it's a story about how yoongi wears a skirt and it's not because he's trans or he cross dresses or anything, im p sure it was something that just made him comfortable?? and it was just a story of his and jimins relationship development. if it rings a bell pls lmk, thanks!!

I don't know by PiscesYoongi

12) Uhm hey! i was looking for a jikook fic that i think its not completed, it has like an older jungkook thats a boxer. and i vaguely remember jimin being a masseuse?? i can't find it anywhere, n i swore i bookmarked it. thank you!

Just For Training [Re-Upload] by bangtanscreams

13)  Do you know the yoonmin fic where Jimin is an alpha and Yoongi is a beta and is going through a heat that happens every 6 or so months?? I can't find it anymore :/

We are Ours by signifying_nothing

14)  hiii do you by any chance know a yoonmin fic where yoonmin fall ij love but yoongi does drugs and starts to drift away so jimin commits suicide in thebathtub and yoongi comes back one day vowing to make it up to jm only to find that he's dead?,? thank youuu

15)  hi loves! do any of you lovely admins know the fic on ao3 where jungkook stops time and each time he does sexy stuff ;) with a member? he doesn't like stop time himself, it just happens, everything freezes and he does stuff, it would really help me out if you found it! if you can't, i appreciate you trying, good luck 💖

Somewhere Close to Reality by Trilluvium

16)  hi there is this one fic can't remember much but it was taekook and tae was scared of relationship and really didn't want one and kook was in love with tae and i think tae rejected him and he avoided kook??i don't remember anything else but please help 😔

City of Trees by GinForInk

17)  Can you guys help me find a fic where Namjin are adults and adopt the rest of them, but they all come from abusive families?? I remember it took place in New York and the title was in Korean

그 손을 내밀어줘 by sugavevo

18)  there was this one fic where yoongi was a church boy? or a pastor? and hobi was a demon and they fucked and hobi asks if he wants a dick in his mouth too and I think jimin appears with his dick out or something? can you help me find it?

father forgive me (for i have sinned) by sungmin (jeonggukkie)