#the killers gave life more worth
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THE FREAKING CHILLS!
We often underestimate Ranpo's feelings for the Agency members, but he cares about all of them, as much they care about him. The ADA is a big weird family.
(I'd like to point out that Dazai's also here, meaning that Ranpo cares about him too and he sees him as one of them. "ADA never includes Dazai as one of them" JUST.SHUT.IT.)
#ranpo my baby#we don't talk enough about ranpo#ranpo IS the ADA#no ranpo no ADA#ranpo deserves more recognition#ranpo deserves love#i love the ADA#they're all a bunch of wrecked people who decided to be better for the world#they want others to have a better life than most of them had#most of the ada member had pretty fucked up backstories but they still turned out to be better#and that's fucking inspiring#the killers gave life more worth#the insicure ones are fighting to deserve better#the troubled ones are using their gifts to help people#and then there's kunikida who was a math teacher#i'm only talking about his life before the ada#armed detective agency#bsd#bsd s4#bungo stray dogs#bsd manga#ranpo edogawa
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The Beauty of Vulnerability - Choi Su Bong (Thanos) x Fem!Reader (NSFW)
Follow up Piece to: Not Who I Want to Be
Synopsis: Thanos is ready to show who he really is
Warnings: Alcohol and drug misuse/addiction, p in v, oral, 18+ only!
Your phone buzzed once, twice, three times before you finally picked it up. Thanos had sent you a selfie of him posing on his balcony, the Seoul skyline in the background. He had his usual goofy expression on his face, his tattoos visible on his shirtless body. He’d followed the selfie up with several emojis and a plea to join him on his balcony. You couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help but zoom in on his abs visible in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. It had been six weeks since your meeting in the nightclub, and as much as you’d tried to resist, he’d charmed his way into your life.
Thanos was unlike anyone you’d ever met. He was so vibrant, so full of life and yet so broken. His eyes were filled with such sadness, a sadness that never quite went away no matter how hard he laughed, or how many jokes he told. He was the classic class clown, always striving to make you laugh. You hadn’t believed him when he told you he was a famous rapper, not until you’d Googled him the next day. Your friends didn’t believe you’d met him either, not until you showed them the message you’d sent him. you’d listened to his music, and although it wasn’t entirely to your taste, there was no denying the man had talent.
You’d met a few times since then, mostly at Thanos’ apartment. You’d once made the mistake of heading to a restaurant for dinner and spent the entire time fighting off screaming girls armed with iPhones and killer glares in your direction. You hadn’t quite got a feel of who this man was, didn’t quite understand what made him tick. He was a wildcard, but there was an underlying sweetness about him.
While you were reserved with your feelings, Thanos was head over heels for you. You gave him a reason to wake up in the morning, gave him purpose on days that without you would have been filled with drugs and booze. He hadn’t quite managed to quit the narcotics, but a lifetime habit was hard to break. But you’d inspired him to write music again, had given him an entirely new lease on life. The day after he’d met you, he spent all day messaging you on Instagram. The next day, he removed the parasites from his apartment, the ones who only came round when they wanted to party, take drugs or cling to his coattails. He deep cleaned his apartment, tipping bottles of booze and pills down the toilet. He sat at his piano for the first time in years, penning a song that was so different to anything he’d written before. The music seemed to flow through him, the words coming so naturally. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written something sober, the melody overwhelming him until he was reduced to tears. He’d spent so long pretending to be someone else, it was nice to have a piece of the real him shine through.
He understood you wanted to take things slow, and he’d be a fool to rush into this headfirst. That had always been his mistake. Thanos usually acted first and thought later, but he didn’t want to fuck up whatever this was that he had with you. There were a few times when he slipped back into his old habits, taking a pill when the world got a little too much, drinking himself to sleep when his racing thoughts wouldn’t let him rest. He hadn’t told you about his addictions, but you knew.
You saw it in his eyes, saw the ways his hands shook when he was starting to withdraw. You’d seen friends addicted in the past, and it hadn’t ended well. That’s why you were taking things slow; you were waiting for the moment Thanos would inevitably break your heart. Your head screamed at you to leave, but your heart told you this man was worth fighting for.
You joined him later that evening on his balcony, just as the sky turned candy floss pink as the sun began to set. He handed you a glass of champagne worth more than your monthly salary, kissing you softly on your cheek. His days were long and lonely without you, counting down the hours until he saw you again. You were the anchor that kept him grounded to the world, the woman who stopped him from floating away into the clouds. His fingernails were painted black today, the colour matching the thickly tattooed line that snaked from his middle finger to his neck. you liked to trace that line, smiling as he shivered against you. you hadn’t slept together yet, but every day you found it harder to find a reason not to. His lips skimmed your cheek again, making their way down to your lips. Thanos loved kissing you, loved the way your lips felt against his. You were impossibly soft, your tongue meeting his as you wrapped your arms around his neck, the glass of expensive champagne long forgotten.
“I wrote a song for you,” he whispered, playing with them hem of your skirt. “Can I play it for you?” You nodded, tilting your head back as his lips continued to kiss you, trailing across your jawline and down your neck. He was so crazy about you, so head over heels he felt like he might go insane. You made his entire body tingle, from his scalp to his toes, and he found himself constantly getting lost in your eyes.
Pulling you from the comfort of his outdoor sofa, he led you to his music room, offering you a seat on his plush leather stool. He sat at his piano, nerves wracking his body as he took a deep breath. Usually, he’d pop a pill to calm his nerves, or down a few shots of tequila. But not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to sit with those nerves, to show his vulnerability to you in a way he’d never shown anyone. As he began to play, his voice singing in perfect harmony with the notes, you watched in silence. Every inch of you was covered in goosebumps, the tune on the piano so beautifully encompassing his feelings towards you. Never had a man treated you the way Thanos had; he made you feel like a Goddess.
When the song was over, Thanos stayed at the piano, his bottom lip trembling. You watched him for a few moments, your heart aching as a lifetime of emotions bubbled to the surface. He was so tired of being someone he wasn’t, of surrounding himself with people who didn’t give a shit about him. Until 6 weeks ago, he had no one to call when he was lonely, no one to hug him when he was feeling sad. He’d had no one to turn to when the world got dark, but you were here now. Sitting across from him, your eyes brimming with tears, he didn’t know how to convey his feelings towards you other than through song.
Nothing about him was real; nothing was authentically him. His name wasn’t even real; he’d modelled it on a fucking purple CGI villain. A single tear fell from his eye, landing on the ivory keys with a splatter. A deep, wracking sob escaped him and his closed his eyes as he felt the darkness closing in. He longed for a release, longed to feel the numbness that came with the pills he popped like candy.
Your arms encircled him, pulling his shaking body into yours. You stood there for a while, stroking his shock of purple hair while he sobbed into your chest. He’d never cried in front of a woman before, had never shown any emotion other than unabashed confidence. “My name isn’t even Thanos,” he choked after a while. “I know,” you smiled, “I doubted your parents named you after a Marvel villain.” You wiped his tears away with the pad of your thumb, placing a soft kiss on each of his eyelids. He looked so fragile, so broken as his head slumped against your breasts, his body still shaking with the occasional sob. “What is your name?” He looked up at you. He hadn’t said he real name for years; Thanos had become his brand, the crutch he used almost as much as the drugs and alcohol. “Choi Su-Bong,” he whispered. “My name is Choi Su-Bong.”
You kissed him, pulling him down onto the soft carpet of his music room floor. “Choi Su-Bong,” you smiled, “My Choi Su-Bong.” He made love to you right there on the floor, the sounds of your moans melting into the sound-proof walls. Su-Bong had never felt like this with anyone before. He was usually completely numb when he fucked someone, if he remembered fucking them at all. But with you, he was sober, perhaps for the first time in his life. He felt every touch, every thrust so deeply. He let you take charge, straddling him as you lowered yourself onto him. Your fingers traced his abs, the sensation overwhelming him as your nails dragged gently across his skin, tracing the tattoos that littered his torso and chest. He’d never known something could feel this good, had never realised that your entire body could feel like it was on fire in the best way possible. He was desperate to touch every inch of you, to feel every part of your exposed skin. He guided your chest towards his mouth, his lips locking around your sensitive nipple as he took it gently between his teeth. Your moans were heavenly, more beautiful than any song he’d ever heard. He came with an earth-shattering groan, his fingers gripping the skin on your thighs as he finished inside of you. He carried you to his room after, laying you down on his silk sheets before drawing out your pleasure again and again. Your body shook for him, your breathy moans spurring him on. You tasted like heaven, your slickness coating his mouth and tongue as he devoured you again and again.
You weren’t sure when you fell asleep, waking up as the sun broke over the horizon. Thanos was gone, but Choi Su-Bong had replaced him. His arms cradled you as you watched the sun rise, his lips peppering kisses along your shoulder and neck. Finally rousing from bed, he padded through to the kitchen. He was no chef, but last night had worked up quite the appetite. He ordered breakfast from a local café, spreading out the food across his expansive kitchen. He wasn’t sure what your favourite was, so he ordered one of everything. You sat and ate together, smiling at each other over your coffee mugs.
There would be hard days ahead, but Choi Su-Bong was determined to start fresh. New music, new friends, a new perspective. He’d never had anything in life that made him want to be a better person. But now he had you, and you were worth fighting for.
#squid game#squid game 2#squid game x reader#thanos x reader#thanos squid game#squid game thanos#squid game smut#squid game fanfic#choi su bong x reader#choi su bong#squid game x you
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Hello, I really liked the way you write about Jinx, can you please write about how femme! the reader and Isha fall into a trap and as a result, while protecting Isha, the reader is injured and Jinx goes into her killer mode (you don’t have to write if you don’t want to) you can just write aftercare if you want



A helping hand
A/N: and here it's finally done! I could have made this oneshot quicker and shorter but then I got chaught up in writing it... and I woke up eight days later with this in my drafts😂. I don't ususally like how I handle stories, but I think that this one turned out pretty good. As mentioned in another post, it's very heavily plot driven and it's a wopping eleven pages worth of writing. My grammar, as always, might not be the top gamma. I hope you guys will enjoy it! Also this was mixed with something someone suggested on ao3!
Contains: female reader, violence, murder, mentions of saliva and vomiting, hurt and comfort, very heavily plot driven, happy ending with a happy family. Lenght: 6k/ 11 pages.
The limited air inside the vent makes you choke on your breath, chemicals and smoke filling your lungs and hollowing your brain. A loud sound echoes inside the metal hull, alerting every one of your senses. "Isha! Be careful!" you whisper-yell at the kid, who's crouching in front of you, placing her hat back on.
She just huffs in response, rolling her eyes before continuing her tour inside Zaun's vents. Isha has not been too fond of you since you entered her life; one reason could be that she thought she had to compete with you for Jinx's attention. The other reason, maybe, is that you were from topside. Piltover, The City of Progress. The city who exploited and hurt the poor citizens of the Undercity. Avid hands commanding from atop marble skyscrapers, grinning smiles sucking away the air of the lanes.
It's no wonder you're not Isha's favorite; Sevika too seemed to have a disdain for you, either because of your privileged position or for the way Jinx was distracted and dreamy when you were near.
To ingratiate yourself into Isha's favours and to make it at least somewhat pleasant for both of you to be near each other, you agreed to follow her in a walk through the lanes.
Jinx had invited you into her own private lair, after much convincing on her part. One day, she just swept you up and brought you down with her, making you walk through fissures, alleys and neon lit streets.
"You should have a tour of The Lanes, y'know, to learn how life's like down here" a flicker of a spark reflecting in her goggles as she made some of her obscure machine-thingies. "So give me one" you said, prompting Jinx to hum in thought. "I am busy today, and Sev' is too. Besides, I don't think you'll enjoy each other's company" she glanced at Isha, who was drawing Stinkmaw on her notebook. "You'll just have to settle for Isha" the kid propped her head up at the mention of her name, already looking with stars in her eyes at Jinx, not aware of your previous conversation. "What do you say Isha? Want to have fun with your new friend? Give her a tour of the Undercity?", Isha sized you from head to toe with a snarl on her lips, eyes moving between you and Jinx while her face became more and more agitated. "Come on, she's not that boring" Jinx moved back to her work, sparks flying and lit up her face, "I should know". Your face grew hot with her words, remembering what happened between you two just weeks prior. Isha gave a disgusted 'ew', before Jinx turned her head to watch the kid, a shadow of anger in her eyes. "No excuses! Come on, just go around a bit, become friends!".
"Jinx I, I don't think this is a wise idea. I mean, Isha is just a kid: what if something happens? I-" Jinx interrupted you, her voice almost lost between the screeching sounds of metal scraps flickering sparks between each other. "You'll both be fine. Isha is a smart kid, she'll get out of any situation. As for you..." she turned to you, a teasing glint in her eyes, "...will you be able to keep up with her?".
'No, not at all' you answer to her mental image, struggling to keep your pace behind Isha. The kid is fast inside these tunnels, and your body is not accustomed to their narrow spaces and to the flow of smoke and waste. The metal feels light and shaky under your weight, giving you the impression that at the slightest of pressure, you will sink beneath and break your ribs into the concrete of just another of Zaun's alleys. You steady on, carefully applying your weight where each border of the metal tubes meet, following the shadow of Isha.
After what feels like ages, you finally spot the end of a tunnel, light shining on the dirty buildings giving it a green hue. Isha crawls towards it, leaving you behind in the dusty tunnels, prompting you to follow her quickly. The kid has already jumped in the street below, adjusting her hat on, turning her back to you while she begins to walk away. You take in a deep breath, calculating the height of your jump, before falling messily on the concrete.
"Ack, shit" Isha gives you a dirty look, "What?". She just rolls her eyes, before continuing on, not waiting for you. The Undercity is just what you expected: crowds of people fill it's street, smoking and squaring you up; sellers shout to lure in buyers, presenting their merch of metal husks, hundreds of different flavours of tobacco and pieces of meat that you'd rather not know from what they came from. At the far corners, gang groups threaten and push against each other, their blades glinting with a malicious look. The streets are lit by bright neon signs, filled with all possible smells and gasses, overcrowded to the point that you're short of breath. Distantly, you can hear the sound of machinery evermoving, of water and air and of shipments departing from shore. The city itself beats and pumps, like a living heart.
Everything is suffocating; too loud, too much. And what's worse is, everyone knows that you don't belong. Their eyes are envious, angry, a dangerous hate barely hidden beneath their scleras. Hell, Isha, the kid who is known to have a kind heart, can barely hide it. For a moment, too caught up in your mind and it's worries, you miss Isha turning around, entering a dark hallway. You follow her blue locks until you're far from people, now only surrounded by high walls and some couples making out in a corner. On one wall there are signs of damage: claws and dents and what looks to be a... strange green goop staining the bricks, along with scraps of metal of an exoskeleton.
You find Isha sitting at the corner where the street opens, back against the wall. You are not too sure what she is doing: after all, she has proved to be rather uninterested in you. What you don't realize, not at first anyway, is that she had run through the crowd into the alley to lure you away from that noisy hell so you'd have time to get used to it. Sliding down next to her, your clothes drag down the dirt and dust of years behind them. Silence feels heavy above your head, the distant sounds of the crowd the only thing keeping you at least a bit sane.
Isha has found a pastime in rolling the hem of her hat on the ground, trying to make a perfect spin with it. The sounds of metal against concrete screech inside the hallway, attracting more than just one pair of eyes. You can feel Isha's reluctance to begin so close to you, probably thinking to herself that it was a mistake waiting for you. When the silence feels too heavy, then you finally speak. "Isha...listen" the hat spinning stops abruptly, it's hem catched between Isha's thumb and index finger. "I know you don't like me" she's surprised that you decided to face the problem right away; it's not something your people are known for. "You've made it all too clear these past days. I know you are wary of me; I know the Undercity is wary of us". The kid's eyes are now on you, studying, squaring you up, detecting any lies that you may hide under your sweet words.
"But... I am not my city. I know what you have been through and I am..." you falter for a moment, thinking that you're starting to sound a little too guilty and invested in this, and that she may recognize this as insincere. "What I meant to say is... I would like to be your friend, if you want to".
Isha doesn't answer you right away, but you see a small smile spread on her lips. You breathe a sigh of relief at successfully bringing down her walls.
She jumps back up, extending her hand to yours, palm open and a curious smile on her face. You take it, careful to not push your weight down on her before you too stand up.
"Come on, let's go home. This is good enough of a tour for me today", you take Isha's hand, ready to walk back to Jinx's, before something clutters inside the hallways, spreading its dull, hollow metal sound everywhere. The sound gets closer and closer, the item of its origin stopping its course at your feet. It's a cylinder shaped, stubby looking object; drawn on its surface are what you recognize to be Jinx's drawings, imitating a grinning gaping mouth of some evil creature. The red light you are so familiar with, the one which with Jinx blows her enemies to bits, is off.
"Well, look what we have here. The runt of that crazed bitch and Piltover's finest trash". From under the fuming tubes, a tall, scruffy looking man shows up. His hair is in a buzz cut style, thin muscles tightly attached to his bones, making him look starved and unkept. Black tattooed run over his forehead and cheeks, giving his sulken eyes even more of a crazed look. His goons all show up after him, exiting from their hidden spots. "What do you want?" you try to sound though, but the wavering of your voice only gives away your fears. Isha hides behind you, clutching tightly at the fabric of your pants.
"Oh we don't want anything from you. But you see..." he reaches to fish something out of his pants. You see it before he shows it: the hem of a knife. He slides the blade out of its sheath, glimmering dangerously in the dark. "...that darling bitch of yours took something from us. Well, to be honest, someone. Someone very dear to our group" you look in between you and Isha, then at the distance between you and the goons, trying to think of an escape.
"What do you mean? How do you know Jin-" he laughs creepily, a little too high for your tastes, echoing between the walls. "How do I know Jinx? Everyone knows Jinx!" he gesticulates with the knife still in his hand, dangerously close to hitting himself in the eye with it. He inspects the blade with something dark inside his thoughts, dulling the colour out of his eyes. With a creepy and disturbing smile on his lips, he runs his finger along the line, blood trickling down its shape. He seems to take a sick kind of pleasure from seeing red staining the metal. "I gotta give it to her though, she really aimed high: fucking someone from Piltover is something none of us would dirty ourselves trying to".
A vein under your skin pumps blood into your brain faster, giving you the prospect of an annoying headache, "Watch that tone-". "Never thought that that small, smart runt would become what she is today. Powder really outdid herself", you don't miss the cruel smirk which paints his lips, enjoying infecting your relationship with Jinx. "Powder?" the name doesn't ring a bell, and you're left with the man's ominous eyes peering into your heart, telling you that 'you don't know anything'.
"Oh look, trust runs so deep between you two that you don't even know her real name! Did you really think a parent could ever name their child 'Jinx'?" the rest of his group laughs and mocks you like their leader is, like a hoard of sheep follows their shepard. "I don't need to know her name. If there is a reason why Po- Jinx is keeping her real name a secret from me, I am not gonna pry it open from her" you can feel your heart pump blood faster into your veins, that small headache becoming stronger and stronger as anger takes hold of your actions. "Mhm? Just like she kept her family's deaths a secret?" those words feel heavy when he speaks them, clearly holding some truth behind them. You try to remain calm but anger and fear are affecting your judgment. "W-What? What the fuck are you talking about?" their ugly laughs fill your ears, only aiding in alimenting the fire at your heart. "After our little...fight, he changed. He started to hang out with the wrong people, doing the wrong things..." slowly, ever so slowly, all of them start to circle around you. One, two, four, six of them, sporting grinning smiles, stalking you like hyenas.
"But he would have been the same has always, even if he had become dumber than he was. He would have been alive too, at this moment, if Vander hadn't intervened". None of what this man is saying makes sense to you. He's talking to you, but his words are meant for others: for his friends, for Isha, for Jinx. You, once again, are reminded that you're not welcome here. In their eyes, hate and hunger swirl, creating a whirlwind that sucks away at your courage, "Just...what do you want from me?!".
"Jinx and that sister of hers took our friend from us. Our boss. Now-" with mastered precision, he makes the blade jump from his hands, now it's tip pointing towards the ground. Something that you can only describe as burning hatred and killing intent paints his features, before he screams a rallying cry, "It's our turn taking everything from her!".
That is enough for the whole lot of them to pounce. One moment, and they are all on you; punching, kicking, twisting your hair in their grasp, snarling and mocking. In the confusion you lose Isha, not being able to distinguish her blue locks in between all that green and grey. For a split second, after they consume their gloves on you, no one is holding you down. You take the occasion to slip away from their grasps, falling backwards into the opening street. You take a second to choose what to do, and as you run towards the crowd once again, following where you assume Isha went, a feeling of anger rises in your stomach. The sound of the busy street echoes, a distant reminder that you have a life to return to, but something tugs at your heart to look at them in the eyes. Blood pumps fast in your veins, alerting every muscle, every bone, every fiber that danger is near, you need to go, but your heart, brain, the pride you take in begin still alive overtakes your judgment. You stop to look at them, the prospect of a challenge in your eyes, of saying 'Look at me!' and incite them to follow 'I am still alive!'.
They look like ravenous beasts, hunched backs and gleaming eyes, angry snarls on their faces, hate coursing through their veins. The leader of the group, the scruffy looking one, fishes something from his back and places it on the bottom of his face: it's a mask, made with grey metal and sprayed with fake golden accents to give it a more classy look. On the side there's a circular opening with a single point in the centre. He takes a syringe and inserts it in the hole, pushing the top down and filling the hollow cavities of the mask with purple gasses. He takes in a deep breath, eyes rolling backwards, before his body goes through a strange change, twitching and moving like he had been shocked. When he looks back at you his eyes are a deep, neon pink, the same shade of colour that paints Jinx's eyes. He moves towards you, pushing and snarling at his friends like a dog with rabies, breaking their bones on the walls, before, with all the air in his lungs, screams, "I'm going to enjoy skinning that piltie's clean skin away from your body!".
You don't make it far before, with an uncanny precision, he throws his blade towards you like a spear, metal sinking inside of your left side, dangerously close to your kidney. A gasp leaves your body before you fall on the floor, blood oozing from the wound. Hundred of needles pierce at your flesh, blood paints the concrete and your mind fuses with the flesh of your brain. Then it all stops; you're back in the alley, cold spreading from the wound throughout your body, followed by a unbearable heat. The blade is snatched from your side, an ear shattering scream erupting from your throat. He is on top of you, already inching the knife to the base of your neck, planning to stab you there, wanting to see the life leaving your body in the most gruesome way possible. "I can't wait to see the look on your girlfriend when I am going to bring her the eyes of her most loved!".
"Bye bye, piltie" you brace yourself for your end; you can almost already feel the knife lodged in your throat, but nothing happens. You hear the sound of a metal hulk resonating in the hallway, before he is knocked down by something thrown with force against his face. You recognize it to be the exoskeleton of the arm you saw before, lying around. The rod which was the building foundation for its making has been thrown on the man's ugly bat-like nose, making him bleed red.
Isha stands behind you, still in launching position, before she runs over to you and tries to help you up. When you do, white behind your eyelids blinds you, pain making your head spin. He gets up again, an animalistic wild look in his eyes. He moves again, muscles hardened with purple veins running along them, drool falling down the space between the mask and his skin. Before he can assault you again, Isha throws something at him: the bomb he himself kicked before, the one Jinx had made, moves through the air, soon to be the second object to hit his ugly face today. He recognizes the object and pales when he sees a red light zipping faster and faster, its grinning mouth inching closer to him.
A colorful light shines on the walls, paint of blue and pink shades falling down like rain; sparks of fire following the natural course of an explosion, fading out of existence a moment later. You run with Isha, hand in hand, away from this horrid place. This time, you don't look back.
A trickle of sweat falls down Jinx's temple while her eyes are focused on connecting two tubes of plastic together. Electricity flows through them, sending sparks flying dangerously close to her skin, before they are connected by the metal snaps on each of their ends. Jinx smiles as her creation takes its first movements, loudly clapping two copper coloured, round, small discs together, before stopping once again. Her fingers twist the key positioned on its back and the mechanic monkey comes to life once again. When her work is finally done, she puts it next to the other one she made hours prior.
The one meant for Isha is coloured with golden accents and decorated with graffitis all over. When turned on, it quickly smashes the plates against each other and plays an off-tune punk song if the button on its right leg is pushed; its eyes are golden, mimicking Isha's own. The one meant for you is far softer than the first: soft shades of pastel mix together with Jinx's characteristic pink, swirling your colours together. Instead of plates, it has a small, roughly knitted red heart in its hands. The left eye shines bright pink, while the other mirror's yours. There are no graffiti on it, except for a small heart on its chest, one near 'your' eye and a 'Jinx' on its left side.
She can't wait to see the look on your eyes when you will see it. She could never quite well express affection like other people do, so giving you gifts was what she did best. Just as she dreams of your face, she hears quick, loud steps coming closer and closer to her. "If you are Caitlyin, I appreciate your obsession with me, but I am in the middle of-" she recognizes Isha's laboured breaths and your pained groans before she can finish the phrase. And when she turns around, her face pales and her blood freezes. Isha has a panicked look to her face, one that she had never seen before; and you? Sweat falls with heavy tears down your face, the shade of your skin so much paler than it usually is, making you look almost dead. Your hand is tightly clutched on your side, where your hand is stained with...blood?
In a fraction of a second, Jinx is on you, hands checking at every curve of your body, focusing on places you might be hurt, while she asks question upon question, filling the air with a sense of urgency. You can only describe the look in her eyes as pure dread. If you didn't groan with pain every few seconds, you'd think Jinx was the one to have gotten hurt. The next few minutes are a whirlpool of movements and colours, making you spill your lunch on the floor. Soft fabric meets your back, suddenly naked with only your bra to cover your chest. Blood oozes faster out of you and you can feel your conscience leaving. Nothing else besides the red on your skin and the blurred shades of blue and brown exists for you.
"...ont worry, I al... got m... sis...er out of ...ble". When after wetting your wound with water, Jinx presses gauze on your body, you are suddenly brought back to life, violently. It feels like someone is crushing with all their might on you, despite Jinx applying the right pressure to the wound. If someone were to walk in right now hearing your screams, they'd think you were begin murdered. After what finally feels like an eternity, you are lying again on her bed, almost lifelessly. You don't have time to answer Jinx's questions, before you fall into a deep slumber.
Half an hour passes by, and the world seems sealed in a bubble of silence. Nothing moves. nothing makes noise, nothing happens. The only thing that does make noise are the voices in Jinx's head, screaming loudly at her for having let you go alone. 'You should have been there', 'See what happens when you let people into your life?', 'She is hurt. She might die. It's your fault'.
Their loud screams are enough to make one go crazy, but despite how confused she is, Jinx finds a will in herself to speak, to silence them. With her hand, she nudges Isha, getting her attention, and mouths "What happened?".
Isha doesn't answer. Her eyes burn holes into the metal of the helix, bottom lip tightly sealed under her teeth, before something in her breaks. She rushes in Jinx's arms, hiding herself into her chest, crying until the tears are gone and her throat is raw. They stay together, tangled into one another, for a while, until their bodies are cold. "Isha, what happened?" Jinx repeats.
Isha gets up, running over Jinx's desk and returns with two different coloured pencils. On the ground she draws a scene: you and her, hand in hand, with frowning faces; behind you six grinning figures, one taller than the rest. Green splattered on the ground and high walls. Jinx recognizes this place immediatley; she's been there just a couple of weeks prior.
Walking to her desk, she grabs her trusted gun and more than a dozen of bullets. A deep, hateful scowl paints her features, eyes shining brighter than usual.
Tonight, the undercity shines and roars with fervor. Its lights shine bright and the shouts of its inhabitants brings it to life, beating strong, like the heart of a dragon. The city seems to sway in tandem with Jinx's white cape, almost bending to her will but also shielding her, hiding her in its crowds. This is home. This is all Jinx has ever known and ever will. She knows it's streets like the palm of her hand: where to leave her mark, the highest places she can reach from which she can put a bullet in between her enemies eyes, which vents and tunnels will take her back home.
She knows exactly where you had been hurt, and if her predictions are correct, they're waiting for her there. And she's gonna give them what they want. The allway is far too serene to be one of the city's main ways out to the perimeter where steel factories and shipments are. It's uncharacteristically quiet, and by Zaun's rules, that means danger.
Jinx steps on the green gooey substance, observing the dripping of your blood leading to the city's main street, and anger boils inside her at that view. The square is empty, except for a series of tubes and a pitfall to its left. Just as she thought, she begins to hear steps coming into her direction. They had been expecting her.
"If you weren't trying, and failing, to ambush me, I'd say you have a crush" the man behind her simply scoffs, his breath coming out ragged and metallic from under his mask.
Jinx turns around to see a tall man, breathing through what she recognizes to be a mask that henchmens of shady organizations wore to enhance their physical abilities. After a moment, she recognizes blood staining the man's pale skin, half of his left hand blown off, rudimental replaced with a metal prosthesis at the last minute. She can ignore that just fine, but the exposed muscle of his left cheek makes her want to puke. "Wow, and you're even more grotesque than I thought" a cruel anger swirls inside her eyes, her lips curling up in a snarl. "What? Were you so anxious to try to kill me that you couldn't even let your wounds heal?" he laughs at her words, men closing in on her much like they did hours prior to you.
"We were waiting for you, Powder" the mention of that name pangs at her heart. Subtly, she touches the top of her gun, ready to draw it at the first sign of danger. "I figured. How do you know my name?" "A man can know much...if he is in the right place, at the right time" he falls silent when Jinx laughs at his words, anger making a vein in his head pop. "Damn. I thought you were pathetic already, but this whole 'supervillain' talk only makes you seem more of an ass than you already are" much like Jinx, he grabs the death of his knife. At the sign, his men form a half circle around the blue haired criminal, directly closing the only way out. "You won't talk all that shit after I sink my blade in your throat" she can't help but feel compassion for these poor bastards. Faintly, she can already feel their blood falling on her skin while putting bullets between their eyes. "I would like to see you try" she changes her body stance, right side facing them while she takes out her gun with her left hand, making a show of placing the bullets in. Unlike what she thought, they do not follow her; instead, the leader seems relaxed as ever. His dark eyes reflect hers and for a second Jinx can see a dangerous, maniacal glint in them and a cruel grin on his lips.
"Oh I did try, and succeeded, with your little piltie bitch-girlfriend" her breathing stops, heart missing a beat, and time seems to stop for a moment, before it all starts to spin again, faster and faster as she gets angrier and angrier. "You should have heard her screams. The sweetest I've ever heard" she imagines you, clutching at your side, tears in your eyes and spit falling off your mouth; begging for him to leave you alone, to let you go. His features are lost under a black veil and painted over with a red open mouthed smile and tight eyes, not unlike the monsters that she has to fight with every night, as he raises the crimson blade and-.
"Don't you fucking dare" her throath feels raw when she speaks, almost as if she's spewing pure black hatred with each word. "Or what? What are you going to do?" 'He thinks he's the shit, huh?', she thinks, loading the storage to the brim and finally raising the barrel of her gun to aim on his forehead. "I am going to enjoy blowing your brains out"
'No one hurts the people I love'.
The next few seconds are a blur of colours and movement. Her body moves before her mind can understand what is going on. She ducks under something coming at her, kicking at the figure and sending them flying a few feet away from her. Someone pulls at her braids and she yelps, momentarily confused; in a fraction of a second, she blows their hand off, crouching and punching in the face a second figure. The blood on the ground, spilling from the screaming man gives everything a shape again and she's back to the alley. Three men are down, two unconscious and one debilitated. The remaining ones look at her up and down, before the leader nudges them, kicking their shins.
One of them takes a metal rod from his side and swings wildly at Jinx, paying no attention to where he hits. She dodges him with no effort and when he stops momentarily to rest his arm, she knocks his weapon from his hands and hits him in the neck with it, white replacing the colour of his eyes. The other, after seeing the bodies of who used to be his companions, runs away, leaving his leader behind; but before he can make it far, a bullet runs fast through his chest and he falls to the floor, lifeless.
He is the last one standing. "Heh, you call yourself a leader, but you couldn't even save your men". His teeth grind harshly against each other, sending jolts of pain through his mouth, "Shut the fuck up".
But Jinx doesn't. No, she's going to enjoy torturing the life out of this fucker like he did to you. "You didn't even lift a finger. I didn't know Zaun could have such a coward walking through its streets".
He finally snaps, spit flowing out of his mouth as he screams, staining the mask inside "I said shut up!". He breathes in the chemical Jinx is so familiar with, huffing purple clouds out of the mask with a metallic sound. Once again, he feels the rush of the substance in his lungs, blood circling small purple bubbles throughout the body, strengthening his muscles and blanking his mind. But this time, his body starts to twitch and shake, slipping out of his control.
The heart beats faster, the lungs lose their air and move erratically, blood flows freely through his body and bones morph, stretching and breaking and strengthening. His muscles cannot be sustained by the bones anymore, and he falls to the floor. The space inside his ribcage feels tighter, his lungs can only provide so much until finally, his body stops changing and he can stand up, much taller than Jinx now.
The blue haired criminal looks incredibly unimpressed with her opponent's new shape, her eyes studying his moments and planning the next few seconds. That grotesque creature lunges, pushing his whole weight on the top of his body, falling messily when Jinx dodges him. She ducks under a clawed swing, rolling through the space between his legs; then, while he is confused and looking for her, aims at his neck.
The bullet lodges itself into the skin, remaining snugly fit between flesh. The scream that leaves him could have woken up the dead. His nails dig into his neck, trying desperately to yank the bullet out, but to no avail. He turns and turns, like a cat chasing its tail, before dizziness gets to him and he falls to the floor, spilling saliva all over the concrete. When he looks around once again, he is face to face with Jinx's gun, staring at the black hole of the barrel. "You made a mistake crossing me, today. Let this be a lesson" she tilts the gun until it's flat against his forehead. He is not capable of forming words anymore, they die at the base of his throath, leaving only emptiness behind. For a moment, she can see in his eyes something that resembled her, many years ago: a scared animal, one that does not understand what their fate will be. But when her mind reminds her of how viciously he attacked you, and how you are lying in her bed, with no assurance that you'll wake up, anger bubbles once again behind her eyes, clouding her thoughts.
"I'm sorry" is all that he hears, before his body falls to the floor, life leaving his eyes.
Her heart feels cold, as well as her body and mind. Jinx, in her own kind of weird way, is already trying to make peace with the fact that, once she comes back home, you might be gone. All too often in her life she had to come to terms with the death of her loved ones, and all too often, she was directly involved with their demise. She can already picture it: you on the bed, blood staining your clothes and the mattress, Isha on her knees, crying her heart out. She, coming home, seeing your dead body lying on what used to be your little shared creek, shielded by the world, falling to her knees and her heart finally giving out to pain, soon to follow you.
From the crack inside the wall, she can spot the helix of her home, the one she'll soon walk over to reach you. She tries to move, but to no avail: her body doesn't let her. Her muscles are reduced to mush, her legs feel like lead and her heart heaves on her rib cage so much that she had to bend down, clutching at her chest to try and ignore that pain. She could stay here forever, stalling time to this single minute, winding it back over and over and over again, all for the purpose of pretending she's still with you, back in your apartment in Piltover, laying naked on the bed with serene smiles on your faces.
But she can't. Even if she could stop time, right here and now, what could she do? Nothing would change. You'd still be dead, she'd still be heartbroken, the bed would still be cold on your side.
She slips inside the crevice, body molding to its shape, before she is face to face with the entrance to her home. She's so lost in her dread and fear that, for a moment, she doesn't hear the sound of laughter from the inside. When her mind recognized the sound, the pitch of the voice she so longed to hear, tears prickled at her eyes and hope filled her heart. She rushes towards the sound, almost tripping down the helix and falling to her death.
There you are. Laying on the bed, laughing weakly as Isha gesticulates and shouts loudly, imitating some sort of monster. Every little light inside her home has been placed near you, probably by Isha, and lifts your figure with a myriad of colorful shades. You look like a living painting to her.
You can't even process seeing her when she's already on you, touching you everywhere, checking your pulse, grabbing onto your legs to assure herself, to make sure that you...
"Are you... really alive?". You could crumble right here and now under those tearful eyes of hers, so soft and beautiful, looking almost powder blue. You stretch your arms to reach down to her, hugging her close to you; "I am, I am". Jinx takes a moment to process your hug and your words; and when she does, when she's certain that you are alive, that you are okay, her walls crumble away.
She pulls you down towards her, wanting to reciprocate the hug, but impatience gets the better of her and instead pulls herself on the bed, halfway reaching you. Her head rests on your belly, tears staining your clothes when she feels your hand on her back. "I thought-! I thought you-" her words die in her throath when she feels your fingers cupping at her cheek, pulling her to rest on her knees and look into your eyes. "I know, I know. I am okay".
Tears fall freely down her cheeks once again, her bottom lip wavering before she takes refuge in your body, hiding her tears on your lap. "I am so glad! I am so glad...".
Once her tears dry, she pushes herself to look at you, eyes puffy and red. "You are okay" she says, and you're about to assure her once again, but something tells you that she's really talking to herself. She climbs on the bed with you, quickly resting her head on your chest. You can't help but smile at her, ready to cuddle together when you realize you've let someone out of the picture. Isha looks at you both with those big eyes of her, pouting. She knows exactly how to push your buttons.
"Come on kid, get in" come Jinx's words, quickly followed by Isha tangling herself in between your bodies and closing her eyes, sleep already overtaking her. "Man, she sure takes a lot of space" you chuckle, placing your hand on Isha's head and stroking her locks between your fingers, hearing a small contented sigh from her. "Yeah, but she deserves it". A heavy silence fills the space, one that you usually pair up with tranquillity, but who you quickly realize is loud for your lover. "Jinx... I am okay" stopping them from screaming in her ears is hard, but when you are with her, they vanish off of existence. Your voice brings her back to reality, as well as reminding her that you have gotten hurt. Letting herself relax after the storm is something she's not used to. "I know" but she can try.
Starting this conversation will be a pain, you think to yourself, but you need to tell her.
"...He told me your real name, Jinx. And, what you did". Quick snapping sounds, mixed with hushed voices and distant screams fill her head in a second, getting louder by the second. She doesn't find in herself the strength to answer, too tired from the day's events; but nevertheless, listens. She leans on the bed, eyes dark and attentive. The scent of your skin fills her nose and she braces herself for your next words. "But...I don't care".
What?
"I don't know what you've been through, but... I don't need to know. You will tell me if you want to". It all stops. Every sound, every shout or whisper, every heartbeat or pulse of electricity. It seems, for a moment, that all becomes white and quiet, before the world starts to spin again. You feel her strong fingers push you more towards her, one cold hand under your clothes, right where your wound is. "Thank you toots, that means a lot".
Less than twenty seconds of silence later, she's already pestering you with her worries again, "Does it hurt? Do I need to give you som-" you interrupt her, taking her hand in yours. Normally, you would be a little annoyed by her continuous train of words, but she needs to be reassured. She needs to hear it from you, how many times it takes. "I am okay. I just need you here with me".
That seems enough to let her finally bear down her worries and she quickly rests on the bed, eyelids heavy and a yawn in her throath. "...I made you a monkey...gift" she slurrs over her words, already slipping in and out of conciousness. "Oh really?". "Yeah...". You too are about to follow her shortly, and before you let sleep overtake you, you reach behind and place a kiss on her forehead. "Goodnight Jinx" she smiles, catching your lips in a quick peck and pushing her nose in the crevice of your shoulders; "Goodnight toots".
Bonus ----------------
When Sevika came home that night, after her usual gambling and drinking out in Zaun's bar, she certainly did not expect to find the messily tangled body of limbs that were you, Jinx and Isha.
As quietly as she possibly can, she takes the chair Jinx sits on while doing her evil scientist machineries and sits next to your bed. Placing a cigar in between your lips and lights it, blowing the smoke away in the opposite direction. She looks back at the bed, multiple coloured lights shading your peacefully sleeping figures. She stays silent for a moment, before she crouches on her knees and shakes the tip of the cigar, firing crumbling pieces of tobacco down on the floor. "They do look pretty cute".
#jinx arcane x reader#arcane x reader#jinx x reader#arcane x you#arcane x female reader#jinx x fem!reader#no smut#violence tw#fluff
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now that hxh is officially coming back here's my attempt to count how many plots are going on at once right now
a plot: the kakin royal family, joined by beyond netero, has chartered an expedition to the forbidden dark continent on a huge whale ship with thousands of civilians. the hunter association signed on to join with the plan of actually sending the ship to a fake “new continent”, dropping off the family and civilians there, and then continuing to the real continent. the problem is the king of kakin is also using this expedition to force his fourteen (legitimate) children into a death match, with the survivor as heir
b plot: kurapika has discovered that kakin’s fourth prince tserriednich is in possession of the remaining scarlet eyes and, in order to get close to him, has signed on as a bodyguard to the fourteenth prince, baby woble, and her mom queen oito. as it turns out all the princes have autonomous nen beasts so this is a more complicated job than it looks. by which i mean at one point he gave up a substantial part of his life to possess a cockroach
c plot: to get more specific, kurapika has been trying to keep the peace by inviting the servants and bodyguards of the other princes to come to nen classes taught by him (read: he and fellow bodyguard bill are just forcibly opening their nen abilities), but a mysterious nen construct called “silent majority” killed most of woble’s other servants and now keeps killing people in the classes. there are apparently multiple people who can use nen in the classes already and who are mostly not telling him.
d plot: the three big mafia families of kakin (the hei-ly, xi-yu and cha-r) have been invited onto the ship mostly because their leaders are all illegitimately related to the king and been told to not cause any trouble…but the king’s illegitimate daughter morena, the new leader of the hei-ly and certified #gamergirl, actively wants to the destroy the world and is breaking the peace by spreading nen to her followers using her ability and letting them gain “levels” by killing people on the ship.
e plot: the phantom troupe has shown up knowing that hisoka will have followed them here and are trying to track him down and kill him. they’ve split into groups and the only group we’ve followed- phinks, feitan and nobunaga- have teamed up with the xi-yu and cha-r to deal with both hisoka and morena. during this we get an extended flashback about how the phantom troupe used to be tween anime dubbers and originally became criminals to track down those who killed their friend.
f plot: unbeknownst to the phantom troupe, the xi-yu’s underboss hinrigh has already met with hisoka (or at least someone who looks a lot like him) and given him a passage to the top level, where the royal family is, because the mafia knows a fight against hisoka will be more trouble than it’s worth while also trying to stop morena. in other words: hisoka is going to where kurapika is
g plot: tserriednich, the previously mentioned guy with the eyes, is also a misogynist serial killer and has gotten interested in nen, so his bodyguard theta has decided to teach him nen herself in order to slow him down and potentially stop him. unfortunately he’s a nen genius and has already developed an ability that lets him see into the future and overwrite reality by reacting accordingly, which he used to get out of theta shooting him. his nen beast has now marked theta for lying to him twice and will make her “no longer human” if she lies a third time.
h plot: melody, hired to be here by kurapika, attempted to sneak the teenage twin tenth and eleven princes off the ship only for the tenth prince (and the other hunter she was working with) to be killed, revealing the princes cannot leave the ship. thankfully the tenth prince kacho’s nen beast is basically her ghost. melody is now likely going to have to deal with an investigation into her actions and has also noticed that eleventh prince fugetsu is rapidly having her nen depleted. kaiser, a member of the justice bureau, claims to have fallen in love with melody after she performed her music for the ship and intends to help her, but melody doesn’t trust him and thinks he’s using manipulation nen on himself. oh and a large amount of the princes have invited her to perform for them, including tserriednich.
i plot: first prince benjamin, a nen user, has control of the military and has used his customary status as firstborn to send one of his guards to each of his younger siblings, which in at least one case led to a successful kill (the eighth prince). he’s in lockdown currently however because second prince camilla, also a nen user with an extremely powerful ability that seems to prevent her from being killed, attempted to kill him herself, and the justice bureau on the ship is trying to figure out who started what.
j plot: camilla has a group of ultra-loyal guards from the lower caste who have developed nen curses to kill her siblings in exchange for their own deaths. their captain, sarahell, has been developing a curse on woble and intends to attend kurapika’s class to deploy it.
k plot: ninth prince halkenburg, a baby marxist who progressive civilians and the younger princes both see as a potential savior, tried to kill his father and then himself after the first death in the succession battle and got stopped by nen beasts both times. he has responded to this by going apeshit and developing an ability that appears to allow him to put the souls of his guards into other people. his testing of this involved having one of his men shoot himself while in the body of one of benjamin’s men, so benjamin has him arrested now too.
l plot: third prince zhang-li’s nen beast is dispensing mysterious coins and zhang-li is dispensing said coins amongst his guards as well as to melody, whose performance he liked. zhang-li also appears to be hiding that he’s actually the son of the king’s illegitimate half-brother onior, the head of the xi-yu, who he’s asked to look into the last succession battle.
m plot: hanzo and bisky, also hired to be here by kurapika, were working as bodyguards for the twelfth and thirteenth princes until the twelfth prince was the first death of the war. the kindergarten-aged thirteenth prince’s stress in response to his sister dying now appears to have led his nen beast to trap their group in some sort of reality bubble. bisky had to reveal her battle form to head servant vergei to explain nen and what was happening, which has mostly just led to vergei getting a mad crush on her.
n plot: izunavi and basho are also here on kurapika’s behest guarding the sixth and seventh princes, who both have not done much yet; sixth prince tyson has a mysterious religious creed that izunavi has convinced her to pass onto her father and seventh prince luzurus mostly likes to smoke weed everyday but seems surprisingly perceptive and, more importantly, apparently funds the cha-r.
o plot: despite being a deranged maniac, tserriednich has a group of childhood friends working fairly standard military guard positions on the lower floors; they’re trying to find out more about nen after picking up that the hei-ly, which tserriednich was allied with before morena took over, are using it.
p plot: fifth prince tubeppa, aware she has few allies and little knowledge of nen, has been trying to meet with kurapika for a while. the literal last thing teased before this hiatus was her bodyguard longhi revealing to kurapika that she knows nen and kurapika agreeing to meet with tubeppa.
q plot: the rest of the phantom troupe has split off: machi and franklin are both on their own (but nobunaga wants to go get franklin), chrollo is making a plan with shizuku and bonolenov that appears to involve a disguise ability bono has, and illumi joined the troupe on hisoka’s request so they could have a yaoi death battle and is with kalluto. speaking of which:
r plot: mizai ran into illumi and kalluto and has them staying in a room in the quarters the zodiacs are using. he’s currently trying to figure out whether he should be telling kurapika the troupe is on the ship or not, knowing it could risk the well-being of both woble and kurapika himself. (he also secretly gave melody clearance to try to save the twins.)
s plot: beyond netero is still in lock up and being watched by members of the zodiacs. he hasn’t done anything yet, but it has been implied he’ll try to escape at the fake “dark continent.”
t plot: ging and pariston have a group allied with beyond who are going to the dark continent themselves; ging joined because he knows pariston must be up to something. it remains ambiguous whether they have their own boat or are on the whale somewhere.
u plot: leorio and cheadle are working at an understaffed clinic near the zodiac headquarters, meaning that once again Leorio Is Just Offscreen
v plot: a random member of the cha-r is trying to get the autographs of the phantom troupe members. this has been used to dispense plot info about how far we are from being out of contact with land. pray for his success
TOTAL PLOTS COUNT: 22
#hxh personal tag#hxh spoilers#mcp spoilers#long post -#idk if people still tag for that but i think the vibe of this post requires a lack of read more.#i drafted this post originally in july lmao#i had to remove the bullet points. tumblr wouldnt let me have them.
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Change My Mind [5]
Pairing: BTS x reader
SUMMARY: As a make-up artist, you were expected to glamorize your clients with brushes and products that cost a week-worth of food, not to befriend them outside of work, let alone have them save you from dates yet here you are five years later as one of their closest confidants.
Being a stylist of the world's biggest boyband is no easy feat, someone is doing flips, someone can't stay still and one's asleep but its fine, you can work around their chaos but then one day, you find out they're all your soulmates, a whole different can of chaos you don't think you can handle.
Tags: Soulmates AU, Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Polyamory, Attempts at Humor
Words: 9.4k
Edit (02-04-25): nothing important was changed, just made it more readable(?). Didn't realise how much I yapped nonsense here oml
thank you all for your comments and likes, it keeps me going :DD
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_____
Namjoon was a man of science.
He believes in everything that can be explained in a lengthy and intricately detailed book filled with an even more difficult terminologies and worded examinations backed up by photographic evidence to prove it.
To him, if he didn't see it happen before his very eyes, it was fiction, a lie.
It's how it should be.
As a child, he frowned upon the heretics and the desperate, thanking a nonexistent god for the fruit of their hard work. He couldn’t fathom how they could weep so genuinely as they prayed on their knees for blessings that never come, and if gods were real, he could never understand how devoted they are for someone who turned a blind eye to the challenges they faced.
He never understood how the lonely could resort to immorality in their desperation for a soulmate, couldn't fathom how easily they shed their humanity for a morsel, a hint of that sense of belonging and importance being a tethered gave.
It was dumb.
Life doesn't revolve around soulmates, they should've tried other options instead of blaming the theoretical nirvana for their own misfortune.
Despite being a child born from two mates, he never believed in the concepts of soulmates, thinking it childish as it was an idea the lonely and the hopeless hung onto to feel better for themselves. He believed that his parents would have met either way without their soulmarks, would've fallen in love the same and bring him to life.
Because they were meant to be, even without the marks to prove it.
Sure he wished to eventually settle down with someone who also loved him as his mother does with his father but he doesn't believe in the spiritual connection.
But science has nothing on the sensation he was feeling right now.
The moment the clock struck midnight, a heartbeat suddenly began to drum at the back of his head, but it was faint and muffled as if it was distant and came through multiple walls but he could hear its panicked pace echoing in his skull. In the silence you and Jungkook’s departure has left, Namjoon began to feel dread bubbling inside him. A tension slowly building up with the beat of the racing heart at the back of his head.
It felt like those slowly crescending notes of a horror movie's background music as the killer stalks nearer. There's a tension thickening but he's the only one who could feel it, could sense it coming.
It's making him nervous beyond belief how he doesn't know what is afoot.
A gasp tore through his thought process and he looked up to see his Yoongi hyung eyeing something invisible in his right hand, disbelief apparent in his wide eyes as the others turned to him with concerned curiosity.
But Namjoon already knew what it was, at least felt like he knew what it is, although he himself is incredulous.
He's read up everything that he could about soulmates in his teenage years wanting to refute his parents' insistence on how they wouldn't have clicked as well as they are without the soulmark yet none of them could explain how he just knows the heartbeat at the back of his head belonged to you.
________
Fate truly has a funny way of revealing who your soulmate is.
It was said that the sensation when you first meet your soulmate should be a wave of cold relief flushing all the worries out of your system. Your mother and Jihae told you stories of the sudden sense of belonging, like finding the last piece of the puzzle you’ve walked your whole life without from a mere accidental brush of a hand with a stranger on the streets.
If it was in any other scenario, you would've agreed with them.
But as Jungkook raises both your hands to survey the skin for any mark, your world shrinks down like an air tight ziplock bag to only fit you and him.
A low thrum resonated in the air, mellifluous and sweet, a direct contrast to the dull but racing heartbeat at the back of your head. Jolts of electricity vibrated under your skin starting from your joined hands and spreading across your muscles and lighting your nerve endings awake.
The walls around you closed in, not because it was Jungkook who you happened to be fated to. But because there's a thin, red thread tied around your pinkie.
A red string of fate.
And it's not tethered to Jungkook.
It goes behind you and you dread to know who it leads to.
There's a curious tug from down the line, the thread turning tangible at every pull and the urge to run away, to hide in the comforts of your home grew tenfold. Because you're sure the string leads to one of the boys.
People who became your closest companions after years of being their make-up artist. Three of which you've rejected and the remaining four you've remained friends with.
Isn't this a bit too much of a joke?
How funny it must've been for the divinities to watch you reject the men eventually revealed to be your soulmate. They must've cackled, pointing fingers and all, as they watched you reject them. You wouldn’t put it behind them to connect the end of your string to someone you’ve also turned down once.
You watched Jungkook speedrun through the five stages of grief in a few seconds, face contorting every so often it made it hard to get a read on what he's feeling. He let out a shaky exhale as he came to, doe eyes meeting yours with an incredulous sheen.
His continuous silence stuffed cottons into your throat, the conflicted expression he has settled on only furthering the panic in your chest.
You retract your hand but he was faster, catching your wrist in a tighter grip. There's a question hanging from his lips but they cease to exist the moment you both see the mark on your finger.
In the space between your index and middle finger lies a black quarter note, inked into the skin of your middle. The tint is bold and black.
Raising his own hand, your eyes landed on the same pattern etched on his on the opposite side. As if hypnotized, he intertwined his fingers and the same gentle thrum came back, along with a comforting warmth echoing from your soulmate mark and throughout your body, almost rendering you boneless from how intense and relieving it felt.
You weren't the only one affected by its calming properties. The frustration in Jungkook's from earlier now erased from his face, as if it was never there. Acceptance.
Just like that, the problem is solved; and that unsettles you.
“Noona… Wh-what is happening?”
His voice is so small, shaky and hopeful. Eyes growing larger as he surveys your soulmate marks in disbelief. He untangled your hand and pulled the soulmark closer to his eye. Curiously, Jungkook hesitantly taps the musical note and shivered with you when skin touched skin.
You both suck in a deep breath, freezing at the foreign sensation it brought you both before a smile that stretches high up to the heavens brightens his face.
Jungkook's eyes were glazed with unshed tears when you found them once more, breath shaky as he placed a kiss onto your knuckles. The sensation of his lips on your skin making goosebumps rise on your skin.
“Noona, we're soulmates.”
You didn't even hear the sound of footsteps running up the stairs nor Taehyung calling you both until he got close, hand landing on your shoulder and effectively snapping you out of your trance.
“Are you guys okay? Not too long ago you were at each other's throat and now—woah!”
A shrill of pleasure shocks your body, vision flashing white and you fall.
If it wasn't for Jungkook, you would've collapsed boneless next to Taehyung who's gasping on the floor, hand clutching his heart as he heaved. Jungkook let you lean your body weight on him once you stood up again. Arms wrapping around your waist protectively as your brain catches up.
A sharp gasp from Jungkook kickstarts your already racing heart, panic flushing out whatever has happened earlier.
But that wasn't the thing that made your head pulse.
It was the shaky utterance of your name and looking up at Jungkook only to be distracted by the faint glow of blue in the shape of a hand on your shoulder. The spot where Taehyung had last touched you.
In the dimness of the hallway, Love Prints gleamed a soft shade of purple like a splatter of glow in the dark paint. Your head snapped back to Taehyung who had pushed himself to sit up, cradling his head while murmuring intelligible under his breath until he looked up and his jaw fell.
“I-Is that…?”
“Hyung, what is the meaning of this?”
Taehyung turned to the maknae, spluttering. “I-I don't even… Ho-how is this even possible?”
How is it possible to feel like the world has pulled a carpet from under you while also feeling like you're laying on cloud 9?
Three soulmates.
Two of them being people you once rejected, one of them unknown but the string suspiciously led downstairs where the rest of the boys are.
You feel like passing out just to avoid the talk it'll entail. Maybe you should run at the wall and hope you'll hit your head hard enough to guarantee amnesia.
“Noona, you're seeing this too right?”
Taehyung is now standing in front of you, reaching up to trace the already fading handprint and a new splatter of purple followed his finger. He grinned, eyes misty and overflowing with joy as he giggled, the sound almost reminiscent of a delighted child.
Jungkook’s arm tightened around you.
“Wh-why— Is that love prints? Hyung?” Jungkook’s voice shakes from the weight of the revelation hanging above his head. “Are we sharing noona?”
“GUYS! YOONGI HYUNG GOT A SOULMATE!”
Holy shit.
Unlike you who's despairing to see the man on the other side of the thread, Taehyung was beyond ecstatic.
“No fucking way. I gotta see this.”
Taehyung dragged you to the stairs when your legs refused to move, uprooting you from where you leaned onto Jungkook's side. Your stomach churned at how lighter the strings felt in your pinkie and a tad tighter as the distance shortened.
There's a sudden heartbeat racing in your ears but it sounds far away and it doesn't sync with the pulse you feel in your temples. You couldn't dwell on it for long before you're faced with the man at the other end of the red string.
___________
They said it all started with their eldest but unbeknownst to them, he was the first to notice how your eyes would light up like the stars in the night sky, how your laugh sounded like wedding bell rings than the dying pig you claimed it to sound.
Seokjin might be their eldest and Taehyung might’ve fallen deepest but he was the beginning of it all.
In his twenty five years of existence on this damned planet, Min Yoongi has never asked for much, content with whatever life throws at him.
Even with his harsh upbringing, he never kept what he has from others, especially since he met his brothers. He'd willingly ripped off the cloth from his back to keep them warm and plugged their ears with both his hands so they couldn’t hear the hateful words thrown at them at debut, even if it cost of being exposed to them instead. But he couldn't care less, Yoongi loves them with all his heart.
There's nothing in the world that could ever stop him from bending over backwards just so the others could live peacefully.
When his pockets grew heavier with age, this trait only bloomed further into millions donated anonymously to hospitals and charities he could stumble upon.
To everyone, especially his brothers, he’s a generous man.
Until you strode into his life and haunted him in his waking days with the ghost of your touch caressing his face.
Min Yoongi never wants yet he yearned, he craved to feel the softness of your skin under his fingertips, to taste your lips and discover if you tasted as sweet as you smell, to run his hand through your hair as to know if it's as soft as it looked under the soft glow of the room.
And for once in his life, he wanted to be selfish.
Being with you makes him want to believe, want to hope that something nonsensical as the concept of soulmates is true.
Originally, Min Yoongi wasn’t a believer of such optimism because his mother wasn’t.
She passed down her resentment for the fates for turning a blind eye on her onto her next of kin. She was bitter from being untethered and barred her children from subjecting themselves to whimsical thoughts of fates and destinies.
Never had he entertained the ideas of soulmates until you came and bursted through the iron doors of his heart. For the first time in his life, he began to want, to wish that he gets tethered to you.
You who shined even without the help of others, who stood out like the beacon of light in the shady pits of this world. He couldn’t dare face you as someone whose future is as dim as the blasted world he cursed out. With nothing to offer, he strived to be the best, to crawl to the top whatever it takes.
He couldn't show you a pathetic side of him, he knew he couldn't step forward with a bleak future to offer. Yoongi wouldn't be able to bear it if you were to grow miserable beside him.
Because for you, he'd stop at nothing to hand everything you'd ever lay your eyes on wrapped in a pretty bow of the most expensive quality and tucked neatly behind soft colored gift wrappers.
So for years, Min Yoongi hid.
What else could he do when most of his brothers also vied for your attention? He loved you all with all his heart, couldn't bear the thought of ever hurting any of you for his selfish desires. So he did what he thought was best, step back and watch from the sidelines.
And he was fine with that.
He thinks himself a patient man. A trait forged by years of encountering nagging customers and demanding adults from working as a delivery boy. Yet all it took was a couple dozen bottles of Soju and a warm atmosphere to accidentally confess his feelings for you. Ashamed and already knowing what his hyung has received as an answer, he puts on a mask the next day and acts.
He did it so well you were convinced he wasn't kidding by forgetting last night's mistakes and swallowing up the disappointment when you didn’t bother asking him again and acted like nothing ever happened.
But it's okay, Min Yoongi is a patient man, he can wait.
So when you appeared before him, a red string tied prettily around your pinkie with the thread leading back to his own, he was beyond euphoric. He felt like a champion, of what? He didn’t care much to think.
He felt like he could climb the highest summit in record speed with no equipment and only the warmth of the new bond to keep him alive.
________
The moment you all appeared in the living room with your shoulder and linked hands glowing purple, all hell broke loose. You didn't even get to look at Yoongi’s reaction when everyone was exploding around you, running to look at the evidence of your connection to Taehyung up close.
“Oh shit…”
“What the fuck?”
“You guys are connected?!”
Taehyung hovered protectively behind you with a smile so bright it can deter the night, hands planted on your shoulders and pushing his hyungs a few steps away to keep them from overwhelming you.
Everyone surrounding you had varying reactions even then, Namjoon kept his distance but hovered over behind his brothers with his eyebrows furrowed, staring with his calculating gaze and the heartbeat echoing at the back of your head grow rampant.
You didn’t dare look at Seokjin, whose gaze weighed heavily with hurt and disappointment. You try not to flinch when you hear him run upstairs, and the door of his room slams shut.
He who had confessed first, had continued to love you even when you had brushed off his affections, somehow didn’t make the cut. You didn’t even want to know what you’d do if you were him.
A finger traces the fading prints of Taehyung’s touch on your shoulder and you immediately crumple to the floor with a gasp as an intense wave of euphoria runs through your veins. You could barely make out the feeling of someone’s arms holding you up and someone pushing your head to their chest.
The bleary sight of what looked like Yoongi pushed through the crowd and reached up to cup your face, instantly, the warmth of his touch grounds you. Then you were being carried to sit on the sofa with everyone spaced around you, except for Jimin who’s bonelessly spread on the opposite side of you.
How funny was it for the universe to link you to the same men you've rejected for the fear of ruining the amazing brotherhood they've built from years of hard work and tears?
As the sensation from Taehyung and Jungkook’s touch subsides, dread reintroduces itself and slowly crawls up your skin. Your headache has long evolved into having two throbbing pulses at the back of your head. From the revelation to the onslaught of feelings attacking and fighting off your initial panic, your body struggled to keep up with the conflicting emotions.
You wanted to run, to hide from their gaze, to put an end to the mess of emotions caused by the forced relief from their touches.
Jimin is now staring at you from across the lounge, his beautiful face contorted into concern, his soft eyes seeing past the fog in yours. They stared at you as if trying to decipher something, as if he could somehow feel how overwhelmed you are.
He opened his mouth to say something when a voice broke through the chatter.
“Are you okay, noona?”
Namjoon’s hands were steadying when he held your shoulders, like water in a desert, like the light at the end of a dark tunnel. With their leader stepping in, all words fell into a hush and for the first time since the chaos, it was silent; save for the slowing rhythms of two heartbeats thudding in your head.
If Taehyung and Jungkook's touch felt like a jolt of energy and Jimin was rejuvenating and healing, Namjoon had the ability to kill the noise in your mind with eye contact alone.
Peering deeper into his gaze, your breath stutters and you move to flinch away in fear of setting off the new bond but instead find yourself slowly coming into a realization when nothing had happened in the short time Namjoon had touched you. The second heartbeat at the back of your mind grows louder, completely setting itself apart from what is truly yours.
You’re sharing heartbeats with Namjoon.
A fifth soulmate.
What the fuck.
“Hyung, are you sober enough to drive?” Namjoon looks up to stare at someone behind you.
“A-are you sure I should be driving her home? I could set something off from an accidental brush of a hand.”
“She’s overstimulated from being surrounded by us, having someone outside the links would help.”
You sensed Hoseok’s apprehension in his silence. Then, he sighed.
“Alright. Let’s go, noona.”
It felt burdensome to leave such a life-altering problem for them to handle while you cower in your home, trying to hide from the reality where you might be linked to all seven of them.
The reassuring squeeze on your shoulders brought you back from the guilty trans you’ve submerged into and was faced with Namjoon's kind eyes and smile.
“Go home noona, we'll handle it from here.”
“You sure?”
He nods. “I know this is overwhelming so I want you to go rest and let me do the planning and talking, alright?”
When you didn’t respond, Namjoon wrapped his arms around you. There’s hesitance in how his movement stuttered, could hear him ponder as he pulled you flush to his chest, afraid of affecting you like the maknaes had but when his touch didn’t evoke the staggering flood of euphoria, he grew more sure of his movements.
With a kiss on your head, he unwraps himself from you and gently guides you back to Hoseok who’s now standing outside the open door of their dorm. His eyes averted and steely.
Walking to the car was a silent affair and you don’t know if you rather have Hoseok being quiet or not.
It was bearable when he turned on the radio and a song that has no connection to the boys plays, not that it stopped the thoughts from spawning in from the crevices of your mind.
When you had asked the fates for a soulmate, had you sounded so desperate that they'd given you five?
You’ve heard of three souls being connected. Hell, Yeonjun is a part of a five-way soulmate link; Interlinked, is what they’re called. Everyone in the group has their own unique mark with each member which usually led to constant overstimulation in the beginning, the company had put them on medications until their bond settled a year later.
Even today, there are times where they still get affected by their bonds, although not as often as it used to. It was a wonder how there haven't been investigations put on BigHit with how often the five had to be sent to the hospital for soulbond hyperactivity at least once a week for a whole year.
But a nexus between six people, five connected to one. That is unheard of, the rarest even.
Five soulmates yet none of those were Seokjin. Someone who had stuck with you since the first day, the first to confess, and the one who remained loyal, wasn’t tethered to you.
You turned to Hoseok who had remained silent the whole ride, stomach churning as a revelation hangs above your head.
“Hoba?’
“Yes, noona?”
He sounded guarded, his face ironed into a neutral, more serious expression as he slowed as the traffic light went red.
“What’s gonna happen now?”
He bit his lower lip as he pondered, thumbs tapping incessantly on the wheel before he spoke.
“We're gonna have to update your statuses in the fated registry, but I doubt the company will make it public just yet. There's nothing also in our contract that prohibits us from pursuing a relationship with our soulmates if we ever come across them so you're good on that front.”
You notice how he excluded himself from the Nexus bond and you feel a pinch on your heart at how formal he has become, as if he’s already put up a wall between you both.
“We'll probably have a long talk about it once I get back but I doubt they'd wait for me since it doesn’t really concern me anyways. You’re probably wouldn't be allowed to touch Jimin and Taehyung anymore when you're working because your soulmarks are very obvious and I know you don't want—”
“Y-You don't think you're also…”
Silence followed as he adjusted himself in his seat as the car began to move again, his hands drumming on the wheel halts as the facade he's wearing shattered for a moment and his eyes grew foggy, clouded by a deep shade of blue.
Under the passing warm lights of the streetlights overhead, Hoseok has never looked more devastated to you than he does now.
You had never noticed it, he has always been open with his affections to his friends so you never thought of it as anything but his usual touchiness. He shows his care for you in the same way he does with his brothers, so paid it no need and brushed it off.
How could Soobin notice it? What had he seen that you missed?
“If I was, I would've felt something or seen that something but here we are.” He forces out a laugh before glancing at you and offering a hand. You notice how his smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. “We're still the bestest of friends even without the mark, right?”
Hesitantly, you took it.
The moment your fingers wrapped around his Hoseok immediately pulls his hand back in favor of holding the brake between you both.
You try to not let his aversion to touch affect you. New soulbonds are fickle, there’s been multiple reports where people are rushed into ER after brushing their hands against strangers and had been in excruciating pain from soulbond strain.
Their new bodies had thought they were denying destiny and had punished them.
But for him to completely retreat to himself, visibly putting up a tall wall between you both is a different kind of pain. For Hoseok, someone who has never had to restrain himself from holding your hands or hugging you whenever he's excited, to step back hurts you more than you thought it would.
“Noona, we’re here.”
As you left the car, you pondered on what to say to him. What could you even tell him?
Do you even say you're sorry he's not one of your soulmates or would that sound mocking?
Should you say that you had wished once that he became tethered to you or would that be rubbing salt on the wound?
But before you could even turn around and say your goodbyes, the moment the door was closed, Hoseok drove off.
__________
Waking up was dreadful.
It felt more exhausting than it had yesterday when you were going to your third date with Guwon knowing he wanted to propose to you. Sleeping was difficult, you could feel Yoongi touch the string from miles away, eyes flying open whenever you felt the thread become tangible and gently glow in the darkness of your room.
It wasn't his soul-link alone that disturbed you, Namjoon’s heartbeat constantly changed rhythm although it was faint enough to blend into the background with the rumble of the air conditioner. From the nervous gallops to the calmer but deeper thuds whenever he seems to drown himself in his own thoughts.
You had research about your soul links when you grew restless in your bed, obsessed over the fact there's little to no information on your and Jimin's mark, trying to ignore the messages from your mother and sister. They were asking about Guwon and why you decided to end things. You know that you should explain, you at least owe your mother the reason why you had decided to stop seeing the lawyer but you couldn't.
After days of her constant questioning and spamming links of wedding organizers and dressmakers, you couldn't find the courage to face your mother.
Not that it matters anymore though, not after last night.
Would you send her to an early grave once you tell her the news? How do you even break the news to your parents? Hi mom, I'm sorry I've been ignoring you yesterday. Yes, I stopped seeing Guwon but hey, I found you five new son-in-laws and they happen to be the members of the world's biggest boyband so don't be mad yeah?
She might just make true to her threat of hanging you upside down on a sack on your porch back in the province.
The same thought had led you to realizing how bad it would’ve gone if you got engaged with Guwon in Jeju only to find out the next day who your soulmates were.
When you trudged to the bathroom, exhaustion weighed your bones but you excused it to your shitty sleep.
Not once has any of the boys reached out to you the whole night, Seokjin’s silence louder than the others. You know that they're busy handling the paperworks due today but to have not a single text in the groupchat made dread crawl up within you. It had never once died down in all those years it existed until last night.
So when the door rang a quarter to nine, you jumped.
The door opens and Namjoon steps into your living room with Seokjin following closely behind him, expression guarded and eyes averted while his leader approaches you. Both their eyes are swollen, no doubt from a sleepless night.
(You try not to notice how Seokjin looks far puffier than the other.)
“Sorry we went silent, we got… busy talking about things,” Namjoon began, voice soft as ever as he approached you to wrap his arms around you and you let him. “Hyung’s here with me to drive you to the DFR, the others went first since we decided that it's better if you're not lumped up with all your soulmates in one small space so it's just us three for a while.”
“Have you eaten?” Seokjin asks, unmoving from where he stands a step away from the door, guarded and stiff, as if trying to meld himself into the wood.
His voice is hoarse and he looked more worn than you've ever seen him in years yet he managed to sound soft and put on the smallest of smiles. Your heart twinges.
“I haven't, you guys didn't tell me when we were going to have the bond registered.”
Namjoon sheepishly scratches the back of his head. “We got busy the whole night discussing how we'll be moving forward, the company has already cleared out the department office and as Hobi-hyung might've told you, they're doing everything they can to keep this under wraps for now.”
“There’s unfortunately no time for take-outs due to the time crunch, I doubt you guys will be out by twelve but I think we can all go for a good, filling lunch.”
“Jinnie, are you okay?”
The words slipped out of your lips before you could realize it had. His eyes widened for a fracture, taken aback before a sad smile stretched his lips.
“I will be, don't worry.”
Namjoon claps his hands abruptly, cutting through the air as he forces out a grin. “Alright, let's be on our way.”
“What about the family dinners?” You pushed on.
“We'll tell them the truth. I can't exactly bring you to family dinners as my fake girlfriend anymore now, can I?”
What started as Jin needing your help in stopping vulture-like aunties trying to introduce their daughters to him, grew far more serious when Mrs. Kim began to invite you annually to their family reunion dinners and had begun sending you the occasional gift boxes from her trips abroad.
You tried giving them to Jin when the first box came but he insisted you keep them anyway. It made you feel guilty for tricking his family, especially his mother, but Jin needed your help in warding off the bad energy.
“We told hyung that once the bond gets stable next year, you can continue attending them.” Namjoon adds.
“Obviously I denied, what a stupid idea.” Seokjin immediately responds with a scoff and crosses his arms. “Why are you even paired with them when they disregard your safety like this? Really, why would you guys even suggest that?”
Namjoon turns to him with a look that seems to ask ‘do you really want me to answer that?’ and Seokjin pursed his lips in a straight line. You laughed.
It was a relief to see that nothing has changed within their dynamics. You had feared the day everyone would turn against each other because of you. It had made you wary of how much time you spend with a member one on one, scared the others would think of it as picking favorites.
To see Seokjin, the one you have no doubt been more devastated than Hoseok, be making light hearted jokes about the soulmarks lifted off a huge weight from your shoulders.
“I hope auntie won't take it to heart. You were a nice boyfriend but you kept nagging me to pay a nonsense debt.”
“You still have a balance to settle with me, don't forget that,” He jokes. “But seriously, mom would be sad, she liked you better than me.”
Namjoon's phone pings, the sound silencing you both. With a hissed apology, he turned his attention to the device and read the notification on his lock screen before turning to you.
“We need to get going soon. Hobi hyung said Yoongi hyung and Jimin just got called up.”
“Wait, I haven't showered yet! You guys didn't even warn me!”
But as you move to run back to your room, Namjoon stops you with a hand on your shoulder.
“It's fine, noona.”
“It's not like we haven't seen you with unwashed hair for two days straight.”
“What was the longest day, hyung?” Namjoon clicks his fingers, a small teasing grin tugging his lips.
“Three days I think?”
“I thought it was a week?”
“It might’ve been.”
Their laughter when you slapped both their arms twinkled in your ears. The sound warming your chest but also grating your gears at the same time.
Fresher than you had been earlier, you all arrive at the DFA an hour later. Spending thirty preparing, another half traveling to the heart of Seoul.
There's already a few bodyguards dressed in civilian wear lingering outside the office. Mr. Lee approached the car once the three of you began to step out before ushering all of you inside the building with a few other guards.
Save for the receptionists on the other side of the counter placed in the dead middle of the room, the lobby was empty. Sejin comes out from the wide open arch on the right, a man dressed in a neatly ironed tailored black suit following behind him.
“Let's all move to where the rest are. We couldn't rent the building for the whole day so they’ll be opening to the general public soon but we were allowed to have one floor to ourselves.”
None of you objects and followed him to the elevator and to the second floor where you were immediately greeted by Taehyung, Hoseok and Jungkook sitting on the blue plastic seats clustered by both sides of the walls.
When the metal doors parts open, their heads turn and immediately, Taehyung stands and runs up to you with arms wide.
Namjoon and Seokjin weren't able to react fast enough. The moment Taehyung wrapped himself around you, a powerful wave of bliss crashed over you and your legs gave out. They all screamed your name as you fell but they were muffled, hands grabbed onto whatever they could in the haste of catching you.
In the bleariness of your vision, you could make out Taehyung narrowly avoiding crumpling onto the floor when someone caught him by the waist.
“...That was so stupid of you…”
“...Why…Taehyung?...”
“Noona?”
The haze clears and you find yourself being carried by Seokjin into the nearest doctor’s office. You hear the door open before Yoongi’s exasperated but concerned voice follows.
“What the hell happened now?”
“We have no idea, Tae’s touch didn’t do this to her last night.”
“Fuckin—Just get her inside.”
“Noona, I’m so sorry!”
Seokjin lets you down on a soft cushioned armchair and you find yourself staring back at a bespectacled woman with hair so straight you wonder how Yoongi didn't feel exorcized at the sight of it.
She didn't waste any time and she rose from her seat to inject something in your arm.
“What a wild introduction this is. First you come in with five soulmates, a Nexus group and one of them having Healing Touch, and as if that's not intriguing enough, you faint after a touch from Love Prints! So, very interesting!”
She returns to her seat as the haze ebbs away from your vision with the glowing purple paint on your torso.
“I guess it's true that all soul specialists are… enthusiastic.”
“Only on the right things, don't worry we don't bite.”
There's almost a manic look in her eyes as she stares at you with a fascination only seen in a mad geologist who had found a new and infinitely curious piece of history in the dirt. Seokjin pats your shoulders, squeezing it assuringly for the last time before he disappears out the door.
“So, how's this gonna go?”
Doctor Gwak Jihye was a woman with flat light brown hair almost the same height as you. There's narrow rectangle glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of her nose and a notable beauty mark placed on the apple of her cheekbones. Black vine-like tattoos peaked out of her cream turtleneck, a soulmark you guessed once you saw the ring on her finger.
The band is as dark as the night yet gleaned like stars under the bright light of the room with three deep blue sapphires engraved on the front. A ring made from soul metal, created and used only by the tethered.
She wore the standard white coat of every doctor you’ve ever met with the exception of the detailed pin of two white strings knotted together inside the lining of a heart and a red cross placed in the middle of it all.
“We'll do the basic health checks, the measurements and all the like. Nothing too difficult. Then we educate you on every soulmark you have. You are aware of what you have with the five of them, correct?”
She rapid fires and you're left agape, mouth closing and open as your brain catches up. The doctor raised an eyebrow and you nod. With that, she motions to the scales behind you as she stands. You followed the woman to the stadiometer placed next to the door.
Once she was done taking your measurements down, you both returned to her desk where she asked you a few questions about your allergies and recent medical history. It was an easy procedure, almost boring.
The ever so present exhaustion from waking up that morning is still weighing your bones, you yawned. Staying awake felt like a challenge and you don't doubt she had noticed this when she placed down her board to open her drawer.
“You are feeling more exhausted than before, am I correct in assuming this?”
“Yes…?”
She hummed when she found what she was looking for and placed the thick white medicine bottle in front of you.
“This should help your body get used to the bonds whenever you touch Jimin or Taehyung. The exhaustion is normal since you live far from them but once you move in and are surrounded by your soulmates, you should feel more energized.”
Amoneuron, it reads on the label. Curious, you twist the lid open to see what might just be a hundred of blush pink colored round pills.
“With that out of the way, from what I've heard from Yoongi, you've researched every soulmark there is at one point in your life but I doubt that you don't have any questions,” She fished out the yellow folder under her board and opened it, not knowing how surprised you are to hear Yoongi’s involvement. “Anything you'd like to know about?”
Your mind takes you back to the empty search and countless ‘Did you mean…?’ questions on every result. Jimin and your marks never yielded any results, none in Naver and none in Google.
You tried finding it in your books but none of them were ever close to the touch activated golden swirls and the feeling of being rejuvenated.
“I tried researching what could be Jimin and I’s soulmark but I couldn't find one, is it that rare of a mark?”
She nods. “Healing touch, there's so little information of that type of mark since the last recorded case can be traced back to 1894.”
Your eyes widen, surprised by how rare of a mark you share with Jimin.
“Which meant if there were soul-link related sickness between you, I fear that we won't be much of help as we don't know much about Healing Touch other than mates who has it doesn't get hungry, thirsty nor need much sleep if they interacted enough,” She gauges your reaction, when she saw your confusion she continues. “By interacting enough, I don't mean hugs or hand holding, I mean kisses and sex.”
You began to cough violently, choking on your saliva at her bluntness, cheeks burning bright but she ignored you and continued.
“Hand holding and hugs can only guarantee better stamina and endurance, even being close enough can make the other have a bottomless energy. As this concerns a highly valued individual, our team is already attempting to acquire more information about Healing Touch but I don’t have an estimated time on when we’ll be ready to share our findings, please understand that we are also surprised by this mark’s sudden revival.” She smiled. “Anything else you'd like to ask?”
“Are Taehyung and Jimin's marks somehow similar? I remember feeling… rejuvenated whenever the both of them touched me but then got overstimulated.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No, Taehyung’s touch shouldn’t affect you outside of the first touch nor should you be suffering from soulbond hyperactivity from both of them. When Seokjin had carried you in, what exactly happened beforehand?”
“When Taehyung hugged me again not too long ago, we experienced soulbond hyperactivity.”
“Huh.” Was all she replied with, hand scribbling furiously on her notes. You had the urge to sit up a little straight and take a peak at what she’s writing down so passionately but decided against it, fearing what you might learn from it.
“Any guesses on what could have caused this?”
“It's hard to say much for now since Healing Touch is a very rare mark. But I can hazard a guess and say that due to their similar nature being touch-activated marks and Healing Touch being as powerful as it is, it had influenced Love Print somehow.”
If Taehyung’s soulmark has evolved due to Healing Touch as suspected, then does that mean the benefits, at least the bare bones of them, extend to him as well?
You already sense the building headache you’re about to experience in the future with three—including Jungkook whose energy is already a thousand times more of a kid in a toy store—bouncy men with the energy of a toddler in a sugar rush. In advance, you began to pray internally for Namjoon, Sejin, and Seokjin’s sanity.
“It seems that I am due to share notes with the doctor who had interviewed Jimin,” She says as she slams close the cover of her journal with a smile. “This could lead to a breakthrough in the future. With both of your permissions, we would like to study your soulmark more intimately.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it but my soulmate might not share the sentiment. The company as well.”
“Your soulmarks could very well lead up to the discovery of the cure to an incurable disease, I doubt he would decline such a possibility.”
You don’t doubt the possibility of your soulmark being the answer to the long time issue of something as fatal as cancer or dementia but the prospect of being examined, had made you feel uncomfortable. To be under intense scrutiny and possibly put under a specific diet to tailor to their needs—especially when Jimin had only recently stopped caring about his body image—had made you more unwilling to participate.
You’d spare a few vials of blood since your bond can regenerate it back in record time but a prolonged trial is definitely a no.
“Why did it manifest now? After all those years, why now?” You ask abruptly, trying to change the subject.
You hoped she would take the bait and luckily, she did with a defeated sigh.
“As you know, once we hit the age of 16, the chances of meeting our soulmates goes up to 10% and will gain the same amount the next year. This will continue on until it hits a hundred on the 26th and the chances of manifesting a mark stops on the 27th,” You nod, feigning ignorance and she continues. “The Nexus connection had to wait for Jungkook to show which had put yours and the rest to a state of dormancy. So when he turned 21, with half a hundred chance, he finally got a mark and here we are.”
You stand and bow, not wanting to leave any free millisecond where she could try continuing to pressure you into agreeing into their research.
“Thank you so much for your insight, Dr. Gwak.”
She looked incredulous and surprised by your sudden actions before returning the gesture.
“It’s a pleasure to be able to foresee a unique connection such as yours, Ms. Y/n. I hope you all the best.”
With that, you leave the room in a haste and let out the biggest exhale once the door behind you closes.
You hear the soft murmurs of voice just around the corner where you guessed you’ll find everyone save for Namjoon who must’ve been called after you had been carried in by Seokjin. But when one door closes, another opens. There’s still a few things you’re due today, a talk with the inner circle of the company, talking with the legal team to figure out who else can know the connection outside of your Nexus, and how you’ll be continuing working as their make-up artist.
There’s a tug down the thread and you look down at your pinkie to see the line turn tangible and vibrant.
‘How are you?’
‘Feeling good?’
Tentatively, you twirled the string around your finger and the headache fades. You watch as it glows brighter, livelier with both hosts touching it before tugging it back twice.
‘Good.’
Instantly, Yoongi responds.
‘Glad. ‘
You expected the string to dim but it remained vibrant under both of your touch and warmth exploded in your chest.
“Are you the lady with the Healing Touch soulmark?”
You jumped back to see an old woman, around the age of sixty, peering up at you with a gentle smile playing on her lips. She dons the same white coat Dr. Gwak wears the same pin of a soul specialist on the lapel and her name tag displayed on her breast pocket.
Shin Sun-young, it reads.
“In my years of being a specialist, I've never seen so many souls connected to one so I'm sorry if I'm a bit much, I'm very curious how it must feel. Having one is already overwhelming for me, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling now.”
“Yeah it's a bit much sometimes. I don't know how to deal with it.”
“We have some medicines for that but I’m sure you already know that and have been prescribed right. It’ll dull up your senses then you can stop taking it after a year.”
She pats your back as you both walk off the sides and you find your soulmates sitting obediently down the hall. Jimin was lying on one cluster of seats in front of the others with an arm over his eyes and the other pinched into a fist on top of his stomach while the rest of the boys squeezed together into the five seats on the opposite wall.
You notice the missing presence of their eldest but shrugged it off, guessing that he must've wandered off to find the bathroom or a vending machine.
“I hope it goes well for you seven, I'm sure they'll treat you so well.”
Your head snaps to her. “Seven?”
“Oh? Am I wrong? I thought all of those boys are tethered to you. Forgive this old soul.”
You try to not think about how she must’ve intentionally guessed wrong to fish for information. Soul specialists have the reputation of being crazy knowledge-driven people with barely any other qualifying trait other than their unusual obsession with soulmates after all and this lady just happens to be one.
“Hoseok and Jin, their eldest who has gone somewhere, aren't tethered to me. There's no sign of any marks manifesting and we just assumed the worst.”
You hated how you sounded so dejected. You must’ve sounded so greedy to the lady for wanting to have your seven friends to be yours, as if you even deserve Seokjin’s unfaltering love.
She hums. “Are you sure about that?”
“What do you mean?” You ask with an eyebrow raised.
“Dear, everything in the world is advanced now. They could have their blood tested to see if there's a possibility that they're also tethered to you.”
You were reminded of the times where you began to dread your birthdays when you should've been celebrating, the desperation before the abrupt descend of defeat on your birthday this year when you finally realize that you weren't
“How is that possible? Why now? We've had years of technological evolution but something like that only appears now? Where was this when I wanted to find out if I was—”
She sighs and puts a hand on your shoulder, effectively shutting you up. “Soulmates are spiritual deary. Past technology and brains of yesterdays had difficulty in figuring out the hows and why it works. But now, I can assure you that we have finally found a way to find if you're really untethered or not.”
“Tha-that’s a thing?”
You turned around to find Seokjin on the opposite hall, carrying what seems to be a hundred snacks with two hands, surprise contorting his face. Crossing the distance in under two steps, he stared at the lady with hopeful eyes.
“Where can I have myself checked?”
The way his voice dripped with hope, with desperation of a man who had lost his way and finally found a chance of redemption, a new salvation to pour his attention to. Hearing it made your chest clench. But there was no testimony for their new found tech, there's no telling if they're actually telling the truth.
As much as you are curious as to what the result could be, you couldn't have Seokjin join the test all hopeful only to fall into a deeper hole if he found out that he's actually untethered.
Your heart won't be able to handle the absolute devastation that would follow.
“Jinnie—”
“You boys are in luck, we just had the machine set up last night and we’re looking for volunteers.”
“I’ll do it. Me and someone else.”
As they began to talk about the technicalities of using the machine and partaking in their research, you found yourself standing there in shock.
You already suspected Hoseok also shared the same sentiment Jin held but to hear him indirectly confirm them had your heart bottoming to the soles of your feet. The guilt that used to only stem from Jin and Taehyung's confession came back to you like a blow to the head.
Jin then walked away, you followed to see him approach an increasingly concerned Hoseok who watched his hyung march up to him with an indistinguishable fire in his eyes.
“Hoba, I found a way.”
He furrowed his eyebrows. “Found a way? To-to what exactly?”
“They have the technology to figure out if we're actually untethered or not.”
Everyone's eyes widened. Jimin had woken up from his nap and turned his head to his hyungs, shocked by what he had heard. Taehyung's jaw hung open, looking around in bewilderment before he stood to walk around the rest of the boys and into the stunned Hoseok on the other side of the seats to engulf him in a hug.
Even Manager Sejin who had been talking to the lawyer he brought with him had turned to listen to the conversation.
“H-Hyung—”
“I've already talked to the doctor who will be overseeing our examination and all they ask of us is our blood then the resul—”
“No.”
Seokjin’s shine dims with the atmosphere as his smile falls. Taehyung pulls away, more astounded than he was before as he stares at him in disbelief.
“Hyung?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Seokjin stammers out in disbelief.
Hoseok lets out a defeated sigh. “What if it came out as negative? Hyung, I've already accepted my status. I-I don't want to raise my hopes up only to come down to the same result we’re all expecting.”
“It doesn't hurt to try Hoba,” Seokjin said softer this time as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Try with me, please. If it's negative, at least we can lament together.”
The younger man stared up at his hyung, conflicted. For a while, all Hoseok did was look back into the fire in Seokjin’s eyes, searching for an answer only he knew the questions to before he stand up and nodded, motioning to his hyung to lead him the way
Everyone waited for them to return, ordering a diabolical amount of fast food to eat for lunch as the two were taken to the testing area. You took the seat next to Yoongi, making sure you’re far away from the practically vibrating Tae and Jungkook staring at you with wide, puppy eyes.
It's only 10am at that point yet your energy tank is drier than the sahara and non-existent as a stress-free day. When the two returned, you were already slumped down on Yoongi's shoulder half asleep.
The day unfortunately, didn't end there.
After your soulmarks were registered, you all went to BigHit for a meeting and you thanked the high heavens no one from your department had seen you enter the conference room with the boys and a lawyer.
Minhyuk had asked you why there'll be a company party at dinner but no birthday boy will be showing up. You lied and told him that Jungkook’s going back to Busan to celebrate his birthday with his family. Jihye had also questioned your absence and you had apologized to her, knowing how often you've been going for leaves these past few weeks.
She says it's fine but you still feel bad anyways.
The meeting was short yet it felt like centuries has passed until you were freed. Just a couple of rules being laid like you being unable to handle Jimin and Taehyung anymore, the living situation where you'd be moved to the Bangtan dorms, and who else would be allowed to know about the connections between you and the boys.
Thankfully, they had approved letting your three friends know once you reasoned that they'll be able to save you once people began to question your aversion to touching Jimin and Taehyung in the future.
By the time you had trudge into your room, you were beyond the word exhaustion. Brain far too fogged up you to pick up on the blaring red lights in your mind as the world swirled around you and you fell face first into your bed.
You chalked it up to your sleepless night and the emotional stress you've gone through these past few days so imagine your shock when you wake up and find yourself in a sterile and white room whose ceiling lights burned your eyes the moment they opened again.
It was so bright and so white, you remember passing out before you came here and all you could feel now was bliss, as if the heavy baggage you've collected from last week and last night had been lifted off your form.
As if you were in heaven.
“G-God?”
“No, it's Min Yoongi. Open your eyes, brat.”
The haze clears at his gruff voice and you begin to hear the stable beeping echoing in the hollow room. There's a heavy weight wounded loosely around your waist as well on your legs, turning your head, you were faced with the peaceful but almost colorless face of Jimin, his usually plush pink lips now pale and chaffed as his body trembled next to you; you were shaking too.
Turning to Yoongi to ask him what happened, you find your hand entangled with his. His impassive face now laced with concern and there were dark bags hanging under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping for a while.
“What the fuck happened?”
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enemies to lovers w/ spencer reid plzz 💗
.⋆。Whispers in the Dark。⋆.
Spencer Reid x plus size reader
You and Spencer have been at each other’s throats for months and the team is sick of it. So while on a case in a conveniently tiny town, they do something to fix it
Warnings: usual cm warnings (kidnapping, murder, serial killer), enemies to lovers, one bed trope (i’m not sorry), confessions, little bit of partial nudity, Spencer and reader are horny for each other and neither know how to deal with it, implied smut WC: 2.4k
6k Follower Celebration Bingo
Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library
If there was one thing that was a guarantee in this life, it was the DOCTOR (as he always liked to remind you) Spencer Reid would not keep his fucking mouth shut. You used to think it was endearing the way he so passionately spoke about anything and everything but after the 30th time he interrupted you (in front of every mind you), it got annoying real fast. And somehow, it was even worse today.
A series of kidnappings occurring in a small town in the middle of buttfuck nowhere that exactly replicated the town’s urban legend about a vengeful spirit killing those who tried to leave without offering sacrifice. Given your extensive knowledge on the development of folklore specifically tied to serial killers, it was an unspoken agreement that you would be taking the lead on the case.
But Reid had a very different idea.
“This is obviously someone using the story to get rid of people they have a vendetta against.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes at the young doctor. His lean body blocked the column of victim photos as he pointed to the map of the town beside it. He had drawn over several places with a red marker and although the abduction sites did fall into his contracted triangle of a comfort zone, something in your gut told you it was more than that.
“Look, I’m going to keep saying it. This goes way deeper. This has been happening for generations. 2002, 1985, 1968, hell even all the way back to the fucking 1820s! It’s either all 17 year olds getting killed or 17 people killed total each year it occurs, with it switching each time.” Spencer made a sound that was almost a scoff but with Hotch’s steely gaze fixed on the both of you, he covered it up by clearing his throat.
“Mark Adin was 18.”
“He turned 18 the day he died, Reid! And if you looked at his birth certificate, you’d see that his time of death was an hour before he would actually turn 18.”
“If you would just-“
“Alright!” Derek placed a firm hand onto Spencer’s shoulder, making him stumble slightly. “We get it, you’re both freakishly smart but I think it’s late and we all need some sleep.” He shot you a look as you crossed your arms over your chest, red hot anger and frustration still bubbling up inside you.
It always ended like that, one of the other members of your team stepped in before insults could be hurled (it’s happened once or twice before) and suggested a break while you and Spencer continued to glare at each other. He continuously undermined your theories and in return, you questioned his intelligence.
“I’m sure Y/L/N will realise how ridiculous she’s being after some undeserved rest. I mean, when is she ever right.” Your stomach dropped and Derek’s smile dimmed for a second before he wound an arm around the young doctor’s shoulders and guided him out of the conference room the team had commandeered far quicker than he normally did.
You opened your mouth to shout something back at him but Emily grabbed your forearm before you could. “It’s not worth it.” You met her gaze and quickly deflated.
“Yeah okay.” She gave you a soft smile as you both left the room together, missing the weighty glance Hotch and Rossi shared.
——————
“I can’t believe that you and JJ are doing this to me,” you whined, hiking up the strap of your go-bag higher on your shoulder, “you promised last time that we had to share rooms that it would be you and me. I don’t want to get stuck with Hotch again, he snores like a fucking freight train.” Emily poked your ribs as she passed by, shooting you a mischievous grin.
“You were too busy flirting with Reid to notice us making sleeping arrangements.” You huffed and followed her out of the elevator.
“I wasn’t FlIrTinG with him and by the way, that’s disgusting you even thought of that.” The hallway was dead silent save for the faint buzz of the ice machine at the very end.
“Yeah, that’s definitely why you totally weren’t checking out his ass while he was setting up the white board.”
“Emily!” You hissed but she only laughed in response.
“Come on, it’s so obvious that you like him! This childish rivalry you have is just sexual tension so for all of our sakes can you please just fuck him already so we can actually do our jobs.”
“Alright maybe I would like him if he wasn’t such an ass to me all the time.” You conceded, earning you a sly grin from your friend as you both came to a stop outside your hotel room door. “But! He constantly undermines me and makes me feel like shit so it’s never gonna happen.”
Emily stood by her own door, her key-card already in hand. “And you love to rile him up. So, never say never.” And with that, she slipped into her room, shutting the door before you could retort.
You rolled your eyes as you unlocked your own door and stepped in. The shower was already running but what mainly concerned you was the lack of a second bed. You sighed heavily, dropping your bag on the empty side away from the door. You were too exhausted and frustrated to even be mad about having to share both a room and a bed with your boss. Too exhausted in fact to notice the sweater on the chair in the corner couldn’t have possibly belonged to the older man.
Quickly, you stripped down to your underwear and slipped on your sleep clothes, figuring you could wake up early and shower before heading back to the police station. You sighed as you crawled beneath the sheets, the worn mattress immediately cradling your soft body.
Your eyelids had just begun to flutter shut when the water turned off. You turned onto your other side in anticipation of the bright light from the bathroom fully waking you up but what you didn’t expect was the accompaniment of the one voice you hadn’t wanted to hear until you had at least 6 hours of sleep and a massive coffee.
“What the hell?”
“Fuck me.” You sat up and took in the sight of a very damp Spencer Reid wearing only a towel around his waist. You refused to look down at his naked torso (no matter how badly you wanted to).
“You’re not Morgan.” He retorted.
“And here I was thinking you were a genius. Do you usually walk around half-naked with Derek?” He didn’t dignify you with a response this time, only grabbing his bag and retreating to the bathroom once more. As soon as the door shut, you launched yourself at your phone.
<I’m going to fucking kill you
>We’ve all packed noise cancelling headphones so don’t hold back ;)
>BTW before you even ask, there’s no more rooms available. Small towns are just great aren’t they
<I’ll get you back for this
>Sweet dreams
You could scream as you shut off your phone, Emily’s texts disappearing, leaving you staring at your reflection on the black screen. You should’ve known something was up when Hotch insisted that everyone take separate SUVs to the hotel under the guise of everyone splitting up first thing in the morning. The man was a fucking menace.
The mattress groaned as you laid back down, far closer to the edge this time. If Spencer took your hint and just left you alone for the rest of the night, you would consider it an overwhelming success. This time when the door opened, the light was already off, letting you breathe a sigh of relief.
The bed dipped and your body tensed for a moment. You waited for him to speak, but when he didn’t, you finally relaxed. In the silence and darkness of the room, you could pretend that you were anywhere else.
“Will you stop hogging the blankets?” You knew this peace couldn’t have possibly lasted.
“If you had turned on the heater I wouldn’t have to.” You grumbled but still released your hold on the covers just enough for him to take some more of it.
“Not my fault you’re always freezing for no reason.” The blanket lifted from your leg as Spencer fully wrapped himself up. You sighed but decided not to pick a fight, Emily’s words still circling your mind. Instead you wrapped your arms around your stomach as you drew your legs up, curling around yourself. You just wanted to sleep.
“What, no witty comeback?” You sighed heavily and squeezed your eyes shut.
“I get that I don’t ‘deserve to rest’ but I’m exhausted Spencer. Neither of us want to be here so can we just try to get some sleep and leave each other alone.” Thankfully, he stayed silent, for a moment at least.
“You called me Spencer.”
“Oh my god, can you please just let me sleep? Yes I called you Spencer, it’s your name isn’t it?” You snapped although you knew what he meant. You had never even referred to him by his first name in the almost 18 months since you had been on the team, just the same as he did with you.
“I’m sorry.”
“Fine.” You pressed your face into the thin pillow beneath your head, determined to finally fall asleep.
“No, Y/N I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t have said to you.” The bedsprings screamed in the quiet of the room and suddenly you could feel the gentle brush of Spencer’s breath along the back of your neck. You suppressed a shiver as best you could. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“Why are you bringing this up now? Are you trying to get laid or something?” Your tone held no bite but you could still feel the way he flinched. A sour taste bloomed in your mouth. “Sorry. For what it’s worth, I’ve been an asshole to you too.”
Tentatively, you rolled onto your back, your shoulder now brushing his. Soft light bled into the room from the light in the hallway, dimly letting you see his silhouette. Already, Spencer’s hair was a mess, different strands sticking up or to his face. His right hand rested on his chest while the left was by his side, barely a fraction of an inch from touching your own. He turned his head, making eye-contact with you for probably the first time since you had known him.
“Why— What did I do to make you hate me so much?” You muttered, suddenly unable to speak any louder than a whisper. You watched his chest hitch and then deflate.
“You didn’t do anything. I guess— it was easier to hate you than admit the truth.” The warmth of his skin made you breathe a sigh of relief as he pressed his hand to yours.
“And what is the truth Spencer?” Even in the limited light, you could see the way his eyes dropped to your lips. His lithe fingers curled around your wrist and gently lifted your hands so that it rested between your heads.
“That when I’m around you, I can’t concentrate on anything besides how beautiful you are, how intelligent, how capable. You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since the moment we met and it’s angered me.” You didn’t realise how close you were to him until the tip of his nose bumped against yours. You sucked in a breath but it did nothing to ease the floating feeling in your stomach.
“Why’s that?” You were both now on your sides in the middle of the bed, on the edge of something more, if only one of you would fall first.
“Because I knew that the second I accepted it, there was nothing I could do to stop myself from falling for you, even if you would never feel the same.”
You smirked. “And here I was thinking you were the smartest man alive, Dr Reid.” He pressed his lips to your knuckles with a smile and before you could tell him that he was wrong and quite frankly dumb for not seeing through you (like everyone else on the team did), his hand was on your jaw and his lips on yours.
You moaned into his mouth when he leaned onto you. You grabbed at his back under his shirt, your nails digging into the surprisingly well-defined muscles along his spine. Spencer’s head tilted, encouraging the kiss to become more passionate as his tongue traced your bottom lip. You tangled your fingers in his messy hair, tugging at it slightly as your mind began to go fuzzy with the lack of oxygen.
Spencer smiled against your lips, placing two or three more soft kisses against them before rolling onto his back once more, leaving you breathless beside him. You followed him down, putting your head on his pillow. You stole another peck from him as he clutched at your wide hips.
“I can’t believe how long it’s taken us to finally talk this out. We were both being really stupid.” You giggled against his now swollen lips.
“Yeah we have.” Something tugged at your mind, breaking you away from the warm bubble of affection you were lost in.
You shot up. “What, what is it? Did I do something wrong?” Spencer practically pleaded, his hand tightly gripping at your thigh.
“You’re right, we were both being stupid! We’re both correct. What if it’s not just one unsub, but a whole family of them? 17 years between killings, Spencer!” Now it was his turn to sit up, his brown eyes wide with realisation.
“It’s a coming of age ritual. The unsub is killing people they know but under the guidance of the person that did it before them.”
“So the place where they’re keeping the victims before they kill them should be in the comfort zone and it should line up with all the past ones!” He beamed at you. “But maybe we should wait till morning to tell the others, they do need their beauty sleep.”
“And we don’t?” His hand moved higher, slipping beneath your sleep shorts, making you shudder.
“Definitely not.” You swung your leg over his hips and sat on his thighs, kissing him once more.
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Poison from the Same Vine
Jasper Hale x Reader
Summary: Jasper Hale was a man at war—with himself, with his past, and now, with her. Y/N was the one thing he could never have, never touch, but the bond between them was suffocating, inescapable—two souls entwined in sin and salvation, running from the daylight yet desperate for its warmth.
Continue reading below ⬇
Based on the song: Daylight by David Kushner
───────────────────────────────
Telling myself I won’t go there Oh, but I know that I won’t care Tryna wash away all the blood I’ve spilt
Jasper had lived a long life filled with regret. A hundred and sixty years, and still, the weight of his sins sat heavy on his shoulders. No amount of time could wash away the crimson stains on his hands, no prayers could absolve him of the things he had done.
And yet, here she was.
Y/N.
The one thing in this world that made him feel like he could be something other than a monster. And he hated it.
Hated how his body gravitated toward hers. How her scent was the only thing he could never block out, no matter how much he tried. Hated the way she looked at him—like he wasn’t a killer, like she saw something in him worth saving.
Because he wasn’t.
And she shouldn’t.
But he couldn’t stay away.
This lust is a burden that we both share Two sinners can’t atone from a lone prayer Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt
Jasper was gone before he could think better of it, moving across the small stretch of space between them with the speed of a ghost. Y/N barely had time to register his presence before he was there, pressing her back against the rough bark of a towering pine tree.
Her breath hitched.
His hands gripped the tree on either side of her head, shoulders tense, muscles coiled like a predator on the verge of pouncing.
“This ain’t right,” Jasper muttered, more to himself than to her, voice low, desperate.
Y/N swallowed. “Then why are you here?”
The question hung between them, thick as the fog rolling through the forest. Jasper’s golden eyes burned into hers, flickering with something dark, something unspoken.
“You know why,” he rasped.
Her pulse spiked. He felt it, could hear it hammering inside her ribcage like a warning bell, but she wasn’t afraid. She should have been. He wanted her to be. Maybe then, he could do the right thing and leave.
But she wasn’t afraid.
She lifted a hand, fingers ghosting over the sleeve of his shirt. Jasper flinched but didn’t move away, his jaw clenching so tight she could hear the faintest crack of his teeth grinding together.
“Jasper,” she whispered.
His name in her voice was his undoing.
With a growl, he gripped her wrist, pinning it against the tree above her head. He wasn’t rough, but there was a warning in his touch.
“I’m not good, darlin’,” he told her, voice almost pained. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
She smiled, soft and knowing. “Yes, I do.”
Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time You and I drink the poison from the same vine
Jasper let out a sharp breath, head dropping forward until his forehead nearly brushed hers.
He could feel everything she felt—the anticipation, the desire, the sheer, unwavering certainty that no matter how much he fought this, he would lose.
Because this wasn’t something he could fight.
It was written into his bones, into the very fabric of his being.
She was his.
And he was hers.
Whether he liked it or not.
His fingers loosened around her wrist, sliding down until he was cradling her hand in his, tracing the delicate lines of her palm. Y/N watched him, waiting, never pushing.
Jasper swallowed. “You should run.”
She shook her head.
“You should hate me.”
She smiled. “Never.”
A bitter chuckle rumbled from his chest. “You should.”
“Do you hate me?” she asked.
Jasper lifted his head, eyes locking onto hers. “I don’t think I know how.”
And then, finally, he gave in.
He kissed her.
It was a slow burn, a war waged in silence, in the press of lips and the brush of tongues. Jasper held her as if she was the only thing tethering him to this world, hands cradling her face like she was something fragile, something holy.
And maybe, to him, she was.
Hidin’ all of our sins from the daylight From the daylight, runnin’ from the daylight
The sun was beginning to rise, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold.
Jasper exhaled against her lips, reluctant. “We shouldn’t.”
Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Then don’t let anyone find out.”
He smirked. “That easy, huh?”
She grinned. “With you? Never.”
And as the morning light crept over the horizon, they stayed hidden in the shadows, bound together by something neither of them could name—something dark, something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
➽─────────────❥➽─────────────❥
#angst#fluff#the cullens#the twilight saga#twilight#twilight saga#twilight x reader#jasper hale x reader#jasper hale#jasper#jasper whitlock#x reader#reader insert#x female reader#one shot#imagine#female reader#Spotify
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Something I love about Red Dead is the depths of the characters.
Yes, Arthur Morgan is a murderer, a man who beat another to death for ten bucks, who stole from banks and who helped kill about half the law in one town, he is known for brutality and doing any dirty work he is ordered to do, but he is also a father, a man who went out of his way to spend time with a son he didn't even plan to have and whom it would be easier to leave. He is a man who ran with letters between star-crossed lovers and helped them escape. He is a man who helped an archeologist gather dino bones and a monk free slaves.
Yes, Hosea Matthews is a scam artist, he is the leader of a wild and brutal gang, he planned countless schemes, he murdered a man and laughed about it but he is also a teacher. He taught orphan kids how to ride, how to shoot, how to read and write and how to care for themselves in a world that had betrayed them. He is an adviser people around him trust to be honest and to help them along the way.
Yes John Marston is a killer, he killed as early as twelve years old, he was ruined from the start, he beats people for information, he murders with no thought, rustles horses, robs trains and gets those uncooperative smacked, but he is also a man who gave medicine to a girl in the desert who wanted to be closer to god. He gathered flowers for an old man and his wife. He ran into a burning stable to save animals, risking his own life.
Yes, they were all men wanted by the law, shunned by the world, but in their own society they were cared for, they were appreciated and relied on, they were worth something. They were more than the crimes written on paper, were they good people? No, but they could definitely have been worse.
#rdr2#rdr2 community#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#red dead redemption community#john marston#red dead redemption two#rdr john#red dead fandom#rdr2 hosea#hosea matthews#nthspecialll
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💥slams into your room like a ragoll
Some fluff idea for you, with Simon
Simon, who loved discovering new things about you, whether it was the way your eyes crinkled more than other smiles when you were super excited to share something, something you'd hyperfixate on for the next four months or so, or the way your giggles gave you away before you could even tell him the story.
So how about writing this, he leans about the lil nose scrunches you do when he kisses the tip of your nose today…and he starts kissing more all over your face just to find out what else you do at certain places he kiss, sending you into a giggling blushing mess :3
- ya not so suspicious panda 🐼
you better repair my door u evil panda
A whole bag of sugar’s been added into this drabble
Simon Exploring Your Cute Reactions
Simon’s in love with your little reactions, hence discovering new things from you is his daily mission.
Like how you accidentally added salt instead of sugar into your tea yesterday, and stuck your tongue out when the unexpected saltiness hit you.
or how you yelled out his name in a hurried tone, and as he rushed to check if you were alright, it was just you showing him the flower you tried to grow finally had a little bud after countless times of failure.
He sometimes wonders why you have so many different expressions, but he sees this part of you as a treasure chest, providing sparkles of anticipation to his life.
Now Simon sits on the couch, with you sitting on his lap, reading the ‘For Plant Killers: how to keep a plant without needing a brain’ book. He looks at you burying your face in the pages with a serious frown, the urge to kiss you is too difficult for him to resist.
“Oh!” You let out a little squeak as you raise your head from the book, eyes wide with curiosity, like a surprised bunny, his mind notes it as he plants another kiss on the tip of your nose.
“Hey, what you doing?” Your little nose scrunches at the touch, triggering his enjoyment with how cute you’re doing it.
Simon just shakes his head, and continues exploring.
Another kiss lands on your eyelid this time, your feather-like eyelashes flutter as you giggle at the itchy feeling.
“Stop you silly man, what are you doing?” You catch his cheeks between your palms after he gives your temple a kiss that lasts longer.
You’re a blushing mess right now, face inches from his, so he’s able to take a good look at the pink smears across your face, making you more vivid and splendid.
“Researching.” He shrugs.
“Well, now’s my time to do some research.”
The chuckles are unstoppable as you start your revenge, from the brushing of your lips at his jawline, a open mouth kiss on his face, to the light pecks at his freckles.
“Not so composed now, huh?” A devious grin plays on your glossy lips when you take a rest from your attacks, looking at him with joy-glinting eyes.
He knows his face is red like an apple now, he can sense the heat gathering at his cheeks, but in front of you, there’s no need to hide his true emotions. Not to mention, he’s on the cusp of victory, since the ace card for this cheeky game of you two is between his fingers.
“Do you remember to water your plant today?”
“oh shit!” Realization strikes you like lightning. You jump off his lap, leaving Simon a glimpse of your hasty figure as you disappear behind the corner.
Tons of discoveries today, he licks his chops while taking a sip from the lukewarm tea.
What will he find tomorrow? He leans back and taps unconsciously at your book. You’re like a mystery bag, he doesn’t think he’s able to guess what’s inside, but hey, your priceless demeanors are worth spending time exploring, and he’s already looking forward to tomorrow’s investigation.
#cod imagine#simon riley x you#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley imagine#cod x reader#cod x you#ghost x you#simon ghost riley x you#simon 'ghost' riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost riley fluff
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it came to me on a sunny day - dad!simon - inspired by the song 'my girl' by the temptations
maybe i'll make this a whole fic? idk... lemme know <3
telling simon you were pregnant was nothing but a shock. but it was inevitable. you two weren't the best when it came to protection, so one night of passion led to the conception of your daughter.
you mostly wore simon's jacket due to you being pregnant most of the winter. you kept telling yourself that you'd get a jacket to accommodate the growing bump, but by the time you got around to it, simon's sweatshirts kept you warm enough. even though simon still put a hat on you every time you left the flat.
simon just loved the swell of your belly, he always smiled when he felt the movement of your daughter. he would lie on the couch, legs dangled off the edge in an uncomfortable manner to be closer to your belly.
if you both weren't so worried about protecting simon's identity, you would've put him online to tout him as 'father of the year'. in your second trimester you did get married at the court house. it was an informal affair, something to put on paper. he promised that the two of you could have the whole celebration after the baby was born.
"simon." you said, "watching johnny choke on a fry that kyle threw into his mouth after the ceremony is worth more than some stupid party." you then leaned over to kiss him, your ring felt comfortable on your finger.
however as you entered your third trimester and your fingers became swollen, you had you wear your ring around your neck on a chain. when you felt about it, simon simply said, "chain's closer to your heart."
when summer came your little rosemary was born. she was born in the end of june, your friend remarked that she was a cancer sign. simon was there the whole way, even when you punched him when a particular hard contraction hit.
"i'm gonna kill you, simon." while that wasn't the first time he ever heard that phrase, it was the only time it ever made a shiver run down his spine. but he was your rock the entire way, the full ten hours it took to delivery rosemary riley.
she came out screamin' though, a far cry from the silent nature of her father. you had never seen simon cry too many times, but the first time he held the pudgy newborn, you could see him hold back the tears.
"simon."
"yeah?" his gaze didn't leave his daughter.
you patted him on the arm, "you can cry, no one's going to judge you." you knew he always felt like he had to be the protector of his little family. but when you leaned over, exhausted yourself, and kissed him on the cheek. the emotion flooded out of him.
you were parents now.
simon took to being a father really well, despite his nervousness (that he never showed on his face) to end up like his own father. he realized that it was a lot easier to be good parent than he thought.
"i love you both." he often said to you, "thank you."
he said that you gave him a second chance at life. after everything, the pain that caused him to shut down and become a killer for the military. you and rosemary allowed the coldness to turn warm. while he still was intimidating outside the home, in the safety of where you lived, he was able to be the caring parent he was denied growing up.
"rose." he said in his low voice, "where are ya goin'." then picked up the toddler with ease so she didn't topple the television on top of her, "you can see it just fine over here." then carried her back to the couch.
you both did your best to not raise an ipad baby, rather you made good use of the second hand printer you had and let you colour and draw to her hearts content. and books. so many books.
"that's a bear, rose." you said as you pointed to the drawing in the book you were reading to her before bed, "b-e-a-r."
"B!Ear!" she chirped as she kicked out her little legs under the covers. she was a very smart girl.
she gets it from me, simon said jokingly.
of course he often let his little rosemary colour in his tattoos with washable markers while they're sitting outside on a nice summer's day a year or two down the line. the little girl is still getting used to holding markers and colours outside the lines of the tattoos. but simon finds it endearing.
nothin' is gonna hurt his girls.
"honey." you said.
"yes?"
"i think we're giving rose a sibling a lot sooner than we expected." <3
(i wanted to write something tender on this beautiful spring day. if it's sunny where you are today soak in the rays!)
#bunny speaks#call of duty#call of duty modern warfare#reader insert#simon ghost riley#ghost call of duty#call of duty x reader#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon ghost#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost fluff#dad!ghost#dad!simon riley#dad!simon ghost riley
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yes yes Will is very cute and very innocent and sweet and all but may I remind you that he's also essentially a trained killer?
I know his badassery in the department of 'he could crush you between his shoulder blades' has been discussed many times so today we're just gonna discuss his short fuse.
Will Treaty's got a temper. No joke, he does.
You hurt his loved ones? Yeah, he's gonna find you and murder you. You get on his nerves one too many times? He will threaten to put you in prison for the rest of your life just cuz he can.
Remember when he literally started dragging the snobby Makindaw secretary back toward the invaded castle to turn him over to the murderous Scotti? Yeah that was literally only because he was being annoyed and full of himself, and Will was already on the verge of a breakdown because the ✨love of his life✨ was locked in a tower, so an obnoxious secretary who thinks he's worth more than he is? Yeah, get out.
oh oh also remember in The Lost Stories? When he's interrogating the suspect for all those strange instances at Castle Redmont? And the suspect keeps lying and stuttering through his answers and Will literally slams his fists on the desk and yells at him to not waste his time? He was probably using this as an intimidation tactic to get the guy to fess up (it worked) but we all know Will was probably, rightfully, and legitimately pissed off. The man is BUSY, he ain't got time in his schedule for people to fuck around during an interrogation and make him go through more work than he has to.
Oh also remember when he gave a guy into slavery? .... yeahhhhh not much to say about that
Also remember when he was captured by Ruhl and Ruhl was all like "bro why you chasing me downnnn what did I dooo?" like an asshole, and Will just very evenly, very calmly and quietly says "You killed my wife"
he's not screaming at the guy, he's not cursing him out and feverishly trying to escape, he's CALM, and he asserts AUTHORITY because even in a situation where he is literally held captive he gives off the energy that he's in control. Even when we ALL know that he was dying inside and probably desperately wanting to murder Ruhl where he stood.
If y'all can remember any other instances, I'd be happy to be reminded of them, Will is awesome. that's it. that's the post.
#rangers apprentice#ranger's apprentice#will treaty#tessa's headcanons#Tessa thirsting after Will again#Will Treaty is hot
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You mentioned that if we know Denji’s characterization of Killer and Killer’s original backstory that we should understand why he’s so touch starved and has such a messed up definition of love. Is there any way you could tell me who Denji is?? I’m very curious now lol
Denji is a character from Chainsaw Man. I recommend you read the manga or watch the anime - though just the anime alone won't grasp the inspiration I derived from the character into Killer.
I also took inspiration from Gojo Satoru (Jujutsu Kaisen) but more so from his younger self more than the present Gojo.
(These are just drawn for the sake of meme-ing, not actually AG Killer's design)
Further down is explanation and slight spoilers. I don't talk much about it since I want most information to be a slow burn reveal for the characters, as if the audience is getting to know the AGDT cast in real time. (I am a sucker for narratives where it keeps you wanting to psycho-analyze a character rather than revealing everything upfront.)
Starting off with Denji, he's a teen boy who suffered through poverty and taken advantage of for labor just because he's willing to do anything just to get by in life. He's a boy who will do anything to live a normal teen life without having to worry about if he'll die from starvation. Along the story of CSM, he's been treated poorly due to how easily he can be manipulated - he literally has no idea of his own rights as a person. He's also very emotionally unaware because he's lived all alone his life except for a friendly devil named Pochita, who gave his heart to Denji so he can live and become chainsaw man to protect himself. Again, this is just a rough summary I made of Denji's character and I can't exactly explain it here! I recommend watching character analysis video that can further explain him or- you can also check at the original source (manga or anime) yourself which I believe will be worth it since CSM is such a good story.
In AGDT, I suppose you can consider Chara as Killer's Pochita, but in a more unhealthy / partners in crime way. I'll leave that up for the future to explore since at the moment, that's not what I want AGDT to focus on.
As for young Gojo, he's also complicated. He believes himself to be invincible and he can rub off as cocky most of the time. In the story, he holds no compassion or positive feelings for people who are weak - which is essentially everyone for him since he views himself as the strongest. This changed for a while when he was tasked to protect someone - he grew fond of them. However, later on this care disappeared when he perfected a technique - his feeling of pride for himself was stronger than his care for the person he was meant to protect. Gojo is usually nonchalant and playful, also emotionally unaware most of the time as he only thinks about himself (and a fellow 'strongest one' ahem, Geto but that's something I'll ramble for another day). However, he does go absolutely crazy when he's in intense fights since he's absolutely determined to win out of pride.
I would love to talk about what else Killer takes from Gojo but I'd feel like I'd be spoiling everything so I'll leave it for another time to talk about or explore.
There's other medias I took inspiration from for other parts of AG Killer but again, it's a subject to navigate around another time.
I hope this gave some insight on how this variant of Killer is and I hope you enjoyed reading through it!
#lore dump#my artwork#csm denji#jjk gojo#agdt killer#ardent gospel#ag dreamtale#agdt#killer sans#ask
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SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader


This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!
PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT
TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes
CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.
It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.
$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.
But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.
Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.
The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.
At least, that's what you tell yourself.
Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.
There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.
You want more.
More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.
You want a story. A real one. A big one.
The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.
So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.
It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.
But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.
The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.
You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.
Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.
The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.
It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:
"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"
You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.
But what happened next was even more unexpected.
A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.
"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.
"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.
"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."
There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."
You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."
"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"
It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.
You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.
You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.
Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.
The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.
By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.
Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.
You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.
The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.
But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.
Love.
You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.
But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.
And that was dangerous.
You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.
You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.
The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.
At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.
The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?
It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.
You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.
Why are you so attracted to him?
Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.
The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.
He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.
It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.
You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.
His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.
Why so addicted to him?
You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.
Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.
You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.
The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.
The Butcher.
You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.
This is him.
The Butcher.
The Devil.
His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,
is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.
The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.
Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.
You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.
You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?
And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?
You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.
And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.
The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.
You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.
So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.
And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.
The rot has already spread.
It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.
You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.
But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.
A note was tucked beneath it. A message.
Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.
. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"
Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.
Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?
But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.
Click. Click. Click.
A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.
The Butcher.
He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.
The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.
His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.
"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.
You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.
“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”
Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.
You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.
His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.
"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"
And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.
The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.
You do not want to run. You can't run.
He's here. He is right in front of you
You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.
"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."
The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.
He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.
And now, his hands are on you.
Oh god.
The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.
A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.
"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."
And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,
"Wanna touch me?"
You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.
"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."
You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.
You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.
The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.
"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."
The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.
"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."
You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.
The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on



#killer chat#kc#killerchat#ronin beaufort#killer chat ronin#ronin x reader#ronin#kc ronin#kc ronin x reader#killer chat x reader#visual novel#ronin beaufort x reader#ronin x
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Call of duty, Ghost
The new tech will look good in my clothes

Maybe I'll make a part 2
She was great, maybe a bit too enthusiastic about her job but no one could say she wasn't effective. Her job saved it and became her passion. Joining the military, becoming a special operator got her away from her horrid family and let her work out some deep rooted anger issues,so when her knee messed up permanently it hits hard that she can't serve anymore and can't kill anymore. While stuck recovering she wonders if life is even worth it but she never gave up before she's not gonna start now.
After healing from her injury she goes to her old captain asking for any job she can get he sends her to see squad 141 maybe she can be tech or assistant for them. She goes with hope. She gets there and meets with captain Price, her old captain called him and talked her up and her situation. Price says “I could use a tech opp. It's not field work but we are always busy here with top jobs”. She takes the position, she's in an office but she still gets to contribute and that's gonna have to be enough
She meets the guys as they come and go, some drop off gathered Intel, others come to pick up intel files from her. A big guy called Ghost has even brought her tea. It was nice even though he doesn't speak more than 3 words tops.
It's stormy today and there's also a group meeting, so as she goes to the conference room her knee pain is increasing and she limps a bit to take weight off. She doesn't have an ace bandage with her, the storm came out of nowhere. Ghost sees her limp to her seat, after the meeting he stops her and asks what's wrong, she explains rain makes her old injury hurt and she doesn't have an ace bandage. Not long after she's gets back to her office, Ghost comes in and hands her bandages and pain killer, she thanks him, he says “visits the medic if you ever need something.”
She works late sometimes cause deadlines or cause she gets invested and forgets about time. Ghost forgot something in his office and went to get it. He saw the light on under your door and knocked to see if you were there or if the light was left on. The knock startles you and you say “come in”, he comes in “what are you still doing here this late”, she looks at the clock,“shit it is I didn't realize ... uhh fuck”. She rubs at her face and starts looking for her keys. “You shouldn't drive this late just stay here”,”I don't have a room here”, “follow me”.She grabs her bag and follows him, he slows his pace to accommodate her short legs and limp.
He pulls a key ring and opens the door on the first try, he turns on the lights. “it's unoccupied but stocked with basics” ,he pulls off the key and hands it to her, “you should have a room here anyways”, “thank you lieutenant”, “goodnight” he walks away. She checks out the room, she finds a change of clothes, they are big but will work to sleep, there's an attached bath she washes up, changes and gets in the bed. It's not very soft but she's tired and it works and she falls asleep.
She wakes in the morning and the new surroundings confuse her for a minute but she remembered what happened, but now she's concerned about getting breakfast. They must serve it in the mess hall. She'd eaten lunch there a few times. Her just woken confused brain heads to the mess hall still in the big army clothes. She finds it pretty empty, she gets food and sits. Soap walks in and does a double take seeing her, he stops by her table and says “am I seeing things”, she says “nope or we both are”. Ghost comes in and sees soap sitting with her when he sees her wearing army basics that are way too big he thinks how she's so cute like that. He sits with them and asks “how's the room?”, “blankets could be softer but was good got real confused when I woke up though”, “ you slept here?”, “no I just came here really early to enjoy the breakfast and put on army regs way too big for me”. Ghost huffs a laugh, she explains “I lost track of time yesterday and ghost gave me a room.. might not be too bad staying here actually”. Ghost hopes this happens more often just so he can see her in those big clothes, he makes a mental note to slip some of his clothes in there.
#writeblr#writers on tumblr#fluff#writter#call of duty#call of duty fic#simon ghost riley#ghost cod#ghost drabble#drabble#cod drabble#totallyanopossum writting
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Hey. You. Disabled person.
We're in dark times right now, and a lot of us are probably going to die. A lot of us have always died, and we tend to be the first ones offloaded when times get hard for being "more trouble than we're worth".
Those people are wrong about us. We are worth every effort needed to keep us alive, because we are people. We are worth loving and caring for. Our quality of life and our joy are important.
The people who are wrong about us are currently in power, and are being given leeway to act. We are likely going to be stripped of a good portion of our healthcare, income, and networks. The first two are most likely to happen directly, through cuts to federal programs. The latter is likely to happen as the ones who love us are burdened under their own problems, and may no longer have the time, energy, or spare income to help us. Ignoring any of that won't help us.
So, our lives are valuable, but they're not being treated that way. What next?
Do what you need to to secure your healthcare. We're going to see a boom in black market and back-alley treatment. Find doctors and pharmacists you trust who keep their mouths shut and their standards of care high. If you can, stockpile medications that are expensive or likely to see shortages with the tariffs. If you depend on weed or CBD for part of your symptom management, see if you can find a grower who's likely to keep it up even if the conservative agenda on weed gets reinstated.
Look into alternative sources of income. Yeah, old news for a lot of us, and I expect you've heard all the old advice about data entry and so on before. Monetary isn't the only kind of income that'll help here, though. If a neighbor will pay you in food for helping set up a spreadsheet, that's food you don't have to buy. If your insurance no longer covers repairs to your equipment, then a technician and you can barter services.
Don't do their work for them. If they want you dead, then they should have to fight for every single death that they want to see. If you have to die, don't die quietly. Spread exactly why you're dying as loud and far as you can- social media, local papers, anywhere you can. Name your killers clearly and often. Don't make yourself easy to bury. Take their reputations down with you.
Do, however, prepare to be dead. If you have any assets you care about, get a will together and make sure they'll be sent to the people who actually gave a shit about you even when it was work. If your parents were pieces of shit, they don't get to sell your small collection or your left-behind art like they have a right to it. Draw up what you want done with your body.
Living wills are important too, as is declaring who has your medical power of attorney. These determine how you are treated if you are alive, but unable to communicate or not considered in your right mind. Be very careful about who you give these rights to, but if you don't give them to anyone, they probably will default to whoever your next of kin is. If there's someone better than them, get it down in legal terms. If you're gay and happily married, get it down that your spouse has your medical power of attorney, in case they manage to rule against gay marriage at the federal level. An advance directive covers both a living will and who has your medical power of attorney.
Hide. Steal. Fight. Commit crimes and use the legal system. Protect yourself and preserve your own life by any means you can get your hands on.
Because every single one of us who stays alive is spit in the face of everyone who thinks it would be more convenient to have all of us comfortably dead and out of their way.
Because every single one of us who stays alive is proof to the disabled people who come after us that we are not easy to get rid of, and that they deserve to fight as well.
Because every single one of us deserves to live.
I love you. Stay the fuck alive.
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Headcanons About the G.O.A.T

(Two posts in one day? Wowser.)
He never felt like Michael was his name. For his entire life he's been referred to as "Mike", so whenever he's called "Michael" . . . it's worth an eyebrow raising. It also fits him perfectly; short, blunt, and objective;
Never one for words. Not because he's a traumatized adult; he just doesn't like talking too much;
His grades in school were always average, except his consistently high grades in P.E. and math (the latter is a courtesy of the family bloodline);
The kind of guy that works in these convenience stores and never looks like he wants to be working there;
"That growth spurt is just right around the corner, bro," ahh height;
He's a retro sort of guy. Old movies, songs, shows . . . you name it—he's into it;
He's unintentionally kind of a dick sometimes in conversations;
His social vocabulary includes a wide arsenal of "Mhm", "hm", and shrugging;
He doesn't really care what the others think or say about him. In reality, he does care, but time made him rough around the edges to the point where aloofness became an emotional shield towards hate;
He's actually not clueless about how attracted people are to him. He's just a little too shy and a little too in disbelief that someone would actually want to fuck with his bum ass;
His ideal partner is a person that complements him in everyday life. So if he's one way, his partner is the other, and so on. For him, he doesn't need fancy dates or high expectations, just knowing that, no matter what happens, there's always someone there that's looking out for him fills him with ease;
He's part of the weird sort of human folks that doesn't look after themselves but manages to look good regardless;
He gave up on dating when he realized nobody would take the responsibility of living with his little sister inside the house. Between choosing either Abby or some random relationship that wouldn't last forever, he went with his sister;
Despite being seemingly rude and nonchalant, he cares a lot about his family's well-being, perhaps even more than he cares about himself. He doesn't state this out loud, but Abby and Vanessa point this out a lot;
He's not part of any special family, including serial killers or robotic engineers. He's a Schmidt and that's that. Mike's part of a family where everything went wrong because of cruel fate;
Maybe not the best driver in the world (parking tickets go brrr);
He was always interested in what's physical rather than what's theoretical. That being said, technology is not his strongest area (picture him showing Abby an ancient Facebook meme while laughing his ass off);
His spirit animal is the cat. He can trust in himself (body, mind, and soul) to reevaluate his past and try to learn what he couldn't learn back then (like Garrett's disappearance);
He shows love, but doesn't tell;
Bonus: Abby feels relieved whenever Mike tells her right before bedtime he's going to see her tomorrow. Despite how sullen and awkward her brother could be, deep down she knew that "See you tomorrow" was his way of saying, "I love you".
Okay, I think that's all I can think of for now. Thanks for reading this mess of a post . . . !
#fnaf movie#mike schmidt#five nights at freddy's#fnaf#abby schmidt#mikenessa#schmelly#mike schmidt x vanessa shelly#using Mikenessa tags because yes#he's HIM#the goat#mike x vanessa
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