#they don't blink with their eyes but the whites of their eyes blink. they blink on their wings too. but otherwise they always stare

[etherealyoungk]

ramen & fate | boo seungkwan

SUMMARY: in which you meet a rich guy at the convenience store during a late night ramen run.

PAIRING: chaebol!seungkwan x reader

THEMES: strangers to lovers, meet cute kinda

WARNINGS: fluff, use of curse words

WORDCOUNT: 2.4k

A/N: @wheeboo happy birthday my love! this is a little gift from me to you! this is such a silly idea but i thought i'd write it out for you and i hope you like it <3

you walk into the convenience store and walk inside and the faint sound of pop music hums from the speakers overhead, blending with the quiet hum of the refrigerators in the back. you barely notice any of it though because your mission is clear - ramen. you really needed a ramen fix right now.

you make a beeline for the ramen aisle, the craving gnawing at you and nothing else would do now, not after the day you've had. there's a strange comfort in that little cup of noodles, in its simplicity, in the way it tastes exactly how you expected it to. your eyes scan the shelves and you spot your favourite ramen, only to find one left on the shelf. you immediately reach for it without a second thought, but so does someone else.

your fingers brush against another hand, and you pause, startled. your eyes follow the hand, trailing up a crisp white sleeve, past a perfectly tailored suit jacket, until they land on the face of the man reaching for the same cup of ramen. he’s tall so you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. his expression is cool, almost unreadable, his jawline sharp and sleek, his styled hair making him look like he just walked off the set of some corporate drama.

"oh," you say, blinking as your hand hovers over the cup.

he looks down at you, his brows lifting slightly as if in mild surprise, but he doesn’t immediately pull his hand back. "looks like we’ve got the same taste," he says, his voice smooth.

you blink at him and wrack your brain for a response before you let out a nervous laugh. "well, it is the best one", you reply as you look at him.

he smirks faintly, tilting his head. "i agree, but there’s only one left."

there’s a pause, the moment stretching out as both of you keep your hands over the cup of ramen and suddenly this feels like some sort of high-stakes negotiation situation.

"i—uh—had a long day," you say, trying to justify your claim, though you immediately feel silly for doing so. "i really need this ramen".

his smirk softens into something resembling amusement. "and you think i don’t?", he counters, raising a brow at you. "i’ve had back-to-back meetings since seven this morning", he says.

"well, i’ve been running around non-stop too", you protest, your grip on the edge of the shelf tightening. his gaze flickers between you and the ramen before he exhales, and lets out a small resigned sigh and to your surprise, he takes his hand away.

"alright," he says, stepping back slightly. "you win, take it", he says as his hand swings down. "really? thanks," you say, though your tone is cautious, like you’re not entirely sure this isn’t some kind of trick.

he gives you a small nod, then glances at his watch, grabbing a different ramen from the shelf and walking to a different aisle without sparing you another glance. you blink, a little confused but get about on your mission to get the ramen. you grab a few more stuff, some kimbap and something to drink and make your way to the cash counter when you spot the man in the suit again.

"i'm sorry sir, but i don't have change for such a big bill", you hear the worker say. "unless you buy items for that amount, i don't really have a way to give you back your change", the worker continues.

you walk front and put your stuff on the counter. "i'll pay for his stuff", you say and he looks at you.

"i've got it, i'm sure i have smaller bills somewhere", he says as he pulls out his wallet and your eyes nearly pop out with the fat wad of cash you see in it, all big bills. what the fuck. you decide to ignore what you just saw and by the time the man in the suit is digging his wallet, you've already paid for your stuff, his included.

you take your things and towards the corner of the store to cook your ramen. once the ramen is done, you take a seat and that's when the man in the suit appears again. he’s got his own ramen cup in hand, the sleeve of his tailored suit pushed up slightly to reveal an expensive looking watch. he moves methodically, peeling back the lid of his ramen cup and pouring in the hot water with a steady hand, there's no hesitation and no fumbling. he catches your gaze, and you quickly look away, suddenly very interested in your own noodles. you can feel his eyes on you for a moment, but then he goes back to his ramen, silent and composed. you sneak another glance at him and think to yourself - he is pretty handsome.

you’re halfway through your noodles, the warm broth hitting just the right spot on a cold night before you hear the shuffle of footsteps coming towards you.

"mind if i sit?" he asks, his voice smooth and you nod. he sits down with a kind of effortless grace, setting his ramen down in front of him and adjusting his sleeves like he’s dining at a michelin-star restaurant instead of a dingy convenience store. you focus on your noodles, hoping he won’t notice the way your gaze keeps flickering back to him and you watch as he stirs his ramen and takes a bite.

"you didn’t have to pay for my stuff, you know," he says after a bite, breaking the silence.

"it’s not a big deal," you reply with a shrug. "maybe you should carry smaller bills next time", you tell and you can see the faint smile on his face.

"i swear i thought i had change on me", he says, rather to himself.

"doesn’t seem like you need to worry about it," you remark before you can stop yourself. “i mean, with a wallet like that.”

his smile widens slightly, and he leans back in his chair, resting an elbow casually on the table. "appearances can be deceiving," he says, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent you can’t quite place.

you raise an eyebrow. "right, and expensive suits and fat wads of cash are just a camouflage?", you ask.

"something like that," he replies, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes now like he’s enjoying this back and forth talk, like he's amused by you.

you huff out a soft laugh as you shake your head. "well, next time you’re low on change, i suggest hitting the ATM before wandering into a convenience store", you tell and he nods.

"noted," he says, and there’s a warmth to his voice now.

"i’d like to pay you back", he says after a moment, but you shake your head.

"that's not necessary," you reply, waving a dismissive hand. "it’s just ramen", you say.

and he just looks at you, and it looks like he wants to say something more, but he settles for giving you a small smile instead. "alright, if you’re sure".

after finishing his meal, he gathers his things, straightens his perfectly tailored suit and offers you a polite, "thanks again," before leaving.

you think that’s the last you’ll see of him, until you notice something on the table, his sleek black leather wallet, the kind that practically screams expensive. your eyes widen as your hands reach out for it and you mutter under your breath.

grabbing the wallet, you flip it open and find a few crisp bills (all large denominations, of course), some credit cards and a single business card tucked inside, but there's no name, just a logo and a phone number. you hesitate for a moment before you decide to call the number, but it goes straight to voicemail.

for the next few days, you keep the wallet with you, figuring he’ll eventually call back or text or come looking for it, but nothing. it’s not until a few days later, when you’re rushing through a crowded sidewalk with a bag of groceries in one hand and your phone in the other, that fate decides to intervene. you’re trying to balance too many things at once, not paying attention to where you’re going, when you collide hard into someone coming from the opposite direction. the impact sends your phone clattering to the ground and your grocery bag spilling open. "oh, come on!" you groan, crouching to pick up your things.

"sorry about that", a familiar voice says, and you freeze mid-reach.

you glance up to see him, the ramen guy, in his perfectly tailored suit guy, crouching down to help. he looks as polished as ever, his suit immaculate despite the chaos of the street and he notices you at the same time, and his eyes widen slightly.

"you," he says, clearly surprised.

"you," you reply, just as surprised. "i've been looking for you, you left this", you say after you've gathered all your groceries and stand up. you dig into your bag and bring out his wallet, handing it over to him.

his expression shifts. "i didn’t even realize it was missing until yesterday, but by then, i figured it was gone for good", he says as he looks at you.

"well, lucky for you i found it,” you say as you hold it out for him. he takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and his smile softens. “you have no idea how much this means, thank you", he says

"you’re welcome," you reply and he looks down at the wallet in his hand, then back at you.

“i owe you, again", he says. "let me buy you dinner, it's the least i can do, please", he asks and you blink, caught off guard.

"dinner? that's...", you trail off as you chew on your lip, considering his offer. "but you don't even know me?", you say, unsure.

"i'll take my chances", he says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“alright,” you say, nodding. “dinner sounds nice.”

the smile that spreads across his face is slow and warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds and it softens his polished, professional look, making him seem boyish almost.

"i didn't get your name", you ask.

"i'm seungkwan", he says, holding out his hand and you reach for it, shaking it, the warmth of his hand engulfing you. "yn", you say, giving him a small smile.

you both exchange numbers and you head home, and it's only then that you wonder if he'll actually follow through. and a few days later, your phone buzzes with a text from him.

ramen guy: this is seungkwan, does friday evening work for dinner? let me know what time works for you.

you reply quickly and his response comes almost immediately.

ramen guy: perfect, i’ll take care of everything, looking forward to it.

when friday arrives, you find yourself standing in front of the address he sent—a restaurant that looks like it was plucked straight from a luxury travel magazine. the building is sleek and modern, its glass walls shimmering in the golden hour light. your nerves spike as you step through the grand entrance and suddenly you're thinking that this must be some kind of joke, that he must have sent you the wrong address by mistake because holy shit, you could barely afford this place. a host greets you with a warm smile when you walk inside. “you must be here for mr. boo seungkwan” they say, their tone polite but knowing. boo seungkwan?

the person guides you towards a private dining room and it's a beautifully set table near the window that overlooks the city skyline. you spot him waiting there and he stands up the moment he spots you, a smile lighting up his face.

he was wearing an all-black suit, and it was perfect for him, tailored to perfection, the fit making him incredibly handsome and attractive and the fit made him look effortlessly sophisticated, yet there was an ease to his posture that made him seem grounded. his dark hair was styled just enough to look intentionally tousled, a few stray strands falling over his forehead. there was something about the way he carried himself, confident but not cocky, poised but not stiff. his smile was the same: genuine and unpretentious, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, yet somehow, in that black suit, he couldn’t help but leave an impression.

“you made it,” he says, his tone warm as he steps forward to pull out your chair for you. "yeah", you say softly, still trying to take in the posh ambience around you.

as the evening unfolds, you’re surprised by how easy he is to talk to. he’s incredibly down-to-earth and he listens intently, laughs at your jokes, and is just so sweet, a complete gentleman. his genuine interest in you, paired with his relaxed nature, made the evening feel warm and comfortable and didn't make you feel intimidated anymore.

“so, what exactly do you do?”, you ask, looking at him.

he hesitates for a moment, then shrugs lightly. “family business,” he says, clearly trying to downplay it. “it’s not that exciting.”

"so what exactly is this family business?", you ask but seungkwan only chuckles softly in response. "it's not as cool as you think. let’s just say it's a lot of paperwork, meetings, and business stuff", he makes an exaggerated motion of his hands like he was emphasizing the mundanity of it all. the date ends on a good note and he even offers to drop you home, but you decline, not wanting to impose on him anymore.

it isn’t until days later, when you’re scrolling through your phone that you stumble across an article and you realize just who he is.

heir to the boo family conglomerate, boo seungkwan spotted at his newest restaurant with someone: who’s the mystery guest?

your jaw drops as your eyes scan the article, which details his family’s massive business empire—including restaurant chains, luxury hotels, and even media companies. the photo accompanying the article shows him stepping out of the very restaurant where you had dinner with him, wearing the same outfit he had that evening, looking effortlessly handsome and polished as always.

and just then your phone buzzes with a new message from him at that exact moment:

ramen guy: i hope you enjoyed the dinner last time. let me know when you’re free again, i owe you another one.

taglist: @joshuaahong @paindivinemp3 @fallingforshua29 @itsveronicaxxx @frankenstein852

@weird-bookworm @mirxzii @naaaaafla @wheeboo @icyminghao

@lvlystars @gyubakeries @wootify @ihrtboo @n4mj00nvq

@yoozuku

[reidology13]

we don't talk about it

Spencer Reid x fem victim!reader

cw: fluff, angst, attempted murder, drug use, drug addiction, hospitals, badly written withdrawal, bad parenting mention, gambling mention, set around season 4, that's it I think wc: 2.6k a/n: this is the first part of a fairly short series I have planned for the next while, hope you enjoy!

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You registered the blood before you felt the pain. The beat of the music pumped the blood through your veins, sweat hanging in the air alongside the cloying scent of perfume.

You popped a pill into your mouth, unsure what it was or where it had come from, stumbling over to the bar for a shot of vodka to wash it down. You’d just made it to the bar when a man shoved past you, hitting you roughly in the torso. You could tell something was off by the way that the pressure lingered after he had walked away. Your hand reached for the feeling, trying to figure out what was causing it, and found an odd, slightly sticky liquid soaking your dress.

You cringed, pulling your hand back to look at it, expecting to see nothing, the clear remnants of a sugary cocktail spilt on your dress. Instead, you were faced with a darkness painting your palms, and even then it took you a moment to realise what it was, the coloured lights altering its appearance. When you did recognise it, the pain still lagged, and you wondered if the plethora of drugs in your system were acting as an anaesthetic. 

You stumbled outside, growing lightheaded from the blood loss, holding your hand over the wound to stifle the seemingly endless stream of blood that flowed between your fingers. You flipped open your phone, about to call 911, when, finally, the pain hit. Something between the blood loss, the drugs, and the excruciating pain you were in sent your head spinning towards the ground, and the last thing you remembered before you passed out was the thought that you were never going to wake up.

.*☆¸•

You did, however, and when you regained consciousness, you were lying down in a hospital bed, the sharp, sanitised smell instantly recognisable. You had spent enough early mornings recovering from exceptionally dangerous highs to know your way around most of the hospitals in the Upper East Side with your eyes closed. Which, at the time, they were. When you did open them, you regretted it immediately, squinting against the blinding whiteness of the room in an attempt to see your surroundings. There was someone sitting next to your bed, a blurry figure that you were sure you had never seen before. You blinked repeatedly until your vision cleared slightly, and you were faced with a greasy mop of hair, underneath which might have been a man.

“You’re awake.” He sounded too relieved to be a stranger, and you momentarily questioned if you were suffering from amnesia. Then you saw the badge attached to his belt, which made a lot more sense as a reason to be invested in your wellbeing.

“What happened?” You rubbed at your eyes with a shaking hand, trying to ward off the headache that was already forming in the harsh light. You were surprised by how fine you felt, given the fact that your most recent memory was of being covered in blood. 

“Well, you were stabbed two days ago by a serial killer. You’re lucky, he’d been shooting his victims until now. He needed to be closer to his victims, and he made a mistake.” The man leaned towards you, his features growing clearer with proximity.

“Oh. Who are you?” You weren't quite prepared to process just how close to death you had really been just yet. Changing the topic seemed to be the only way to postpone the impending interview that would force you to face it.

“Doctor Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” The way his voice went up as he spoke was a little bit annoying, and wasn’t doing anything to help the steady throbbing in your skull. Scratch your original plan of postponing the serious talk, you wanted to get everything over and done with as fast as possible so that you could get some rest.

“Well, I didn’t really notice at first, he knocked into me. I didn’t feel any pain ‘cause, fuck-” You groaned, a painful shiver running down your spine.

“Yes, they found GHB, cocaine, methamphetamines, and alcohol in your system. That pain you're feeling right now is withdrawal, something I’m guessing you haven’t felt before.” Despite his words, his voice carried none of the sympathy or disgust you would have suspected from someone like him. It didn’t feel like a judgement, but an acknowledgement of how hard it was: it was understanding.

“That… that makes sense.” Your thoughts were foggy, stopping just before they were fully formed, leaving incomplete puzzles with a single piece missing, words without any vowels. Enough that everything you said or felt was left wanting.

“Since you’re the only person so far to survive him, you’re the best witness we have. You’re also the most at risk.” He paused, and you took the chance to butt in, asking the question that seemed the most pertinent before you could forget it.

“What do you mean, ‘at risk’?” You grumbled, the roughness of your voice doing its best to cover up the genuine curiosity in your tone. This was a negotiation, no matter what he said, and you knew negotiations. If your father had taught you one good thing, it was that you never showed anyone your hand. Technically, at the time that hadn’t been metaphorical, he had been teaching you how to play poker at the ripe age of six.

“There’s a fairly significant chance that he’ll come back, try and finish the job. If he finds out you’re still alive, that is.” He said it like it wasn’t anything at all, like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing you had ever been told, just common sense. To him, you supposed it was.

“He’s going to try and kill me again?” There went keeping your cards to your chest. Whose voice was going up now, huh? To be fair, he hadn’t just been told that he was the target of a serial killer who had just landed him in the hospital by stabbing him.

“If you’re willing to do exactly what I say, then no.” His tone had gained a seriousness that it had been lacking before, and maybe that was what had been annoying you, because it was suddenly mostly bearable.

“And so, your plan is for us to…” You trailed off, painfully aware of your loss of footing in the conversation. Again, only one of you was coming down from a high while also healing from a stab wound, and you felt that it was deeply unfair of him to use your circumstances to his advantage.

“You and I would stay in an FBI safe house, working on the case and reporting any breakthroughs back to my team until they find and arrest him.”

“Safe house?” You baulked, “Like, stuck inside with you all of the time, no going out, no fun? That kind of safe house?” The thought of it sent a shiver of anxiety and apprehension through you. For one, you didn’t know this man, and you would be locked in a small space with him for who knew how long, you could only imagine all of the gross habits he had. He probably didn’t wash his hands after going to the toilet.

To be completely fair, you had snorted coke off of a public toilet roll holder before, so you couldn’t really judge him when it came to hygiene. That brought you to your second problem with the propositioned arrangement: any time spent in the safe house was time where you would be fully, stone-cold, sober. It wasn’t a feeling you were particularly accustomed with, nor was it one you wanted to be.

“If by ‘fun,’ you mean what I think you mean, then yes. Personally, I’m sure that we, if you agree to help, will have plenty of fun while we’re there. More importantly, I’m sure we will solve the case.” He spoke like he was trying to sell you something, like you really had a choice at all in the matter. Death or time in a house with some guy. The answer was pretty straight forward.

“Okay, fine, I’ll be your witness.” You conceded, hoping that your agreement would be enough to make him go away for a while. If you were going to spend the next however long with him, you would like to take the short span of time you had as a free woman and keep it to yourself.

He did, standing up and silently leaving the room, as well as you to your own thoughts. You hoped that they would report you as dead on the news, that they wouldn’t tell your parents what was going on. A little bit because you wanted to scare them, make them care about you for a moment. Mostly because it sounded fucking hilarious.

.*☆¸•

You didn’t have to wait long for your answer, depending on what we’re going to consider a long period of time. It was only a few days that you spent in the hospital, but they were painful, and to be completely honest, fucking terrifying. It was like a four day fever, but with added muscle spasms, constant paranoia, and anxiety unlike anything you’d ever felt before. No matter how stretched out those days felt, the moment the time came to leave, it felt as though you’d only been given a few minutes to prepare yourself mentally. Spencer walked into your room on the third day, bringing with him two other people, one was a man you had never seen before, while the other was a woman you’d seen outside your room on your first day at the hospital. Well, technically, your third. Spencer introduced you, although you were sure they both already knew your name, and probably all of your darkest secrets. Then he turned back to you, gesturing to the duo as he introduced them.

“This is Aaron Hotchner and Jennifer Jareau. They’ll be our point of contact while we work on your case.” Aaron nodded simply, and Jennifer offered a wave alongside a short greeting.

“Hi.” You waved back weakly, your arm aching with the movement. Jennifer gave you a kind, if not slightly pitying, smile as you dropped your arm with a wince. She seemed nice, but you were glad that it wasn’t her you were sharing the safe house with.

“Call me JJ, I’m the media liaison with the BAU, so I’ll be in charge of keeping the media from endangering you by reporting your survival.” She took a few steps forward, standing directly in front of you, and you could tell she was expecting you to ask questions. Luckily for her, you actually had one.

“What will my parents get told?” You tried not to sound too anxious for an answer, knowing that she would assume you wanted them told the truth of your circumstances.

“Due to the fact that you're not a minor, we have no legal reason to tell them. So unless there are any extenuating circumstances we’re unaware of, they will be told that you are dead. I know that might be hard for-” You cut her off before she could continue to believe that either party cared about the situation.

“Good, I don’t want them to know.” You spoke bluntly, a clear statement, leaving no room for questions or misunderstandings. JJ stepped back, taking your words as her sign to leave.

The man didn’t speak, simply standing beside Spencer as the number of people in the room dropped from four to three. There was silence for a while, none of you willing to speak and break it. Eventually, Spencer must have decided it had been long enough, clearing his throat in that pointed way people think is subtle, and glanced over at the man – Agent Hotchner, you reminded yourself. 

“We’ll check in on you via phone calls regularly, so that you can update us on the case and tell us what you need delivered to the safe house.” Spencer had already told you that, but you didn’t say anything, just nodding and thanking him, “Please write down a list of things you want to be moved to the safe house from your apartment.” He handed you a notepad, along with a pencil, and you wrote down all of the basics you could think of, as well as a few less necessary items—well, that depends on the definition of ‘necessary’ we’re using, you value your sanity—including makeup, your violin, books, and a few other hobbies. You gave him the notepad back, before grabbing it again, scribbling down to include your iPod and your headphones. He looked over it, nodded, and walked out of the room without another word. You liked him.

When it was just Spencer and you left in the room, he came and sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at you softly.

“How are you? You look a bit better than you have for the past few days.” He was being ridiculously nice and understanding, just like he had been since you’d woken up in the hospital. It made you feel even more guilty for yelling at him the day before when he had come into your room and asked how you were doing. You’d thought it was pretty obvious that the answer was ‘not good’ and made sure to tell him just that, in probably the meanest way possible.

“Yeah, I feel better.” You gave him your weak attempt at a grin, accompanied by a small wince because your whole body ached, that muscle deep ache that sinks its claws into your soul just to ruin your day.

“Good.” He smiled, tight-lipped and stilted, the kind that never appeared on a red carpet or magazine cover, but now that you’d seen it, you decided it definitely needed to.

“When are we going to the safe house?” You kept your eyes on him, waiting for an answer as you pushed yourself up in the bed, sitting with a soft grunt. 

“It should be fully set up by now.” He tapped his fingers against the paper thin sheets as he spoke, the constant movement slightly distracting. “Hopefully we’ll be able to go tomorrow after your personal items are moved in.”

“Perfect, this hospital is so not hot.”

“They do have a very good air conditioning system.” You tried—and miserably failed—to hold back a very ungraceful laugh at his words, deciding quite quickly that this was going to be an entertaining few weeks, if nothing else.

“That’s not what I meant.” You winced at the soft pain that reverberated through you alongside your laughter.

“Oh, um, what did you mean?” He was completely oblivious, and seemed rather embarrassed about the fact, you couldn’t help but attempt to comfort him.

“It means, like, something is bad. ‘Hot’ means it’s cool.” You figured any mentions of Paris Hilton would only further confuse him, given how pop culture blind he clearly was.

“Um, okay.” He gave you that awkward smile, waving as he stumbled towards the exit of the room. He looked like he was fairly used to not being in the know, and like that was something he was judged for fairly frequently. You felt a little bad, but more than anything you wanted to be alone, the headache from the previous days creeping back in. So you settled for just being as nice to him as you could, and letting him leave.

“See you tomorrow?” You smiled softly at the sweet face he made, halting on his way out the door to speak again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“See you.”

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tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast - Comment to be added <3

[the-void-via]

TW: TALK OF GUNS, INJURES FROM GUNS, DEATH, ANDROID GORE IG?

Second part of my Rota Fortunea fic!

“The leader of the resistance, Sunday, was found dead fifteen system hours ago. Forensic experts have deduced the cause of death to be a gunshot wound to the head. However, upon finding the gun at the crime scene, only Sunday's fingerprints were found on it. Law enforcement is investigating the crime scene-”

Ratio shut the TV off with a grumble, glaring at his reflection in the dark screen. He set the remote down and turned to the nearby table, Aventurine’s sleeping body laying atop it.

He glanced at Ruan Mei and Herta. Oil stained their hands, working on hooking Aventurine up to a power source before they worked on fixing him. He—reluctantly—stayed a few feet back, after both women had practically ripped the android from his arms when he walked through the door.

Barely a word had been exchanged between the women and Ratio, putting all their attention and focus into Aventurine. He could do little but stand back, peering over their shoulders from time to time to try and check their progress.

Ruan Mei moved, allowing Ratio a clear view of Aventurine’s face-

He cringed. Some layers of machinery had been stripped away near his right eye, leaving a red LED light to stare back at him. His eyes drifted, the metal of his neck slight exposed���

He turned away. It was too much to bear. Seeing someone who used to be his friend– no. The man he loved in such a state killed him inside. He moved to sit down, sighing heavily.

“Don't move much,” Ruan Mei softly scolded, not even turning to look at him. “You sustained three gunshot wounds from Sunday. You don't want them to open.”

He grumbled a little bit, muttering something under his breath as a reply. Ruan Mei didn’t say anything else, fully focused on the android laying atop the table in front of her.

Herta was no different, the only indication of her presence being her soft mutterings to herself, working with Ruan Mei as if they had some telepathic connection they were communicating through.

It was unnerving, to say the least. The silence in the room.

Ratio sighed again and leaned against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. His body relaxed into the chair; the adrenaline had long worn off, slowly being replaced with exhaustion. He fought it as long as he could, fought to keep his eyes open- but his body knew he was safe.

His eyes started to slip closed, hoping for just a little cat nap…it sounded nice at this point…

…

Knock, knock, knock. …knock-knock!

His body jerked, sitting up straight in the chair. The two geniuses had made progress on Aventurine, he deduced they were just over halfway in connecting him to a power source- but that wasn't the priority at the moment.

Someone knocked on the door.

Herta had walked away from the table, leaving Ruan Mei to continue for a moment by herself. She turned to look at Ratio as she heard the chair jerk, her expression unreadable.

“You're awake.” She said bluntly.

“W- ahem- what was that?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. “That knock. Is it-”

“Thank you, Miss Herta,” A voice—definitely not Herta’s—came from the hallway she had disappeared down a moment ago. “I'm sorry to inconvenience you at a time like this. I had a run-in with a few androids above ground, and I just need a few tune-ups on my arm–”

A male figure, clad in a dusty dark pink cloak, walked into the room at Herta’s side. He pulled his hood back, his hair dyed pink with long, white roots. Deep crimson eyes scanned the room as he stopped dead in his tracks, blinking at the two new figures.

“Oh.” He mumbled in surprise. “There's other men here. That's…intriguing.”

“Never mind them,” Herta shooed him to another table, aiding him in sitting atop it. “You said you need me to fix your arm? Which one?”

The man shed his cloak, revealing himself to be wearing a tight black tank top, as well as black shorts with knives tucked inside harnesses. He carefully extended a mechanical arm, using his other hand to point to his elbow. “This one, the joints got busted up real bad. I was afraid it would fall off before I got here.”

Ratio’s eyes widened upon seeing him. His arms and legs were very visibly mechanical, white metal with elegant dark pink accents. His stomach almost sank upon the realization.

Another android?

“Wow, Shilou,” Herta mused, taking his arm into her hands and examining his joint. “This is really badly damaged. You really are lucky it didn't fall off on the way.”

“I know,” Shilou chuckled a little. “Thank you again, Miss Herta. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you? Any materials you need? I can't keep letting you fix me without any sort of payment-”

“Excuse me,” Ratio’s voice cut him off, his arms folded across his chest in an almost standoffish manner. “Who are you?”

Tags: @havanillas @serendipminie @blak-ie @blackcat2907 @drowning-in-cabbages @lumin-arii @kyl13sm1l3y @darkluminosity @smellofsnoww (lmk if you wanna be tagged or not when I post about my oc's!)

[sengardet]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.

[mimikyusrealform]

six degrees of separation

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 1781. Summary: While circulating the photo of a serial killer around a bar in New York, Spencer gets distracted by the sight of someone who used to only exist in his memories. Notes and Warnings: Set around Season 2 before Revelations, because S2 Reid is the loveliest he's ever been. There's a bit of cussing, and mentions of bullying (not particularly explicit), so read at your own discretion.

The man in front of you is familiar. It's better to say that his face is familiar to you, but not the man himself.

He's asking something, “Have you seen this guy?” In a nervous way, his left hand's fingers, the ones not holding up a fairly young guy's picture, twist and untwist. It's like there's electricity under his skin, and a fuzz in his head. He can't stay still. “Ma'am?” he prompts at your silence.

“What did you say your name was again?” you are asking before you can think it over.

“Uh, I'm Doctor—but you don't have to call me that, it's optional, actually, forget that—Spencer Reid.” He is flustered. You can tell it's not because of you, but because you're a person. Still looking at him, you sip from your Gin and Tonic. His brown hair is smooth and carefully parted, no apparent use of gel, but brushed nicely so it shines, even under the bar's poor lighting. He wears professor clothes: a brown vest, a white button-up and low-rise slacks. He's sinewy and wiry, and you wonder if his bones are naturally thin or it's because he doesn't eat enough. You guess that it might be both.

“Are you from Las Vegas?” you ask him.

“Y-yeah.” He's changed the picture to his left hand, and his right one rubs at the back of his neck. “How did you know? Nevermind. I need to know if you've seen this man?”

It clicks, then. You think it's because of that gesture. You squint your eyes at the picture. “No, I haven't.” You stab him in the chest with your index finger. He recoils as if you had actually stabbed him. “Doesn't matter. It's you who I've seen before; I remember now. You're that kid that graduated from high-school at twelve years old. I was a freshman when that happened.”

He blinks owlishly; it's kind of cute. Then, he blinks again, and a third time. With a start, he miraculously says your name. “I didn't recognize you,” he admits shamefully; you wave your hand dismissively. “I-it's good to see you.”

It truly is—good to see you. Spencer doesn't have many fond memories of his time in high-school. But you're certainly one of the few. He never imagined you would remember him, though, he wasn't important to you the way you were, are to him.

You were short, once, this he can picture clearly, with round and rosy cheeks, and crowded teeth. You must have gone through braces, he notes. That, too, he can picture clearly; well, imagine it. You've grown up. Of course, you've grown up. It's such a menial observation that it makes him embarrassed, somehow. You're a good memory that he's kept dearly, close to his heart. After all, you saved him, twice. Twice! The first time from himself, and the second time from others. How he hadn't immediately recognized you, it was beyond him. You are just as pretty and impossible as an adult as when you were a kid.

The first time, he had been walking out of school with a dejected drag of the feet. Mary Clarkson had made fun of him in Math class, because he stammered when answering a complex question, and that had been enough to dim the sun in the sky. He needed to cross the street, and he vaguely checked both ways, head still hung low, before attempting to cross. And then, a hand pulled him by the scruff, harshly and violently, almost throwing him over his back on the ground. He reacted accordingly, jolting out of the hold, thinking he was about to get beaten up. But what he came face-to-face with was your scowl at the same time that behind him, a car exceeding the speed limit whipped through the street.

You had said, in an extremely high-pitched voice while digging your index finger into his chest, “Are you actually dumb? They say you're a genius, but geniuses look both sides before crossing the street! You're just silly, after all!” Your intonation was kind of obnoxious, but then you grabbed his wrist, the right one, pried his fingers open and gently deposited a Hershey's Kiss from your backpack on his palm. “Get better,” you had said, and bolted away to join your own friends, who were all giggling at the display. He always looks both ways after that. And sometimes, he feels true warmth in his chest, where your fingertip had marked him an eternity ago.

The second time was just a month before senior graduation. His senior graduation. Mark Brown and his two friends-slash-lackeys had been throwing him around the lockers, and everyone else either ignored them or hid their smirks behind their hands. Brown was saying something like, “C'mon, I got to teach you. You like learning, don't you, freak? Hold him, you gu—” Brown was a senior, so he was about seventeen years old, almost eighteen. And you were just a freshman, freshly fourteen-years-old. And yet you had walked up behind Brown, gripping the straps of your backpack between your bony fingers, and hurled it at the back of his head, almost knocking him down. Spencer vividly remembers the tingle that ran up his spine at the sound of your shrill yet demanding voice telling Brown to, “Move out of the way, skank! You're crowding my goddamn locker! Filthy, stupid bitch, are you blind or did your junkie father finally beat all the braincells out of your head?”

Then, you forcefully hit the other two guys with your backpack as well until they dispersed. Years later, Spencer would come to know why Brown couldn't hit you. Why Brown would never hit a girl, and instead of fighting you, he scattered. You had placed your hands on your hips and glared at him, before saying, “If you like to learn so much, then why don't you learn how to throw a punch? How to kick a roundhouse. No school director is expelling you. Or, at least, learn how to talk back at stupid skanks. If you can not be stronger, then be smarter, silly.”

Silly, silly, silly. That was the second time you called him silly, the second time you saved him.

“Is that so,” you are saying now. “Then, I suppose it's nice seeing you, too. Who's that man, anyway?”

He glances down at the picture in his own hand, like he had forgotten it was there. “Oh, yeah. Um, this is a suspect in a case I—”

“Are you the police?” you interrupt.

“O-oh, no. No, I'm not. FBI,” he explains, pulling out his badge and showing it to you. 

There's a glint in your eyes. “FBI,” you repeat, voice a tiny bit as shrill as he remembered it being. “How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-four,” he tells you earnestly. Does that impress you? It embarrasses him how much he wants it to impress you. “I, uh, joined when I was twenty-two.”

“I'm twenty-six,” you tell him, expectantly.

He isn't sure how he knows what you want him to say, but he says, “Congratulations. You look younger.”

You don't preen at his words, but you smile at him, and it's the first time he's seen your smile, despite having daydreamed about what it would look like many times before. It's nothing like his imagination. It's not wide and smooth nor is it sweet. It's lopsided, crooked; and he can see your canines are a bit askew and sharp. When you turn your head to the side to take a sip from your white-night drink, he memorizes the planes of your profile. The valley of your cheek, the crest of the bone under your eye, the cliff of your nose bone. He sees the very naked neck, the precipice between your collarbones. Your face is lovely and curious, and so is the slope of your bare shoulders. He wants to run his fingers down the spaghetti-straps of your dress, that dig into your skin. He wonders if the straps are drawing red lines.

He wants to say something, maybe all he wants is for you to listen to him, but then he hears Morgan calling him.

You hear it, too; you don't know who's calling for him, but you know it's more important than you. So you tilt your head towards him in acknowledgement that he has to go. “Goodbye, Doctor,” you say, smiling again. “Goodbye, silly.”

“No, wait,” he stumbles. “We—I still have some time. Let me—”

“Time?” you interrupt him again. “Funny business, time. It delights frustrating your plans. Don't you know?”

His brain catches up to the reference before himself. “The Seventh Doctor,” he mutters. He sounds surprised to his own ears. “From Dragonfire; Season 24, Serial 4. Broadcasted from November 23 to December 7 of 1987. I was six years old when it came out. The Doctor said it to Mel at the end of the third part.”

You are looking at him with amusement at the same time Morgan calls for him again. “What, do you think I can't like Doctor Who?”

“No, not at all,” he recomposes himself, clears his throat, and almost trips back when you grab his wrist, the right one. “W-what are you doing?” His voice is a couple semitones higher.

You don't answer him. Instead, you take a pen from your dress' pocket and write something on his soft skin.

When he lifts his hand in front of his face, he blushes terribly at the sight of what he assumes—hopes—is your phone number.

“Call me,” you say. You pause, and then add, “Don't be silly and start overthinking it. Good night, Doctor.”

You leave after that.

He's left dazzled and dazed, standing there. He feels like a raw wire, and there's a pleasant flow of warmth spreading through his body from where your fingers curled around his joint.

He runs away when he sees Morgan's arched eyebrows and mirthful expression. Not before catching the mocking mimic of, “Good night, Doctor.” He groans a quick shut up in his haste to leave the establishment.

He's such a coward. But he's not coward enough not to call you later that night during the flight back to Quantico. He texts, “Who's your favorite Doctor?” And feels like kicking himself. Who starts a conversation like that? Before he can delete it and disappear, you reply, “I'm not sure, Dr. Reid. I don't think he exists yet. Why, did you want me to say you are my favorite Doctor?”

Morgan laughs the whole flight after reading over his shoulder.

Surprisingly, he finds he can't be embarrassed about it. Not when you spend the rest of the night texting him.

[prettybabybaby]

rating: 18+. mdni.

pairing: stepbrother!sirius x reader x stepcest!regulus

content: step/incest, sirius and regulus kiss. (don't like, don't read!)

your brothers had always told you that it wasn't weird. it's what siblings do. why are you making something so innocent seem taboo? so disgusting? so wrong?

"it's not like we touch each other anymore," sirius says, his fingers gently tucking your hair behind your ear. the lilt in his voice is familiar—it's the tone he always uses to get what he wants. "they're just kisses. you kiss mother, don't you?"

"on the cheek," you mumble, your gaze drifting from sirius's face, fixing on the vase of flowers you can't quite identify, focusing on the delicate white petals. "mary said it's not right to kiss on the mouth."

regulus interrupts with a small scoff, "of course she'd say that. why are you listening to her? she doesn't have her own siblings, does she?"

you shake your head lightly, blinking up at him, "no, but-"

"but what? there is no but." regulus lets out a disappointed sigh, the sound making your eyebrows furrow in concern, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. "we haven't seen you all day, and you can't give us a little kiss?" regulus's voice takes on a softer edge, "you really think we would make you do something bad? you think so lowly of us?"

sirius sighs in annoyance when you don't respond, the sound louder than necessary. his hand grasps regulus's strong shoulder, giving it a shove. regulus then faces your older brother, grimacing when sirius gives him a teasing raise of his eyebrow. he grips his chin, pulling him in for a light peck. regulus's hand then lowers to curl around the side of sirius's neck, his lips parting to permit sirius's pink tongue access to his mouth as they kiss languidly. familiarly.

sirius lets out a pleased groan, nibbling regulus's lower lip as he pulls away. "see, reggie and i kiss, too. did you think that was gross?"

you shake your head, trying to ignore the discomfort in your lower belly, "no..."

sirius smiles at you, his hands ruffling the top of your head before he leans down to give your lips a chaste kiss. your cheeks heat a little, always feeling a little shy in moments like these.

"there's a good sis..." regulus grins, his eyes betraying his anticipation. his slender finger taps his lips, "come now, give me my kiss."

[mofongomuncher]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙕𝙖𝙪𝙣

(Ekko X Reader)

❥ cast : ! Ekko, Reader, Ekko and Reader's child ¡

❥ : ! Ekko finds himself swept into one of his daughter's latest games. Despite all his protesting, he ends up forced to dress up in a princess outfit you had made—complete with a crooked crown. His daughter, with her unshakable determination, declared him as the queen. She insists he plays alongside her as both princess and queen to save you, whether he likes it or not. ¡

The Firelight base was unusually quiet today, the kind of calm that made you wonder if it was the calm before the storm. But in your little corner of the world, calm never lasted long—not with a six-year-old who had inherited all of Ekko's sass and energy running around.

You sat on your bed, casually sorting through the pile of random, mismatched clothes you'd scavenged from Zaun during a recent run. Most were barely holding together, but they'd found a new life as costumes for your daughter's endless imaginative games.

"Daddy!" your daughter's voice rang out, and you glanced up to see her standing in front of Ekko, her small hands on her hips. Her curly, snow-white hair, so much like his, bounced with each movement. She looked utterly determined today, which immediately set off warning bells for Ekko.

"What's up little one?" Ekko asked, leaning back in his chair with a wary expression, his white locs falling onto his eyes.

"We're playing princesses, and you have to be one with me.." she declared, holding up a "princess" dress you'd put together from scraps of bright fabric.

Ekko blinked at the dress like if it was a bomb about to go off. "Nah, I think I'm good kiddo. I'm not really the princess type."

She narrowed her eyes, the sass radiating off her in waves. "Yes you areee. You're gonna be the queen, and we have to save Mommy from the super scary, evil dragon!"

Ekko groaned, shooting you a look that screamed, Help me. You just smiled innocently, biting back a laugh.

"Alright, fine... But I'm not wearing anything that's pink." he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Deal!" She chirped, already pulling him to his feet.

Before he could argue further, she was shoving the dress into his hands. It was a little lopsided creation of bright orange and green fabric, complete with a cape you'd made from a blanket.

To top it off, she handed him a crown you'd crafted from wires and bits of broken glass.

Ekko sighed dramatically, pulling the dress over his head and letting the cape drape awkwardly over his shoulders. "This is so embarrassing..." he muttered, adjusting the crown on his head.

Your daughter giggled, twirling in her own dress—a yellow-and-orange patched masterpiece with uneven hems that swished around her tiny legs. She grabbed a wooden toy sword from the floor and pointed it at him. "Come on Queen! We have to save Mommy!"

Ekko raised an eyebrow. "Queen? Really?"

"Uh, Yes...You're the queen, and I'm the princess." she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He snorted, crossing his arms. "Alright, fine. But if I'm the queen, that means I'm in charge, yeah?"

She squinted at him, clearly skeptical. "...Okay. But that's only until we fight the dragon."

You couldn't help but laugh at their banter. "Woww, you two look amazing" you said, watching as Ekko twirled the edges of his ridiculous dress with a mock elegance.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up Y/N" he grumbled, though the small smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

"Alright, kiddo." he said, crouching down to her level. "What's the plan? How are we gonna save Mommy?"

Your daughter puffed out her chest, holding her sword high. "We're gonna sneak into the dragon's lair and then fight it with our big strong swords!"

Ekko raised an eyebrow. "Sneak? Really? With you yelling all the time? I'm not sure that's gonna work."

She gave him a withering look that was so much like his own that you nearly choked on a laugh. "I don't yell...I give commands."

"Yeah, okay boss.." he said, scooping her up and resting her on his hip. "Let's go save your mom, then."

As they marched toward you, Ekko held her sword in one hand and her in the other, dramatically swishing his cape behind him. "Fear not, fair maiden! The Queen and Princess are here to save you!"

You gasped, playing along. "You'll never defeat me! I'm the scariest dragon in all of Zaun!"

Your daughter wiggled out of Ekko's arms and pointed her sword at you.

"Prepare to lose, evil dragon!"

Ekko sighed, waving his own sword with a flourish. "Alright, dragon...It's time to give it up already. You don't stand a chance against the Queen and her very loud sidekick."

"I'm not loud!" your daughter shot back. Stopping her tiny little foot

"See? Not loud at all.." he said with a smirk, giving her a quick wink before turning back to you.

You flailed your arms, letting out an exaggerated roar. "I'll never surrender, you weaklings!"

Your daughter charged forward, swinging her sword wildly while Ekko followed behind, his movements slow and exaggerated like he was in some over-the-top stage play. "Take that, dragon!" he shouted, lightly tapping your leg with the toy sword.

After a few minutes of chaotic "fighting" you collapsed onto the bed, pretending to be defeated. "No! How could you defeat me?!"

"Because we're the best!" She shouted, throwing her sword into the air in victory.

Ekko scooped her up again, spinning her around as she giggled uncontrollably. " yeah that's right. No dragon can beat the Queen and Princess of Zaun!"

You watched them, your heart swelling as Ekko placed her on his shoulders, her white curls blending with his in the dim light. They were so alike in so many ways, from their looks to their fiery personalities.

He glanced at you, his grin softening. "Guess we're a good team, huh?"

"The best.." you said, smiling as your daughter pressed her cheek against his.

"Next time, I'm picking the game. Maybe something without dresses." Ekko said, plucking the crooked crown off his head.

"No!" your daughter replied, her sass in full force. "You're staying as the queen!"

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he placed her down on the bed next to you. "Then how about this—next time, the Queen retires and becomes the hero who wears pants."

Your daughter flopped dramatically against the pillows, waving her toy sword in the air. " but you can't retire! You're the best queen in Zaun!"

Ekko raised an eyebrow, leaning over her with a grin. "Oh yeah? The best, huh?"

She nodded fervently, her curls bouncing. "Yup! You're the strongest and bravest...That's why I love you!"

The words hit Ekko like a soft punch to the heart. His grin faltered for a moment, replaced by a look so tender that it made your chest ache. He reached out to brush a curl from her face, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "I love you too kiddo..even when you make me wear these ridiculous outfits."

She giggled, hugging his arm like it was her most prized possession. Watching them together, so happy and filled with joy. Made your heart flutter.

It wasn't perfect here in Zaumn—far from it actually, but moments like these reminded you that love and laughter could thrive even in the cracks.

Ekko glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His grin returned, this time softer, more genuine. "Alright, Princess Y/N.." he teased, gesturing toward you. "We saved you. Now what's our reward?"

You pretended to think for a moment, leaning forward to ruffle both of their snowy-white hair. "How about the reward isss...you both get out of those outfits and help me clean up this dragon's lair?"

Ekko groaned, flopping dramatically onto the bed next to your daughter. "Yeah, no way. The Queen is officially too tired to clean."

"Me too!" your daughter chimed in, mimicking him perfectly as she sprawled across the bed.

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the laugh bubbling up in your chest. "Fine, but next time, I'm the queen, and you two are doing the rescuing and cleaning."

Ekko grinned lazily, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you. "Deal. But don't blame me if the Princess here steals the show again."

Your daughter clambered onto his back, giggling as she shot back at him "I do not!"

Ekko grabbed her and tickled her mercilessly, her peals of laughter echoing off the walls.

You couldn't help but think to yourself how these messy, silly, little love-filled moments were your happiest moments.

Check out my Ekko one shots on Wattpad for more stories!! :3

[secondsistershelby3]

ANOTHER POSSIBILITY

Pairings: alternative universe!Silco x Fem!Reader

Summary: You had lost everything but maybe the universe gave you a way to start over...or to escape?

Warnings: the alternative universe itself is already a spoiler😭, smut, 18+, obscenity, ride, love (why yes), a bit of angst

Notes: I don't know whether to cry or be satisfied with this

You had lost Silco, Vander, you had lost Jinx's affection and even before that Vi's. You had promised Felicia to take care of them and you had disappointed her, you had disappointed Connor and now you were left practically alone.

But maybe the arcane wanted to give you another chance, or so you hoped.

You had seen disrupted colours, fragments and then

dark.

You tried to open your eyes slowly and then blink them quickly to adjust your vision, you moved your arm to try to feel something and felt a smooth fabric, like a blanket. You opened your eyes completely and you were actually touching a blanket, it was warm as if someone had recently been there. You raised your torso and a ray of sunlight hit your face, you covered your eyes with your arm.

There was a window next to you where the sun filtered in lightly, strangely in Zaun the sun never filtered in but you didn't even remember that you were lying on a bed.

You slowly got up from the bed, also looking around. The room wasn't that bad, a fairly large wardrobe, some bedside tables on either side of the double bed...

...

...

DOUBLE BED!?

You got up completely from that bed. You don't think you've ever seen a double bed in your entire life in Zaun. You also felt a little cold in your legs, you looked down and only then noticed that you were wearing a very loose brownish shirt that served as your dress.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

You immediately went to open that closet and found clothes that were at least clean, or maybe too clean. Once you finished getting dressed you rushed towards the door and as soon as you crossed the threshold the chattering music entered your hearing range.

A fairly long corridor stretched out in front of you, as you walked towards the end, you saw other rooms but the closed doors prevented you from seeing the inside.

The closer you got, the louder the noises became. You couldn't believe what you saw beyond those stairs, you were at The Last Drop, Vander was on the balcony, alive!

So were his boys, Mylo and Claggor. You also saw some white dreadlocks in passing, Ekko and he was talking to Benzo.

You carefully walked down the stairs and looked around still in shock. At the end of the stairs, Vander noticed you, he greeted you with a wave of his hand "hey look who's woken up" laughed Vander pushing someone's shoulder, you didn't see him as Benzo covered your view.

"my beautiful wife" a voice said laughing. You breathed heavily as you recognized that voice that accompanied you in your life for years

Silco.

He came out from behind the balcony, he was completely different, his eye did not loom with terror, he had been cured, he no longer had a black-orange shade, the skin was not worn out and diseased. His eye was just woolly white. Her hair wasn't pulled back and she looked so....happy.

He came towards you smiling and didn't hesitate to kiss you on the lips, placing his hands on your cheeks. You were still standing there in shock and your eyes had become shiny, you were on the verge of starting to cry and not stopping "Silco..." you whispered. You put your lip between your teeth to keep from sobbing.

"everything's fine darling, did something happen?" he approached you worriedly and you placed your hands on his which were still on the face. You threw yourself at him, hugging him, your tears falling like crazy, wetting his leather vest. You felt his arms wrap around you.

The first and last man you had shared love with for more than seven years, he was alive, he was there and you were his… wife?

You and Silco had never talked about marriage, what you were was already fine with you, but hearing it had a different effect. "It's...it's okay" you smiled, tightening your hug and sniffling.

"are you sure?" he gently pulled you back and placed his hands on your cheeks to look at you.

You nodded as you smiled with tears still falling. You took his hand on your cheek and brought it to your lips to kiss it. "I'm just...very emotional today" you smiled, closing your eyes.

"Is everything okay here?" a male voice made you wake up from your thoughts, you raised your head from Silco's hand and saw Ekko arriving with...Jinx, the girl you had taken under your wing after the death of Felicia and Connor

"Powder and I saw you cry, are you okay?" Powder...you hadn't heard that name for seven years, here then she wasn't Jinx anymore, actually, she never was.

Silco moved to your side and placed a hand around your back. “everything is fine” you smiled as you wiped your eyes with one hand.

"are you sure you don't want something to drink, to cool you down" Powder's hand took yours slowly and you almost didn't start crying again. It was rare for Jinx to be so affectionate, especially in front of others, but you enjoyed those little moments.

You shook her hand and smiled "don't worry Jin-... Powder, really but thank you" she was confused at first, she noticed the fact that you were about to call her something else but she quickly let it go. he smiled back at you and nodded

"It's still early, I can take you back up, we'll come back here later" you turned to Silco as he smiled lovingly at you. "I don't want Vander to scold you for my whim" you looked at him seriously.

"if I'm gone for a few minutes he won't get angry, he knows how to manage customers" and he walked towards the stairs you had come down from just a few minutes before, with your hand in his.

You thought you couldn't live these moments with him, you had never blamed Jinx, you never would and you never will, but you missed him so much... and being next to him seemed like a fantasy.

It didn't take long to get back to the room you were in previously. You followed him with puppy dog ​​eyes as he sat on the bed and you copied his actions.

You couldn't stop looking at him “are you sure everything is fine” his expression immediately turned worried and he placed a hand on your leg. “why it wouldn’t ” you smiled at him

"well, first let's spend a truly passionate night, and instead this morning I find you in tears" passionate eh?

"I can swear to you that everything is fine Silco" you hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and caressed it with your thumb. I took your wrist and caressed it.

“You know I wanted to ask you something last night but you seemed tired and I didn't ask you” he looked down and you looked at him questioningly. Quickly he looked up with a mischievous grin

"second round?"

…

…

you opened your mouth in shock and smiling and almost started laughing and rested your forehead against his "what an answer would that be" he laughed too. You raised your eyes to look at him “do you really think I would turn down a second round?” this man was incredible in every universe.

You looked at his lips for a few seconds and after a long time, you could finally feel his lips on yours again.

You brought him closer and closer until you put your arm around his neck. You asked yourself several times if all this was a game of your mind, if in reality all this wasn't true and was just the result of your desperation but a dream wasn't so vivid, so real.

Silco put his hands on your hips and pushed you gently with your back on the mattress, his hands caressed them lovingly and he continued his caresses while his hands went up until they were under your breasts.

You on the other hand tried to touch us all over, you didn't want it to end, you wanted to keep feeling it, you didn't want it to disappear again. "We're impatient, eh" Silco smiled a few millimeters from your lips.

If only you knew...

"you're too irresistible, what should I do" you laughed as you continued to give him lots of kisses on his cheeks. "never as much as you my love" he stopped to look at you for a few seconds and then began to kiss your still covered chest, his face slowly moved towards the low, continuing with his loving gesture as his hands went to carefully lift your shirt.

You finally felt his hot kisses on your skin and you panted slightly and raised your back slightly to meet his mouth.

Your hand on his hair to caress it as his kisses continued to the top of your pants and he looked at you before lowering them "You're so beautiful..." Silco gasped between kisses. His face moved up slightly to go over your already wet panties.

“were you just waiting for this moment?” he asked mischievously. you smiled looking at him.

You suddenly stood up from your seat, he followed you with his gaze. He couldn't help but look at you with loving eyes as you straddled him.

You moaned as you placed your hands on his cheeks lovingly and Silco placed his hands on your hips again. You didn't want to waste this moment.

Your hands slowly went down as I caressed Silco's stroke up to the button of his trousers, you looked at him shyly, as if it were the first time. You opened his trousers while you looked into each other's loving eyes, with a little hesitation you lowered your trousers and underwear just enough. With one hand you moved your soaked panties slightly and went over his now exposed cock.

You panted against his mouth as you felt his cock enter you, Silco couldn't help but moan at the sensation. The more you lowered yourself onto him, the more you tightened around him and gasped in front of his half-open mouth.

When he entered completely you couldn't stop moaning. After a few seconds to get used to that sensation again after some time, you began to move your hips towards Silco, he didn't hesitate to kiss you as you began to ride him.

His hands gradually went to your ass, squeezing it slightly. “fuck…” you panted into his mouth

You began to move faster, bouncing on his cock, the sounds of your skin slapping against each other began to resonate in the room along with your moans, the faster you went, the louder they got.

As you were almost close to coming, you buried your face in his neck, panting and starting to cry, but those were not only tears of pleasure, but also tears of joy.

Joy of being able to feel your loved one

Joy that this is not a dream.

You screamed louder than usual as you came screaming Silco's name as he murmured praises against your body and shortly after he came too.

You remained hugging each other as your tears continued to fall. Sweaty and wet you slowly moved your head away from his neck and looked at him "I love you Silco" you smiled crying.

He took your face in his hands and rested his forehead against yours "I love you too darling"

you don't know if all this would end but you really hoped not

[dearlot]

NO ORDINARY GIRL | lottie matthews

— pairing: mermaid!lottie matthews x gn!reader

— summary: a collection of stories involving your relationships with the mermaid!yellowjackets, starting with how you meet lottie.

— wordcount: 2,260

The moment you finished unpacking your bags, you headed to your favorite place whenever you're here on holiday: the beachside. It's wonderful there, almost a vacation home in itself. Your parents always reprimanded you for neglecting to spend time with your grandparents since this was their home, but you couldn't care less. Maybe they shouldn't have chosen such a cool spot to vacation. And besides, you were on vacation! You should be spending time at the beach and not at home.

The room that you stay in is filled with seashells and rocks you've collected over the years.

Coming here is all you really look forward to when summer rolls around. You collect things in your hometown, but the nearest beach is miles away, and even though you're an avid collector, you're also lazy. Seashells are your favorite. You love touching them, and you love how each of them is unique to one another. They're never the same. Like snowflakes.

It's an odd day, mainly because there's barely anyone out on the beach with you. Usually, it's packed with tourists and townspeople alike. But today there's just you, the new ice cream man whose name you learned is Chris (the one you remember from your childhood died a few months back. Poor guy. He used to give you freebies on your birthday), the old lady who likes to feed the seagulls, and this weird girl whose head you can see peeking from behind a rock. You've been watching her for a few minutes and wondering if she's alright. She looks alright, I mean, what you can see of her, at least. You thought she was drowning at first because of how long she's been in the water, but she's not calling out for help or thrashing around. Then you realize how dumb you sound. Of course she would be in the water, you're at a beach! You shake your head and scoff in embarrassment, getting up from the bench and thinking you could find more shells by the water's edge. Which just happens to be near where the girl is.

Maybe she's a collector like you? You could do with a friend here you think. You could impress her with your vast collection of shells and rocks. Your lips twist into a smile as you walk closer to the grey boulder where the girl hides behind, thinking about how you're going to introduce yourself later. For now, you need those damn seashells. You've only scored a few of them so far and it's the worst collecting day ever. None are even spilling out of your pockets like they usually are.

When you pass the boulder, you're only able to see the girl's face, which is just as pretty as you thought it would be, and her fiddling around with seashells and other beach junk. She doesn't seem to notice you as she smiles to herself and places her things in a neat line that's color-coded. She's cute, you think. Now you have to work 10x harder to come up with an introduction.

You turn back hopefully, half expecting her to be looking right back at you. But you don't see that. All you see are the waves crashing against the rock and a half-hidden scaly purple tail where her feet should be. You stop in your tracks immediately, leaning forward ever so slightly to get a good look at what you think is your imagination playing tricks on you. Blinking furiously, you brush at your eyes just to make sure, but no, what you see is genuinely real. The girl's tail flaps happily as she hums to herself and messes with her beach junk.

"What the fuck?" you murmur to yourself, definitely a little too loudly.

The girl gasps, her tail slapping the water and nearly splashing you as she scoots herself back. She looks at you, frightened and in shock before she dashes away. She's a blurred streak of white and blue as you watch her swim back into the ocean. You try to call out for her, running into the shallow water to see if she's still out here but there's nothing. Did you just witness a real mermaid?! You're frozen in utter surprise, and you only get a hold of yourself and move back to shore when your feet start tingling from the cold. As you walk back, you notice that she left behind her things, and you bend down to look at them.

Holy shit... she had a pearl?! You've been looking for one of these for goddamn years. Do you take it? No, you'd feel bad. But maybe... You glance up sheepishly before slowly slipping it into your grasp and then into your pocket. You're sure she has plenty of pearls. The rest of the stuff is just beach junk minus some shells you already have, but you decide to take all of it back home. Maybe you could return tomorrow and catch her again?

Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

No one says anything about the amount of junk in your hands when you arrive home, and you plop it down by your bed before faceplanting into the pillows that smell like your grandma's perfume. It's not even 6 pm yet and you're tired. You feel like getting some rest... At least sleeping meant you'd be seeing that mermaid girl faster.

When you wake up, you feel something swirling around in your stomach. Something that feels like you're anxiously waiting on something but you can't remember what. The longer you lie in bed, drifting between sleep and consciousness, the feeling gets stronger. You decide to get up and rub your eyes and stretch, washing away the sleep from your body. The smell of breakfast downstairs fills your nostrils and you sit up, tossing your blanket off before planting your feet on the floor.

"Ow, shit!" Something sharp poked your foot. You look down to see the beach junk you brought home yesterday and realize why you felt that strange sensation in your stomach earlier. Okay, maybe you're a little excited to go to the beach today. You really hope the mermaid is there. You'll have to be extra careful if she is since you don't want to scare her off again.

After you scarf down your breakfast and take a shower, you stuff the mermaid's things into a mesh bag and scour through your grandparents' garage to find that old scuba diving gear you know they still have. You've thought it over: if she isn't there, you think you know where she hides out. There's this small island not far from the beach that's perfect for a mermaid to live. You've never been to it, but you've passed by it dozens of times while boating with your dad and grandpa. You hope you're right, but if not, a nice trip to a cave would be nice either way. There are probably more things to collect in there that you've never even thought of.

The trip to the beach feels like the longest walk of your life.

You keep dropping the equipment and some guy tried to buy it off you which took up entirely way too much time of your life.

But you made it. Finally. You walk around a bit to look for her but she's not behind the rock or anywhere in sight. Scuba diving it is. As you finish putting everything on, you feel a little discouraged by the small dot the island makes in the distance, thinking that you might've overestimated your swimming abilities. Whatever. You grab the bag with a small pout and flip-flop into the water, hoping all of this will be worth it.

Turns out this scuba diving stuff is pretty exhausting. You've had to rest your arms and legs by drifting in the water for a few minutes before resuming. And you've been jumpscared by this dolphin a few times. You nearly shit yourself when you saw it first, assuming it was a shark, but it didn't try to attack you or anything. You don't know why it keeps coming back to fuck with you, but it almost looks like it leaves to go tell a friend about it. Fucker.

When you reach the island, you decide to take a 15 minute break for your body's sake. There's a lot more walking ahead and you know you'll thank yourself later.

After you get up and start walking around, observing the trees and nature all around you, you suddenly spot it. The cave. There's no way she isn't in there. You march your way through cobwebs and branches just to reach it but once inside, you're glad for those cuts on your arms and face because goddamn is it beautiful. The water is a cerulean blue and shines brightly in the sun due to the open hole at the top of the cave. You feel a sense of calmness wash over you just from looking at it. The rocky walls of the cave seem almost alive just as you are as the reflection of the water cast shadows upon them. And speaking of the walls, they seem to have markings on them. You walk closer, squinting your eyes to make out what you think are the words S + J. Hm. Maybe this cave is a popular spot for couples?

The more you look around, the more the cave looks lived in. There is some beach junk similar to what you found the girl playing with yesterday placed neatly in a pile in front of a rock. It has a name carved on it.

"Lottie?" you whisper to yourself. Is that the mermaid's name?

"Don't touch it!" Someone hisses.

You let out a choked gasp and turn around, eyes darting all over the cave before you see her. She's in the water with only her eyes above surface level almost like she's hiding from you. They almost seem fully black because of how big and wide they are. You quickly get up and the girl flinches in response. You assume she's going to retreat so you speak up before she can swim away again.

"Wait, I brought you your stuff back." You hold out the bag for her to see and shake it like a human would shake a bag of dog treats to get their dog's attention. "You left it yesterday..."

Slowly, you inch forward and softly place the bag before her. You scoot back to give her some room and wait.

The mermaid eyes you curiously and with some skepticism, but swims forward to swipe the bag from the surface. You watch as she opens the zipper quickly and shuffles through the items with a smile on her face. She looks back up at you when you shift on your feet and pauses before frowning. "Where's the pearl?"

Shit.

You left it at home for yourself.

"Uh, there was no pearl when I found it." you lie, giving her your best confused look. "Must've washed away or something."

She frowns once more and places the bag back on the sandy surface. "Thank you. I like collecting this type of junk. The others say I'm weird for spending so much time by the shore, but I like studying humans."

The others? Studying humans?

"You're welcome. You're Lottie, right? That's your rock?" you nod towards her 'junk' rock.

She confirms with a nod and reveals more of her body as she swims up and places her elbows on the rocks. The bra? Scales? Covering her chest is a magnificent shade of different kinds of purple. Her tail that flutters gently in the water matches it.

"I didn't mean to scare you yesterday," you mention, sitting down in the sand and running your fingers through the grains. "You kinda scared me as well. I've never seen a mermaid before."

"I've never seen a human so up close either. I usually just observe from afar." Lottie replies and puts her chin under her palms. "Why'd you bring my stuff back?"

"Dunno." you shrug. "You collect stuff like me. Thought maybe you'd appreciate it or something..." You trail off at the end, looking down and blushing. "Plus, I thought you were pretty."

Her tail splashes against the water hard at your comment and she clears her throat, feeling embarrassed. "What do you collect?" She's curious, she'll admit it. She's not even supposed to be interacting with humans under any circumstances, but you intrigue her. You don't seem like a threat anyhow.

"Anything. Shells, rocks, fossils, random things I find off the street. I have a whole collection of receipts from when I go out to eat."

"Can you...show me your collection?" she murmurs shyly, removing her face from her palms and nervously tapping her nails against the rocks.

"Sure, but how? I don't think I can make it here again, no offense. It's a hell of a swim." you chuckle, smiling at how her eyes shine brightly after you agree.

"I can help with that. I can bring you back to the beach in seconds!" she exclaims, her voice high and excited. "Or you can piggyback on one of my dolphins."

You barely have time to process what she just said before she speaks again.

"Can you show me right now? Please?"

You feel like everything's happening all at once and don't know how to reply, so you simply nod.

Hey, maybe you can even bring her back the pearl you stole from her. She'd probably like you even more.

lottie taglist: @heliolottie

[eileeneko]

''Standing close by, with a brilliant smile showing his teeth, stood snow Hiccup next to a snow Night Fury.

His hair was wild and windswept, with the little braids that now lived in his hair. His clothes were half modern, half old school with two brilliant irises of white. And in the centre was a pupil of smooth dark coal.

Hiccup stepped closer to the sculpture of equal height.

It was him.

Down to the very last minute detail.

But he somehow seemed…brighter. …Beautiful. Better. And that was when he saw them. The tiny little glowing snowflakes dotted across his cheeks, like a shining array of stars.

His freckles. Each and every one in its perfect spot.

He swallowed. “Is this…how you see me?”

Jack blinked beside him, running a bit of coal over in his blackened fingertips.

“Of course. I have eyes , Hiccup.” Jack parroted Hiccup’s words from a few hours before.''

--------

Well, I tried. I don't have the tools and haven't draw in years...

...But this chapter was too wonderful not to give it a go.

[rhiandoesfandom]

Ficlet- creature comforts

Blitz widens his eyes, pulling a blanket over a shaking Stolas.

"Are you alright?! Do you have a cold?", Blitz asks concerned. Stolas sneezes then groans, "I don't think so", he mumbles, Blitz noticing his puffy eyes. He smirks.

"Okay, I guess someone doesn't need a warm imp to curl up on his lap", he muses. Stolas whines, pleading to Blitz with his wide eyes. His pupils white and small, his lids drooping.

Blitz gives in without a word, walking over to the stove to heat some coals. He pops them in his mouth as he hears Stolas shiver again, his pupils dilating and warmth beginning to radiate from his skin.

He runs over and skuttles over the couch, settling in his lap. Stolas holds him close, a little tight, if he's honest, while he still shakes. Blitz is starting to get concerned. He reaches a hand up and feels his beak and it's ice cold.

He frowns as Stolas is staring into space, sometimes trying to pay attention but his eyes lull. He eventually falls asleep sitting up, with Blitz still in his lap.

When Stolas wakes, Blitz brings a mug of tea in his direction, guiding it's warmth into his hands. He holds it close again and turns his head, sneezing again. Blitz makes a small smile.

"Baby I think you're sick", he mentions. Stolas groans, "I can't get sick". Blitz replies, "Well it seems you can now". Stolas groans louder, "You did this to meeee".

"Would you have it any other way though?" Blitz smiles wider. Stolas shoots him dagger eyes.

"Heat, now", He whines, sipping his tea. Blitz kisses his forehead and once again coals up, warmth radiating from him. This time he pulls blankets over them, trapping the heat. Stolas falls asleep fast once more.

"Hey Stols, you want some soup?" He hears faintly as he wakes up, blinking and wiping the crud from his eyes. He's no longer cold but he is extremely hungry.

"Only if it contains meat, I'm starving", he replies. Blitz gives him a pork n beans soup with spices. Stolas eats contently, "Mmm", as he eats for the first time in a day.

"Feeling better Birdy?", Blitz asks, his arms crossed after he tosses his own soup bowl in the sink that he's already finished with.

"Much. Must have been your warmth", he muses. Blitz chuckles, "Sure. Or the medicine I gave you periodically". Stolas blinks, "You gave me medicine?"

Blitz nods, "Yeah, woke you up periodically to give it. You don't remember?" Stolas shakes his head, "Not at all".

A chuckles escapes again, "Damn, you were out".

Stolas pulls Blitz closer by the arm and kisses his cheek, "Thank you. For taking care of me".

"Course, Stols. Always", he replies.

[delwrites]

james potter

Your eyes flutter open in crisp white sheets, sun streaming in through the soft flowing curtains at the window. Birds sing a merry tune somewhere outside your cosy den of comfort and content, roosters singing their song of dawn. The rustic cottage's larger bedroom holds the both of you- intertwined where you lay. You feel a weight of an arm around your waist and turn your head on the pillow to blink up at him.

He lays there, soft and even huffs of breath escaping his lips like clockwork every few seconds. His golden brown messy curls splay over the pillow, making him look perfectly peaceful.

You bring a hand up to softly brush his hair out of his face so you can see his features more clearly, as though you don't already have every freckle, every blemish memorised.

The feeling makes his eyes flutter open, and they instantly find yours, soft smile overtaking his face when he sees you, in his arms, where he just knows deep down that you should be. He turns his face slightly so he can press a gentle kiss to your hand where it lays on his cheek, softly caressing the skin there.

"G'mornin, darlin", his voice comes out in a groggy whisper, and his hand comes over your own to hold it to his face diligently, before he holds it to bring it back down to his lips, pressing a longer kiss there.

"Good morning, love", your voice holds the same gruffness that the morning brings, and it makes his smile widen a fraction.

"Y'so beautiful", he speaks with a certain conviction that always amazes you so early in the morning. His voice is so tender, so true, you can practically hear the love in his heart.

You look over at the clock and sigh softly.

"Time to get up Jamie, gotta feed the chickens", as you move to try and get up, he tightens his hold on your waist, burying his face into your neck and groaning against the skin before peppering kisses there.

"Just a few more minutes...", you can't help but laugh a little at the sight of this big, broad and buff man slumping against you, begging for more time snuggling into you. You bring a hand up to the back of his head, threading nimble fingers through his curls to play with the hair there and massage the scalp. His hand around your waist tightens and begins to draw mindless circles there. You feel him practically melt against you, humming lowly against your neck as he fully relaxes back into you again.

"Mkay, few more minutes..."

[logicallabyrinth]

Medicinal Grasp

Pairing = Yan! Doctor (Dr Nathaniel Callas) x reader

Warning = yandere, prolonged isolation, prolonged captivity, attempted escape, disturbing behaviour, psychological manipulation

Wc = 2.1k

Summary = Waking up in a blank white room with no memory of how you got there, you soon realize that Dr. Callas is hiding something sinister as you begin to question your safety and the truth behind your fall.

Note = please don't read before reading warnings!!

Your eyes slowly flutter open, you blink. Blink again, trying to regain your vision. The room was monochrome, everything was coloured white. The bed sheets were a soft, white silk and the bedside tables were made of a smooth, white plastic. 

The sheets shifted beneath you as you pressed your weight onto your hands, lifting yourself off the bed. The room was small, but adequate enough for you to move around. Your surroundings felt… odd.

Everything felt like a haze, a dream, something unreal, like straight out of a movie. Then the door clicked open.

“D-Dr Callas…?” you murmured, seeing a faint sign of a white jacket.

“Oh! You’re awake. That’s good.” he responds, crouching as his eyes scanned you up and down.

“W-what happened?” you asked, voice stuttering as you try to deliver your question.

He pauses for a moment, and he looks up at you, meeting your eyes. “You had a bad fall darling. You’re going to have to stay here for a brief period until you recover fully.”

You blink again, trying to process his words. Your head feels fuzzy, and your body seems heavier than usual as if the air of the room itself is pressing down on you. Your heart races as you try to remember how you ended up here, but nothing comes to mind. Only the faint memory of falling, the sense of panic, and then... nothing.

"Stay here?" you repeat, voice barely a whisper. "For how long?"

Dr. Callas smiles reassuringly, but there's something about the way his eyes linger on you that sends a chill down your spine. "Not long. Just enough time to make sure you're fully healed. We wouldn't want to risk anything, would we?"

He stands back up, his white jacket swishing slightly with the movement. His demeanor is calm, collected, but there’s a glint in his eye that feels almost too intense. You try to push the unease aside, but it lingers. His presence is suffocating, like he's watching your every move.

"Do you remember anything about the fall?" he asks, his voice low, almost too soothing. You shake your head, feeling the fog cloud your thoughts.

"No... nothing."

Dr. Callas hums thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving you. "Well, that's okay. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. Just relax. Let me know if you need anything." His smile widens, but something about it feels off—too pleasant, too practiced.

As he turns to leave, you can’t help but feel like there's more to this situation than he’s letting on. The door clicks shut behind him, but there’s another click. A click to lock the door. Why did he need to lock the door? Is the area unsafe?

You brush your thoughts off and now you’re left alone in the soft white silence, with nothing but your suppressed thoughts and the gnawing feeling that something isn’t quite right.

You glance around the room, but everything's the same. Blank and sterile. The silence almost feels suffocating.

—

Hours had passed and yet, nothing happened. There was no form of entertainment in the room whatsoever. The room felt like a blank canvas, completely dull and in need of some decoration. 

You knew hospitals preferred it to be white so they could spot dirt easily, but you couldn’t help and feel like there was something wrong. Something hidden behind the doors.

Surprisingly, no nurse or doctor had visited you between the timeframe from Dr Callas visiting you to the present. Usually, doctors or nurses should at least check up on their patients every few hours right? 

The silence in the room stretches on, almost burdening. Time seems to slip away from between your fingers, but it’s hard to know how long you’ve been trapped in this sterile white box that was supposed to keep you safe. There was no presence of a clock anywhere, and with each passing moment, the emptiness inside intensified. Your mind raced as you continued to stare at the white walls blankly, thoughts bouncing from one unsettling idea to another.

You glance at the door, observing the round door knob. That was until you noticed the lock. How could you have missed that? The faint click earlier echoed in your mind. The thought that you’re being watched or even confined makes your stomach turn.

What kind of hospital locks its doors from the outside?

Your fingers caress the sheets beneath you, the silk cool against your skin. Everything feels… too controlled, too perfect. As though someone has meticulously placed every item here for a reason. From the placement of your bed, the white furniture, even the air itself seems to have a certain stillness to it. It feels unnatural, like you’ve been placed in a carefully constructed scene, a setting for something.

A soft sound outside the door catches your attention—footsteps. They’re faint, you probably wouldn’t have heard it if the room wasn’t so silent, but they approach the door with purpose. Your heart beats a little faster, and the knot in your stomach tightens as you strain your ears. The sound stops just outside the door. A moment of silence.

Then, the doorknob turns.

Your breath catches in your throat as the door creaks open. Dr. Callas steps in, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. A faint smile on his lips.

“Are you feeling comfortable, Y/N?” he asks, his voice smooth as your sheets, though there’s an undertone of something that makes your skin crawl.

You nod hesitantly, not trusting the words that might come out of your mouth. Instead, you try to act normal, to hide your growing sense of unease.

“I haven’t seen anyone else... Are there any nurses around?” Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, but you’re hoping for some form of validation, some normalcy.

Dr. Callas tilts his head slightly, the smile still in place. “I’ve been the only one looking after you, my dear. I wanted to make sure you had my undivided attention. You’re safe with me.”

Safe? The word feels strange, foreign even. You want to say something, but your throat feels too tight.

“Is there anything I can get you? Something to eat? Or perhaps some water?” His voice is almost too sweet, his eyes never leaving yours, watching, waiting. It feels like he’s measuring something, awaiting your reaction.

For a moment, the silence between you two thickens, and you can’t shake the feeling that he’s not just offering care, but something else. 

“C-can I go out…?” you ask, voice soft.

His breath hitches sharply before he quickly calms himself. “No… you are unwell. You need to rest.”

His rejection processes in your brain, but you refuse to back down. “Just for a while… please?” you plead with him.

His gaze softens, and his finger goes beneath your chin, lifting your face. “Please, just rest for now.”

His tone was soft, nurturing. But cold.

No words are said by both of you, and he just leaves. A click sound echoing the room as he left. But this time it was only one, indicating that he didn’t lock it.

Thoughts ran through your mind, specifically thoughts of going out. You only saw a glimpse of the white hallways behind the door, nothing else. And you couldn’t help but feel curious.

The silence quickly settled back in after Dr. Callas's departure, but it felt different now. It felt heavy, pressing against your chest. You could still hear the faint echo of his footsteps fading down the hall, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the sudden surge of defiance that coursed through your veins. You weren’t sure what was exactly happening here, but you knew it wasn’t good.

Dr. Callas had locked the door before, but this time, he hadn’t. That must’ve meant something. Maybe he trusted you to stay put... or maybe he was allowing you just enough freedom to keep you calm. Either way, the door was open, and you couldn’t ignore the pull to get out. You needed to know what was beyond this room.

Your legs trembled beneath you as you swung them over the side of the bed, the coolness of the floor sending a shiver through your body. The air seemed to press in on you more now, making every movement feel slow, calculated, almost like the room was watching you too. But you shook the thought away, trying to focus. Your mind was sharp, your instincts telling you that there was more to this place than you had been told.

You stood up, knees wobbling slightly as you took cautious steps toward the door. Each movement felt deliberate, like you were stepping into unknown territory. The lock on the door, a single click that you now remembered, had not been used. That was your opening.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, your breath shallow as you slowly twisted it. The door creaked softly in protest, but it opened without resistance. The sight before you was both reassuring and unnerving. There was a long, sterile white hallway that stretched out before you. The walls were a pristine white, almost gleaming under the harsh lighting. It felt like a maze, one with no escape, no indication of where it led.

For a moment, you stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding in your chest. The decision to leave the safety of your room felt both liberating and dangerous, but the urge to discover the truth was stronger.

Stepping out of the room, your feet made soft thuds against the floor as you moved down the hall. It felt eerily quiet, the kind of uncanny silence, like you were being watched from every angle. But there was nothing. No sounds of footsteps, no distant murmurs of conversation. Just the steady hum of the lights above flickering occasionally.

You walked cautiously, trying to maintain a calm exterior, though your mind raced. Where was everyone? Why was there no sign of life? Everything about this place felt off. Each step you took felt like an act of rebellion, but it was hard to ignore the gnawing fear at the back of your mind.

The hallway stretched out in both directions, but you had no idea where to go. You chose the right, hoping it would lead to something more familiar, something that could make sense of this mess.

After a few more steps, you came across another door. It was slightly ajar, and a flicker of hope surged through you. Maybe there was someone on the other side. Someone who could explain what was happening here.

You hesitated, hand reaching for the doorknob once again, before pushing it open. The door creaked softly, and you stepped inside.

But the room behind it was… empty. It was an office, sterile and organized, with no signs of life. Files stacked neatly on a desk, a chair turned toward the window. Everything was so clinical, so devoid of personal touch.

You quickly closed the door behind you and took a deep breath. There had to be more. Somewhere.

As you turned to leave, a soft sound behind you caught your attention. The faintest scrape, followed by a hushed voice.

“You shouldn’t have gone out.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze in place. Dr. Callas was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with something unreadable. His calm demeanor was gone, replaced with something colder, sharper.

“Dr. Callas…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He didn’t say anything, just stepped closer, his eyes flicking between you and the hallway. The air grew thick with tension, and you weren’t sure what to do. The fear and curiosity swirled inside you like a storm, and you felt like you were standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Why are you doing this?” you finally asked, your voice stronger than you expected.

He gave a small smile, but it was hollow. "Because, Y/N, you needed to see the truth. You belong with— no— to me,"

What? You didn’t know what that even meant, but the uneasy feeling that had followed you ever since waking up now felt like a heavy burden, pressing down on your chest. Something wasn’t right. This whole place, this whole situation. It wasn’t what it seemed.

Dr. Callas stepped closer, his gaze never leaving you. “And now, you’ll learn it. One way or another.”

Your heart raced as you took a step back. You didn’t know what he meant by that, but something told you that getting answers would come at a cost.

[hazbinned]

Angel Dust's accusatory words cut through Vox's train of thought like a paring knife. He snapped his head around to glare at him, but the look on his touch-screen face was not sufficiently laced with poison. What it lacked in animosity, it made up for in discomfiture; red eyes flicked to and fro across the battered visage of Angel's person, cyan teeth gritting together as if to stop Vox from saying something callous.

Then it clicked. Angel thought Vox knew.

The television Overlord veered back, humiliation seeping in.

"What?! You- You seriously think I was watching that?" he gawked. "I have a life outside of you. I do!"

He hastily reached for the rag and doused it in a fair amount of rubbing alcohol, clambering around (and halfway onto) the sink so he could dab at the worst of the arachnid's incisions.

"I'm... and I don't... I didn't see it. I was tuned into a different station."

Vox was telling the truth— but as he sat there, straining to mend the cuts in Angel's back, he wondered if the spider would believe him.

"I could go play it back," the media mogul continued, "But I haven't. While I was getting ready for Val to come home, I was on the phone with Velvette. Doing..." He reached for the tweezers, pulled the fur aside and pried the first sliver of glass out of the porn star's body. "Hands-on, real-world things. I was hoping for a date night with Val."

Hence the food. And the greeting. And his huff-and-puff tantrum.

Vox plunked the shard into the trash bin near their feet.

"I'm hard-pressed to find anything to celebrate," he admitted.

He repeated the extraction process a few more times, until most of the glass was out and white fluff was scrubbed of red.

Angel did not have to believe him. Angel didn't owe him anything. Vox had, one too many times, reveled in the spider's distress. He'd delighted in watching the poor arachnid be 'put in his place' by Val— the pleading, the punishments, even the intimacy. It had felt like revenge, somehow. Revenge for stealing the moth away from him. It had been enticing. Rewarding.

Addicting.

Vox was an addict, and Angel Dust was his favorite drug.

He didn't understand why he was feeling as sickened by it all as he was, but it felt to him now that the very thing that had brought him ecstasy for so many years had suddenly turned sour and curdled.

Age-old milk upon his tongue.

He was offended that the spider had even accused him. But why?

Did he care about Angel all of a sudden? Was that moment in the hallway some kind of turning point for the two of them?

Vox had apologized to Angel then, but it was going to take more than a 'sorry' to fix his gory trail of misdeeds.

Flicking the last few glass-fragments into the garbage, the sinner shifted a little bit on his knees and then pressed the cloth harder against the wounds to soak up any residual bleeding.

"... You don't have to tell me," he conceded after a while. Quieter than before. "I'll delete it."

Vox pulled the rag away and ran it under the sink.

"You can watch."

Then, he turned to him.

"Where else does it hurt?"

Aside from the obvious, he thought as he blinked at him, the 'obvious' here being Angel Dust's hands. Hypnosis might have undone the emotional scarring left by the shattered cup, but it certainly hadn't left any effect on the physical.

Were there any remnants stuck in Angel's chest? Legs? Lower back? He knew he had to get to the ones in the exposed flesh near his collarbone, but he figured he'd get the rough of it out of the way first.

"I mean, you'll have to pull the top part of the dress off if you want me to bandage it," Vox added. "But that... is... uh, your call."

Vox's efforts to coax Angel from his frantic frenzy went entirely unnoticed, a pinprick amid the punctures as the glass slashed his hands. He could fix this. Shards shredded the stained carpet and sliced the spider's flesh as he gathered the splattered fragments, a harsh and impossible jigsaw puzzle that resisted it's own solving. He could fix this. He could put it back together. He-

The glass spilt from Angel's hands as he was abruptly guided into facing his unlikely saviour, the task forgotten even before the next crucial step to his taming was initiated. The spider's eyes thinned to screwed-up slits as a sea of blue light flooded his vision, blotting out everything that wasn't its source as a sharp fingertip drew him closer. Even if Angel hadn't been disoriented from the alcohol-enhanced dissociation, the split second of realisation before the wave of hypnosis washed over him was nowhere near long enough to put up a fight.

Red light bled into blue as the television's all-seeing eye expanded, rings swimming and swirling within them like ripples in slow-moving water. Angel slumped to his knees, his face tilted further upward by the Overlord's metallic claw as the rest of his body fell like dead weight. Had he been in a fitter state of mind, the actor might have tried fruitlessly to fight the loss of control he was experiencing, screeching and flailing within the padded cell of his own mind until he inevitably succumbed to it's influence.

But, for the first time this awful night, Angel felt relaxed. This was what he had been looking for at the bottom of the bottle, in his agreement to let Val drug him. Loosened and numb, the pain and torment had been dulled to a barely-perceptible tingling from somewhere so far away that it could no longer be reached, somewhere no longer real. All that existed was that tranquil blue light with its scarlet centre, drawing Angel in, in, in...

Angel didn't break the glass. Vox did.

That must have been what happened. That's what it felt like as Angel's limbs softened like rubber, all but melting into the carpet.

I broke it, Angel. You saw it happen.

Yes, he did. He saw Vox break the glass. He saw it happen.

You don't want to clean up my mess...

It didn't even hurt, the glass splinters now embedded in his hands as well as his back. He might as well have been holding cotton wool. Val might as well have thrown him into a soft, comfortable bed of plush pillows and blankets.

...So stop touching it.

By the time the trance had started to wear off, Angel was being escorted away from the scene of the crime, leaning against the other as he stumbled alongside him. He must have zoned out, he realised, wobbling slightly as he was released onto the stool. Blinking blearily under the synthetic light, he watched dumbly as Vox rummaged through the bathroom cabinet. What was he doing? Before the arachnid had the chance to question him, the Media Overlord met Angel with a question of his own.

Did the dress show everything? Well, no, was Angel's initial thought: he had to leave something to the imagination, or else-

Oh. He meant the glass.

A shrug of one shoulder was all the spider gave in response. How should he know? Val had given him a strict time limit to get ready - all he cared about was squeezing into something tight-fitting and provocative. He wasn't accounting for exactly how many of his newly acquired wounds were on show. He didn't want to think about it.

Why did Vox even care?

The answer to this was hinted at as a damp wash cloth was pressed to Angel's forehead, the television demon posturing him like a doll so that one of his many hands was holding the cloth in place. Was this... Was Vox taking care of him?

In all the times that Val had taken Angel back to the Penthouse in a similar sorry state, Vox had never so much as batted an eye. In fact, other than the poorly concealed jealousy, the Overlord's reaction was most often a sick, smug gloating that oozed from that slimy grin of his when he realised that Angel was hurt. That Valentino had hurt him. That even if Val took Angel to bed that night, he wasn't going to enjoy it.

Snapped back into reality by Vox's piercing whistle, Angel looked up wearily. The collection of supplies that Vox had gathered looked medical - was he about to play nurse for him? Pick the glass shards from his flesh that he had presumably watched his partner crush him into with rapturous glee?

Was this what it had come to?

A swift moment's judgement told Angel that dragging the stool across the room would be a poor decision in his compromised state, so he opted for the sink. Pushing himself up onto the porcelain stung his hands - he must have cut them on the glass that Val shoved him into.

"What, it ain't enough ta watch it on the cameras? Ya need the commentary, too?" Angel replied scornfully. Vox just couldn't resist, could he? "Look, can I at least save the play by play account a' bein choked an' slammed inta broken glass 'til I'm less, ya know. Full a' glass?"

What the hell was this? Some roundabout way for Vox to get his kicks? Or was this him trying to actually help him, unable to restrain himself from prodding at the wound before stitching it up?

"Why're ya helpin' me?" Angel sighed, slurred from the combination of booze and exhaustion. "Ain't punchin' the air in celebration more yer style?"

[harlymph]

humanization? gjinka? what ever you call them. They/them

[57sfinest]

something that’s been on my mind a lot also is like. the potential for conflict between kim and harry because of harry’s can-opening. 

kim is obviously deeply repressed and while that’s not necessarily a good thing, and he’s not necessarily happy about being that way, it’s also not up to harry to decide that he needs to be exposed. harry can be good for kim in this context if and only if it’s kim making the decision to open up. it can be good for kim if kim is like “there is no way i can ever be as openly fucked up and embarrassing as this guy. he is a freak and a disaster on a level i could never aspire to. so i guess it’s fine if we’re friends. he can know me a little bit.” then it’s great and they foil each other well and their relationship can be healthy and fulfilling for them both!

but there’s also a version of their relationship that starts out okay but goes down in flames because harry just can’t help himself. he either can’t or won’t stop the prying and kim has no inclination to let harry in. there’s a harry that will push kim’s buttons and provoke him and say or do awful things just to see how kim reacts. there is a kim that has no tolerance for harry’s behavior, no desire to play along, and not enough patience to give him more than one or two chances. and kim wouldn’t be wrong for that! kim has no obligation to give harry chances and no obligation to be vulnerable just because harry wants to know he smoked weed back in his 20s (which is a small complaint of mine. as funny as that dialogue is, i kind of wish that even passing that check didn’t actually give you a secret. kim deserves to be able to say no and doing so is way more consistent with his character.)

yes, sometimes kim NEEDS that little bit of pressure from harry so he has an excuse to do something he wants to do anyway, but that’s exactly it: it’s something he *already wants to do*. like the jackets or the dancing or the cryptid talk. harry’s blundering lack of reservations is an excuse for kim to loosen up on his own- it absolves kim of ultimate responsibility, protecting him, and that allows him to *do* things, freeing him. done this way, the dynamic can be healthy and mutually beneficial. but it’s also good to acknowledge the ways in which harry can try to expose kim in harmful ways that drive them apart.