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cod-imagines-fanfiction · 9 months

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Jealous Alejandro kidnaps Valeria's girlfriend to be interrogated by the 141 (2.9k words, part 3)

Summary: Valeria prepares to take you back at all costs and she thinks back to the days of your happy love. Alejandro's jealous interest turns into something more sinister as he continues to intimidate you. The tables turn as Valeria makes her first move.

TW: threat of (sexual) violence. (Also Google Translated Spanish)

I didn't expect to write Alejandro so darkly, sorry! I'm also working on the next part! I'm aiming to finish this fic before the 10th because that's when I'm flying to my home country for the rest of August, and I won't have the space to be as active or to write with privacy. Also thank you for all the love you've sent my way, I really appreciate all the attention and it makes me very happy. Enjoy part 3!! :D Link to A03 Part 1 and Part 2

Valeria was a well-inked woman, her tattoos were typical for someone who made their living within the hostile environment of a cartel. Her ink was in many ways traditional; a rose on her upper arm, a classic snake circling the blade of a knife, references hidden within elusive Roman numbers, an image of Death looming behind a scorpio on her bicep. Images strategically placed in obvious places, a courtesy call for all who came across her. And then there were the private ones, that only you had ever witnessed; that only you had trailed your finger upon, following the lines down her skin, making her shiver underneath your touch. The matching hearts stamped very low on her back, the quote of your favourite song etched on her skin. And right below her tummy, just underneath her underwear line, this was written:"Love is as strong as death, as deep as the grave." A secret romantic, she got that tattooed after you rubbed her lower tummy to relieve her painful period. You had been together for quite a while by that point, had already exchanged 'i love you's, had already explored each other's bodies to the core, and had been living together. She knew you loved her and you made a point of showing it every day. And yet, it still caught her by surprise sometimes, your tender touch caressing her when she wasn't expecting it; in the sparkles that came alive in your eyes when she walked into the room. But what moved her most of all was how you responded to her weakness. Not the same weakness that men look down on - the open displays of her love, the open hurt in one's eyes when their loved one said something that cut deep. No, what really mattered to her was the physical weakness, how you would respond when her strength failed her and she was bedridden. Valeria had the unpleasant habit of sleeping alone when on her period, saying that it was because she got angry easily and didn't want to bother you. But really, she didn't want you to hear her small whimpers, to see her body curl inwards as she sought relief from the pain. On one of those days, as she was napping in the spare bedroom, and just as she was winning her struggle with sleep and about to enter the land of dreams, the bed gave in to your weight as you crawled behind her and put your body against hers.

"Go away, mi amor. I'm not in the mood." She grumbled in response and tried moving away from your touch. Paying no mind to her protests, you kissed the top of her head as you slid behind her, placing your arm below her neck and bringing your bodies close. You left a trail of tiny kisses along her neck and your other hand roamed beneath her shirt, then moved lower, passing the elastic band of her underwear.

"I said go away, I can't do it today," she protested but stopped because instead of going lower, your hand simply just rested on that spot. You drew circles on her soft lower tummy with your thumb. As your hand warmed up her skin, it brought relief to her pain. "I'm your personal water bottle, baby," you cooed as you placed more small, chaste kisses on her skin. Valeria relaxed into your skin, basking in the warmth as she let out a relieved sigh. Valeria had always known she'd kill for you, but at that very moment, she vowed to die before she let anything harm you. She needed to mark her devoted love for you on her skin permanently, and so got that tattoo in the very spot that you massaged every month.

And now she stared at that tattoo as she buttoned her trousers and tightened her weapons belt, hiding it.

There was a stiffness within Valeria that made her hard to break, but that, nonetheless, would one day surely be broken. She feared that this day had now come. She always knew you'd be part of her undoing, but if that undoing was ever to happen, she anticipated it in the form of betrayal. There were certain wounds that your love would soothe, but not erase, and her fear of losing you was one of them. Although she knew there was always the risk of losing you in her operations - spouses were frequent targets of attack in her profession - she could never fathom that this would ever happen. And now that it finally did, her undoing felt imminent. But before she fell, she would undo the lives of every person involved in your abduction.

Valeria walked down the halls of her estate which was now busy as a bee's colony. Personnel ran up and down the halls, transferring arms and themselves to vehicles and aircraft, putting everyone down to the guard dogs into use. Everything was readied to perfection before they descended upon the headquarters of the Mexcian Army with blood and fire. This was unlike Sin Nombre's usual pattern of behaviour. El Sin Nombre worked in the shadows and did the most to prevent bloodshed. El Sin Nombre brushed shoulders with the Mexican Army frequently, but nonetheless maintained a respectful distance. They kept to their turf, and she kept to hers. She was the blade that shone in the shadows, an elusive blade that had to be looked for, but now she would carry her knife in the open. And she would burn the world to the ground, the whole lot of them be damned. Let it be known that Valeria Garza loves a woman to death. And she will ride the forces of death to the battlefield even if just to reunite with her love. She thought of you right now, kept somewhere cold and grimy, afraid and lost in the world of armies and men, in the world of violence and destruction. A world she tried hard to keep separate from your own.

And yet still, she did not regret ever bringing you to her life; not for a second. Binding your lives may have caused your ruin and hers, but she was still glad to have known happiness with you before the bitterness descended.

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"Tell me, Y/N. Have you ever been with a man?" Alejandro looked right into your eyes with his dark ones, and you just stared at him, shocked and embarrassed. Your anxiety turned into stone-cold fear. What kind of question was that? This was not where the conversation was going, nor did you ever expect to be asked this - especially by someone like him. You painfully craved Valeria's presence in that moment, so much that it hurt. Ever since she entered your life, no one dared to intimidate or harass you. She became your protector and your guardian. It had been years since you had to defend yourself, verbally or physically, and the realisation almost brought tears to your eyes. You became painfully aware of your predicament as the Colonel stared you down impatiently.

You willed yourself to say something, anything, but your words would not come out no matter how hard you tried. "I asked you a question," he said. "I don't know what to say," your voice trailed off to near silence by the end. You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with your ring. "It's a yes or no answer," he said. "I don't want to talk anymore," you said, louder than you spoke before. "That's not how interrogations work. I ask, you answer." Alejandro stepped forward and leaned down to your level. "So answer the question - ahora." "¿Qué quieres de mí?" You asked. ("What do you want from me?")

He moved uncomfortably close and whispered: "I want her to suffer. I want her to know what betrayal feels like. Quiero arruinarte." ("I want to ruin you.") His eyes trailed below your tearful eyes and to your lips, then lower to your neck. His breath caught at the sight of bruises forming on your soft skin in the shape of his fingers. He wondered what the rest of you would like decorated like that, what it would feel like to grab all the soft parts of you and make them hurt. He gloated at the idea that Valeria would see you like that; destroyed and afraid, marked all over by him. For her to feel what it is like to have what she loves tattered into pieces. To feel the betrayal that he felt when she left him. He, the leader of Los Vaqueros, one of the most promising soldiers of his generation, abandoned for a random girl that nobody had even heard of; a nobody. A girl who did nothing more than help out in her Abuela's kitchen. As Alejandro's eyes leered across your body, he wondered what it was that attracted Valeria to you. Was it your pretty eyes? Large and round puppy eyes that he bet could beg so prettily. Was it your soft and glistening skin? Or was it your inoculated innocence? The innocence of someone who didn't know what it was like to kill, who had never taken a life. The innocence of someone who didn't make their living alongside Death. The innocence of someone you came home to after a long day, who nursed the wounds the world inflicted upon you and sent you out there stronger than before. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that parts of you filled out where his didn't. The parts of your body that were soft where his were hard, that you were delicate where he was strong, that your skin was smooth when his was scarred. That where he yielded, you broke. That you could crumble in love and he wouldn't. That he and Valeria belonged with the destroyers of the world, and you were of the destroyed. That there was an inevitable attraction between these opposites, and resistance when two of the same met, an instinctive aversion to that which was made of the same stuff as you.

"You as much as lay a hand on me, cabrón, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do," you spat your words at him, anger burning in your chest. Upon hearing this, a dark grin stretched across his face. He reached out with his gloved hand and grabbed a strand of your hair.

"You're so stupid, you don't even know it," he mused while rubbing his thumb against your hair. You jerked back to release him from you, but he only held on to your hair, preferring to see you rip it from your scalp than let go.

"You don't know what can happen to women in custody, do you?" He said. You stared back in defiance. "You're just trying to scare me. You wouldn't dare." "I guess Valeria never told you how we do things here." He said, looking down at you. "She told me how much she fucking hated it, and how small you all made her feel," you said, emboldened in your anger. "And whatever you do to me won't change the fact that she loved me and not you, and that she will always choose me." You said, staring up at him. His eyes darkened and he released your hair, only to raise his hand high above you, preparing to bring it down with a force that would knock you off your chair.

He was about to do so but was interrupted when the door opened.

An unknown man entered the room, dressed in the typical kit of the Mexican Army. "Colonel," he said and saluted. "You're wanted in the yard." Alejandro looked behind him lazily. "What's this about? Estoy ocupado." (I'm busy) The man blinked back at him. "El fantasmo, sir." Alejandro grunted and returned his hand to his side, not bothering to hide what he was about to do. He started walking towards the door. "You just think about what I just said," he uttered and shut the door behind him. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you took a moment to comprehend what just happened. His threat hung over you like a rope, tightly coiled like the lump in your throat. How long till he returned? You couldn't stand the idea of being left alone with him again. "Senora."

For a moment, you forgot the other man was still with you. You looked up at him, worry written all over your face, weary of his presence. He stepped closer to you and placed a hand in his pocket. To your surprise, he pulled out a strawberry-flavoured breakfast bar; one of your favourite snacks. "Don't you worry. La jefa viene en camino," he said as he passed it to you. ("The boss is on her way") Stunned, you held the bar in your hands and looked at him with tears in your eyes. Many thoughts rushed through your mind - she knew you were here! You thought of what Commander Graves had said about Valeria having friends with many places, and here was one operating right underneath their noses. You wanted to ask the man so many things, but could only speak one word: "When?" He looked at you with a soft, sympathetic smile on his lips. His fingers reached to the earpiece and he pressed it. "Now," he said and an alarm siren started started screaming.

The sound was unlike anything you'd ever heard before. The siren blared over the speakers of the Mexican Army's headquarters in one long, continuous yell. Immediately, you could hear the thundering footsteps of countless men running up and down the grounds, yells of surprise and panicked instructions that were incomprehensible to you from within the box. The man looked at you calmly. "Stay right here, senora. Don't come out for any reason." And with that, he ran out the door, sealing the door shut behind him. You could hear a chain rattling against the entrance as he locked you in. The breakfast bar sat on your lap and you began peeling the wrapping. You took a big bite out of it, tasting the sweetness of the sugar and the sourness of the strawberry pieces. You swallowed your snack as the first bullet was fired.

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Alejandro was annoyed at the interruption and hurried to the yard where Ghost was expecting him. He wondered what the urgency was. Perhaps Valeria sent a message. That was what he wanted, but he hoped it would take a bit longer. There was a surprising amount of fun to be had with you. Even if he didn't lay a hand on you, his words alone were enough to terrify you, and he loved every second of it. Your eyes widening in fear when you understood what he meant, your embarrassment at what was implied; it excited him more than he wanted to admit. Had that been Valeria on that chair, he would've been chewed out in a second, if not worse. It was uncommon to come across someone so timid as you in his line of work, someone so easy to pick on. And yet, you showed some spite, too. There were many layers to be uncovered here, and he wanted to take his time unravelling all that you had to offer.

He arrived at the yard. The place was littered with army vehicles transporting cargo and people to and from the facility, and further out, the aircraft was in the process of being retired for the day. To his annoyance, Ghost was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found Rudolpho helping out with the transport of arms.

"Have you seen Ghost, Rudy?" Alejandro asked. Rudolpho paused and turned to his superior, and longtime friend. "Ghost and Soap are in a meeting with General Sherperd, the Captain, and Graves, sir. I'm not sure when they'll be done." Alejandro raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A meeting with Graves? And why weren't we invited?" Rudolpho shook his head, "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know." He partly turned around to continue with his task, but then faced Alejandro again. "Colonel," he said and moved closer to Alejandro so that others couldn't hear. "I'm not doubting your judgement here. But will this help catch El Sin Nombre? We've not heard anything of Valeria since that night." He said.

Alejandro stared back in response. "Of course this will help catch her. I told you this is a necessary evil to weed her out. I know how she works, trust me." He affirmed.

Rudolpho seemed unsure. "I knew her too, Alejandro. And I don't think this was the right move, at all. And I think Commander Graves is having his doubts too." He didn't need to spell it out for Alejandro, he knew the implication behind this. That Graves was doubting Alejandro's judgment. That this meeting they were having could very well be about this operation, calling it a failure. Wanting to change the strategy. Rudy pressed on. "And I really don't think she ought to be left alone in that container. She should be transported to jail, sir."

Alejandro turned to him and spoke slowly, realization hitting him like a wave. "But she's not alone." The alarm in Alejandro's eyes spread to Rudolpho and they both turned to face the building that hosted the container when the emergency alarm was triggered.

Promised tags: @justmare @silas-222 @m0rganit3 @blarba-girl (thank you for all the support!) @sleepiemain @caffeineliker @ashy-kit

#call of duty valeria #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #valeria x female reader #cod valeria #cod imagine #cod mw2 #call of duty #valeria x reader

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ugh-yoongi · 2 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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oharabunny · 7 months

Text

The Grass is Greener on the Other Side

Description: It's Miguel's birthday and you want to surprise him with his childhood favorite foods. With you living in his home, he has rules, and you broke the most important one.

Story is connected to my yandere!caretaker!Miguel fic.

Word Count: 5170

Warning: 18+, mdni, yandere!caretaker!Miguel, fem!afab!Reader, spanking, manipulation, slut-shaming, Stockholm Syndrome, infantilization, physical pain, non-con, not beta read

Please read warnings before proceeding. The following behaviors are abusive and I do not condone them.

You wake up one morning from Lyla’s alarm and see Miguel isn’t next to you in bed. That is typical of him because he has to go to work early or the rare times he stays there overnight (which he will always give you a heads up on).

He will almost always come home every night so it doesn’t particularly bother you. (But it definitely bothers him because he just wants to spend an eternity in every waking hour caring for you, but alas the multiverse isn’t going to take care of itself. It’s not like he can entrust the fate and balance of it all to the other Spiders.)

You slowly begin to wake up and slide yourself out of bed. Another day without Miguel as your only friend and husband to keep you entertained.

That is until you realize what day it is.

You memorize this specific date because it is one of the few things that Miguel will tell you about himself (you pestered him a long time to tell you).

Today is his birthday.

You feel saddened by the fact he is not home to celebrate, but that gives you the chance to surprise him if he comes back home tonight.

You ask Lyla what Miguel’s favorite cakes and birthday food are.

Lyla says he really likes the pan dulce sold at this specific bakery downtown. Unfortunately they’re a prideful business that does not do delivery.

That is a problem.

Ever since he took you under his wing to live in his apartment, he has many, many rules for you to follow. They only get stricter after marriage and childbirth.

Rule number one is you do not leave the apartment for any reason (unless it’s for safety and Miguel is not there to save the day).

Lyla, his AI assistant, is also sure as hell not going to let you go either.

You have a child now, a daughter of 9 years, so there is even less incentive to let you go outside.

You think to yourself, wouldn’t your daughter also want to help set up his birthday surprise?

You immediately wash up and dress in one of Miguel’s favorite dresses that he likes on you. You even put on the style of makeup and hairdo the way he likes them.

You go to your daughter’s room and softly knock on her door. “Hey, Y/D/N, can I come in?”

She swings the door open, and says while yawning, “Hey mama, good morning.”

You step into her room and sit on her bed. You pat the bed to gesture to her to sit down next to you.

“It’s your papa’s birthday today. And I think we should surprise him with his favorite foods when he gets back.”

Her face lights up in excitement and bounces up to her toes. “It is?! Oh can we, mama?”

She pauses, “But wait, you can’t cook.”

It was another one of those rules Miguel set for you: you are not allowed to cook. You can at most use the microwave, with Lyla’s supervision.

“I know, sweetie, but I know a few places we can stop by to pick up his favorite foods.” You counter.

“But papa says you’re not allowed to go outside, it’s too dangerous for you.” Your daughter looks to the side with uncertainty while playing with her fingers. She does this whenever she feels pressured.

You sigh, “I know…that papa can be protective of me. But sometimes…he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m not as weak as he thinks. Besides, I want to spend time with you outside! I’ll promise to take you to your favorite ice cream spot, if you’ll show me.”

With just that, her face lights up again in glee. She has always wanted to bring you to her favorite places in the city that she usually goes with her papa. You never got the chance to see the outside world beyond that brief time in Spider Society and when he brought you to the hospital for her birth.

You lean into your daughter’s ear, “But we’ll need to trick the alarm system and Lyla if we want to make it happen.”

You have to convince Lyla into disabling the alarm system without her alerting Miguel.

You also have to make your trip super quick because he likes to video call you randomly.

There are very few ways to convince or even trick Lyla. None of which would pop up in your head if you aren’t particularly tech savvy.

And you aren’t.

“Lyla.” You called her.

“Hey there sweetie. What’s up?” The small yellow woman appears on your shoulder and tilts her head in question.

You pause to gather your words and organize your mind. It doesn’t really work.

“It’s Miguel’s birthday today and I want to surprise him.” You start slowly to gauge her response.

“Ah, yes it is, and oh dear…” Lyla pauses, “He doesn’t particularly like his birthday, much less surprises.”

“Well, I still think he should have a little something. Maybe not like a party if he doesn’t like those, but something like getting his favorite foods. And before you tell me I’m not allowed to cook, I know. And… I need to go outside to pick them up.” You clasp your hands together and look down to help with your words.

You can see Lyla is already about to cut in.

“I KNOW, I know, rule number one. But, it’s close by. I’ll make it quick. Y/D/N will be with me.”

Lyla sighs and readjusts her pink heart-shaped glasses, “You know Miguel is still not going to be happy about that.”

“You don’t have to tell him! I mean, you’ll be with me and if anything happens you can call him. But, I swear, nothing will happen to me!”

“I’m sorry gal, I just can’t let you do that.” Lyla could only give you a sympathetic look.

“He deserves something special for a special day. Even setting aside his whole birthday, I just want to show him how much I appreciate him for everything he’s done for me.” You could feel yourself becoming dejected.

“You can paint him a picture.” Lyla suggests.

“I painted him a thousand.” You counter.

“You can crochet.”

“I do that every day.” You are getting frustrated and sigh, “And don’t you think it’s a little ridiculous that I’m not allowed outside. I can walk just fine. You can take your diagnostics. Even I need a change of scenery every now and then.”

“Girlie, you know you two have talked about this. Miguel set that rule in stone. I can’t do anything about it.” Lyla is still on the fence.

“I just… I just want to get him something that reminds him of home. I haven’t seen him have that pan dulce at all before. He deserves it for all his hard work. Don’t you think?” You plead and plead in hopes to appeal somewhere in her algorithm for Miguel’s sympathy.

“Well, I can ask one of our Spiders to fetch it for you.” Damn you Lyla.

“I can’t trouble the Spider people for this!” You quickly said.

And then you remembered something.

“Hey Lyla, don’t you have customization mods that you’ve been bugging Miguel to let you have?” Your eyes look devious.

“...no?” Lyla narrows her eyes in suspicion.

“Well… if I can get him the pan dulce, he’ll be very happy. And you know with happy Miguel, I can convince him to let you have your customization mods.” You wink.

Lyla doesn’t immediately answer and looks up in thought. “Hmmm… Well, as long as you make it quick…”

“And he cannot know!”

“Deal. At least he won’t berate me about it.” Lyla twirls her hand. “But you have to make it quick!” She emphasizes and points at you.

You smile and nod.

You quickly go and grab your laptop to order the pan dulce for pickup. You also map out a couple other stops to pick up his favorite empanadas, tamales, sopapillas, etc and your daughter’s ice cream spot as you promised. Nothing can go wrong.

You tell her to get ready to go and Lyla to disable the alarm system.

“Hey Lyla, could you also temporarily disable the live tracking on my watch?”

She gives you a bored look. “He quite literally checks every 30 minutes. Sometimes 5. Oh and including the camera feed in the apartment as well. He’s gonna notice.”

“Could you, like, distract him at work? Maybe another anomaly case or what not.”

“Fortunately for you, he’s out in another universe catching an anomaly right now. But it’s an easy one. I can try and distract him a little, but he’s going to finish up pretty fast with this one.” Lyla conjures up her own digital screen to analyze all her possibilities. “I can probably shoot another case for him to do.”

Honestly anything is fine as long he’s distracted long enough for you to go to all of your stops.

“I’ll try and be fast.” You promise her. “Oh and Lyla-”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.” You smile at her genuinely.

“Aw shucks.” Lyla smiles back.

–

On Miguel’s end, he is finishing up his capture on several anomalies and heading back to HQ. He just can’t wait to go home soon since today is slow and nothing else should be happening. All projects are being handled by the other Spiders, so he can take it easy and go see you.

That is until Lyla pops up on his shoulder and screams, “HELLO MIGUEL–!”

He flinches and covers his ears from the banshee levels of frequency. “What the shock Lyla! Don’t scream into my ear!”

“Haha sorry, sorry. I just wanted to let you know that there’s another case on Earth-2348 that needs your attention.”

“Send another Spider for that. I need to go home and check on Y/N.” Miguel raises his brow at her through his mask.

“You have a point, but this one requires your special attention.” Lyla shows him the data.

Miguel gives a gruff sigh and rolls his eyes, “Fine. Let’s get this over quick.”

–

You and your daughter are making your way downtown. Walking fast, faces pass and you’re… at Miguel’s childhood bakery!

The walk with your daughter has been a breath of fresh air. You’ve been trapped in that godforsaken apartment for the last 9 years, basically ever since your daughter was born. But even before then, Miguel wouldn’t let you go outside unless it was a date or state of an emergency. He hasn’t taken you out on a date since your daughter’s existence. And emergencies rarely ever do arise, if ever.

But now, you get to have your own time with your daughter without being shackled to him and the shared apartment. It’s not like you hate him; you just wish he lets you have the freedom to choose and make your own decisions.

Why can’t he see that?

Picking up the goods is quick and easy, even if there is a bit of a wait in some shops. You know you don’t have time to stall and admire your surroundings.

You still take your daughter to the ice cream spot that she boasts about going with papa. You’re happy that you get to also share this moment with her as well.

“What flavor does papa get with you?” You ask your daughter. Maybe you can pick up a pint for him.

“He usually gets cinnamon-basil.” Your daughter scrunches up her face in disgust. “I usually get the peanut butter fudgesicle.”

Noted.

You turn toward the male worker to place your order, “Um, hi there, I would like the peanut butter fudgesicle…”

You turn to your daughter, “On a cone?” She nods.

“On a cone.”

You continue, “As for me, I would like the [your fav ice cream flavor] on a cone as well. Oh! And one pint each for the peanut butter fudgesicle and the cinnamon-basil.”

The transaction goes smoothly and he hands you your order. He decides to add, “You are very pretty ma’am. I hope you and your daughter have a nice day.”

You blush at the compliment. Miguel is usually the one feeding you compliments, but it’s nice seeing someone else other than your husband acknowledging you.

You smile back cheerfully, “Thank you!”

–

Miguel quickly finishes up on this “special” case that Lyla claims to be. Strange, she usually isn’t wrong with her calculations and data processing. Did something happen to her programming?

He fidgets his gizmo to check up on you since he hasn’t planned on taking on an extra case today. The camera feed of the apartment shows no signs of you or your daughter. Then, he pulls up his map of his Earth to find your pinpoint, but it’s not there. He searches for your ping frantically and it’s not there.

“Lyla.” He calls in a low tone.

She pops up and tries not to look guilty, mentally cursing you for not being fast enough.

“Why did you give me such an easy anomaly to take care of?” His voice is threatening.

Lyla can’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry! Y/N wanted to surprise you for your birthday. She didn’t want you to find out because you know…you’d freak out.”

“You know the rules. You’re not programmed to respond to her commands.” He crosses his arms as he gives her a heated look.

“Well, you deserve a little something, and she really wants to show her appreciation for you. You can’t fault me for that!” Lyla protests.

He just glares at her in the most deadpan expression.

“Okaaaaay. It’s mostly because she promised me that she’ll help get me those mods you never let me get.” She rolls her eyes.

“Where. Is. She. Now.” He emphasizes each word, barely holding on to his anger and state of panic from breaking loose. He notes to himself to reprogram her, thoroughly.

“She should be on her way back to her apartment right now! She went to that bakery you grew up with and the ice cream spot you take Y/D/N with.”

And with that, he heads out.

–

You beeline towards your apartment as you check for the time. Luckily Miguel hasn’t called you all day or else you wouldn’t know what to say or how to react.

You and your daughter reach the second to last block of the apartment when suddenly you get approached by some shady, hooded figure.

“Hey there, pretty lady! Hope you can spare a few minutes with me~” He steps up towards you, a little too close for comfort.

You kind of freeze up in place, and are unsure of how to respond. You are too polite to tell him off. “U-Um, excuse me.”

You take your daughter’s hand tightly, who is shooting daggers at him, and try to move past the stranger.

He stops you by grabbing your shoulder and shoving you back into the alleyway behind you, causing you to lose your grip on both your daughter and bag of food.

You hit against the brick wall aggressively, with your head smacking against it. You start to feel lightheaded and the area of impact pulsating.

He tries to reach for your purse, but is soon met with a loud, booming punch against the gut from your daughter. He is sent flying 50 feet away and smacks against the wall causing him to pass out. (She might have killed him.)

“Mama! Mama! Are you okay?!” Your daughter frantically rushes to your side, gripping the skirt of your dress.

“I-I’m fine. I just need a moment to collect myself.” You hold your head from the impending headache.

Not a second later, you are suddenly hoisted up like a potato sack causing you to scream and flail until you recognize whose back you’re seeing belongs to.

It’s your husband, and he wastes no time to leap to the top floor of the apartment building with not just you but your daughter also, one on each hand, without breaking a sweat.

“Lyla, open the door.” He sternly commands.

The door opens on its own, and he gently sets both you and your daughter down. You are still shaken from the whole ordeal that your knees give out. He swiftly catches you, almost as if he expects you to.

He carries you bridal style, and walks you to the living room to set you down on the couch. He takes off his mask, and you can see the tension contorting his face, stabbing you with guilt.

He grabs your chin to scan for any signs of obvious injury, and a quick visual across your body.

“Lyla, scan her for vitals.”

Quickly, she does and concludes, “All vitals seem normal. Heart rate is 120, likely due to panic and stress. Increased blood flow to the back of her head due to external impact, but no signs of head trauma.”

He drops his head and leans in. He runs his fingers through your hair in the area of impact and massages your scalp. You can feel your headache already melting away, and you lean into his touch.

“Just why…” He whispers into your ear. “Why would you go outside?”

“I just wanted to surprise you for your birthday.” You put your hands on his wide shoulders and give him a light squeeze, trying to placate him.

It does nothing to sooth him. He shifts himself to sit beside you and pulls you into his embrace. You are led to sit on his lap with your face laying on the crook of his neck as he continues to massage your head. His other hand rests around your waist.

“Y/D/N, come here.” He doesn’t stop his ministrations.

She has been standing near the door fidgeting her fingers anxiously. She walks over to you two, and with the smallest voice she says, “Am I in trouble, papa?”

He sits up a little, but assures you that he won’t drop you by tightening his embrace.

“No, but tell me what happened. Every last detail.” He says firmly, yet tactfully.

She tells him everything, including the part where the ice cream guy complimenting you. You can feel his grip getting harder and tighter as he grinds his jaw. His jealousy is apparent.

“Thank you for being honest with me. You’re a very good girl for protecting your mother. You take after me which is why you are strong. You are also a smart girl. You must understand that your mother is in no shape to go outside without me. Never let her persuade you again.” He emphasizes “never” to drive home the point. “If she tries to go outside again, tell me.”

And at that, you pull yourself away from him. His arm around your waist doesn’t budge, still straddling you to his lap. The hand that was on your head now rests on your neck.

“That’s not fair, Miguel! I am a grown woman! Your wife, her mother! You can’t keep trapping me here in this apartment.” You protest.

“I’ll…I’ll go crazy.” You barely whisper whilst choking back a sob.

“We already had this discussion before. It’s just not safe. Look at what happened today! Do you really think you’re in any position to be demanding to go outside?!” He glares at you.

You don’t listen. You try to tear yourself from him but his grip is relentless. You push and kick with all your might, but you’re like a mouse fighting against a lion.

You turn your head to your daughter, “Y/D/N, I am your mother, please don’t listen to him.” You plead in hopes that she won’t bar you from ever going outside again too.

Alas, Miguel is the one with authority here.

“Don’t drag her to your impulse. You also endangered her by taking her with you.” He chastises, and forces your head back down to lean into his, to look him in the eyes. “You may be her mother, but you can’t protect her.”

Somewhere in your heart breaks. You slump as all the energy in your muscles give out.

Yes, considering today, you never would have been able to protect your child. Yes, it is in fact your own child, who hasn’t even reached puberty, that saved your life. What would have happened if she was taken while you were distracted? You have no survival skills.

“Y/D/N, go to your room. I need to talk to your mother in private.” He orders and watches as she scurries off.

With her bedroom door shut, he calls for Lyla, “Activate soundproofing.”

Your heart begins to race in anticipation for what’s about to happen. He gets up from the couch while holding you (causing you to koala hug him) with one hand on your bum and the other your back.

He carries you to your shared bedroom, and unceremoniously plops you to the bed. He flips you over so that you face down to the bed, and slides you towards the edge so your ass hangs off.

“I’m going to punish you now. This is your lesson for disobeying my most important rule.” He says in a cold tone.

Goosebumps form and your body shivers in fear. You never would have expected to be here. He has always been so gentle, forceful at times, but gentle nonetheless.

You fucked up big time.

“P-Please wait…!” You hold your arm out to stop him.

He swats it away and simply says, “Stop moving.”

He hikes up the skirt of your dress over your ass revealing your pretty lace panties, and grips the skirt in place on your lower back.

“You didn’t wear safety shorts under the dress? You’re either a slut or an idiot.”

Before you can answer, he gives you a hard smack on your left ass cheek. You yelp from the sudden impact. It stings and burns.

You squirm, but you don't move out of place from the heavy weight pressing you down your abdomen.

He gives you another smack, this time on the right cheek. His touch is not kind, not tender like you’ve been used to for all these years. Your heart races so intensely; you can feel it beating against the mattress.

“P-Please…” You attempt to get the words out through your heavy pants. “I…just want to…give you a birthday present.”

He kneads your cheek harshly, and you instinctively hiss from the contrast of earlier hits and round your back to escape his hand. He pushes your abdomen back down.

“And yet, instead, you had not only made me worry, but you endangered yourself unnecessarily and for what? A couple baked goods? I can get them any time.” He hard smacks your cheeks a couple times earning him a scream. “Not very considerate of you on my birthday.”

You sob from his words and the pain from his strikes. He doesn’t loosen his hold and continues to strike your ass in rapid succession.

You groan into the sheets while you grip them tightly to hold yourself in some form of leverage.

He spreads your cheeks apart and pulls your panties up. The cloth wedging itself into your cunt.

“You’re getting wet.” He scoffs. “You’re getting off on this.”

He rubs the inner side of your ass near your cunt with his thumb. He pulls on it to spread your cunt out for him to see. He glides his pointer finger across your glistening hole.

“You’re very wet.” His husky voice is low and you can sense he’s beginning to feel aroused.

He pulls your right leg up and anchors your foot down to the mattress. “Keep your ass up.”

You do as you’re ordered and he smacks the area close to your dripping pussy. He smacks again and again. You can barely hold on. That area is far too sensitive.

Especially when you’re becoming impossibly wet.

Your cunt is clenching around nothing and you try to push down the neediness that’s building up in the pit of your stomach. Your clit won’t stop pulsating.

He pushes your hiked up leg back down to focus the assault on just your ass. He forcefully pulls down your panties and inspects your pussy again. While it’s not the first time he’s ever seen it, for some reason, you’re so much more embarrassed being presented in this way.

“I-I’m sorry Miguel. I w-won’t do it again.” You want to be out of this demeaning hold as soon as possible. You can’t contain your tears and sobs flowing into your bed.

He again kneads your ass, but in thought. As if considering your apology, “If you’re truly sorry, then you’ll continue to ride out your punishment.”

Your eyes widen as his hand crashes down on your ass again.

Your skin is fiery hot and raw. Your mind is blanking out. Strings of saliva fly out of your mouth.

He stops for a moment after minutes of nonstop assault on your poor ass to knead and console your sensitive skin and muscles. (If your skin is pale, your ass is beet red, almost glowing like his webs.)

You make a guttural throat sound in response; the shock shooting your brain awake.

“Forgive me! Please, forgive me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please stop.”

He stops but his hand does not leave your ass as he gives you a quizzical look. “You didn’t know? Like you didn’t know this would happen?”

You make a poor attempt at a nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think someone would attack me.”

He lets go of your dress and grabs you by the bodice pulling you off of the mattress. He drags you to the front of the full size body mirror where you can clearly see the dramatic height difference between the two of you.

He grabs your waist while holding your face out. “Look at yourself!” He yells.

You take a good look at yourself. You’re a mess. The tears streaming down your face ruined your makeup. Streams of black from your mascara stain your cheeks while your lipstick is smeared all over your mouth. Your hair is disheveled. Your eyes are red. Your dress is wrinkled.

You don’t quite understand what he’s looking for. All you see is a mess.

“Do you have any idea how captivating you are? Why do you think I love this specific dress on you? And your makeup? You can tempt any man around you. You can’t possibly think no one would try to take you?” He says while pressing his hard-on on your back.

Sure, the dress hugs your body in all the right places. It shows your cleavage. But still, nothing overly liberal and out of place for a casual stroll in the city. Not when other more scantily clad women are a dime a dozen. Especially in Nueva York, in a time that’s far more advanced and liberal than your own.

“I d-don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m not that pretty.” You struggle to stand, but his grip on your waist keeps you from falling.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” He grips your jaw harder as he glares at you through the mirror.

“I’m really not. I don’t even know why you married me!” You sob. “I’m weak. I’m useless. There are tons of girls who are better and prettier than I am. Why did you choose me? All I do is give you reasons to do more work at home than you already have.” You can’t help but sulk and spill all your insecurities.

His gaze softens and drops his grip from your jaw. He spins you around and brings you close to his chest. He strokes your head like how he used to comfort you. Your gentle Miguel is back.

“Shhh, I know that you can’t do a lot of things like other people, but it doesn’t make me love you any less. Isn’t that enough?”

You pull your face away from his chest and look up at him. “But I want to be your equal. I want to be worthy.”

“But you are worthy. You don’t have to be my ‘equal’ for me to love you.” He counters. Good point. He cups your cheek and you lean into his touch. He lightly wipes away your tears.

You have nothing more to say. Perhaps you’ll never understand why he chose you, why he loves you.

“I love you more than you can know.” He brushes your hair behind your ear. “We have a beautiful family now. I can’t risk losing you, any of you. I hope you understand that.”

His eyes darken. You can see that his words mean more than what he tells you. You don’t know what he really means.

You have no choice but to accept him anyway. He is your rock in this world. Your entire fiber of being and existence completely and solely hinges upon him and his will. Without him, you have nothing, you are nothing.

He is your savior as much as he is your captor. He is your caretaker as much as he is your jailor.

He is your God.

You two linger in each other’s hold as if time stood still. His scent calms you down, and you begin to relax more and more in each breath you take as you sink into his embrace.

Until your stomach growls.

He chuckles as he lets you go slowly. “Looks like someone’s hungry. I’ll go whip up some dinner for us.”

He walks away for a second to grab a box of tissues. He wipes away all of your tears, makeup smears, and dripping nose (which he tells you to blow out while holding up the tissue for you).

“B-But the pastries and the ice cream I got for you. They got left behind.” You sniffle.

“Don’t worry about it.” He pauses to think. “How about this? I’ll take the next weekend off and we can go together, as a family.”

You smile up at him; you couldn’t be more happy. “Thank you, Miguel. Thank you.”

He softly smiles back and kisses your forehead, “Now, go rest, I’ll come back to get you when dinner is ready. I’ll wash you up after.”

You nod to that. You make your way to your bed and plop face down. Your ass is still stinging and burning so you can’t lay on your back. Your eyes flutter shut and begin to drift off.

Good grief is what he thought watching you pass out on the bed. You’re going to catch a cold. He lifts you up to untuck the blanket and covers you with it. He carefully tucks the blanket in every crevice around your neck, ensuring no part of you is bare to feel the cool air.

He stays for a second to look at you and brush away the strands of hair from your face before walking out and closing the door behind him.

A/N: Well...that was intense. The second part will be fluffier and smuttier. (づ￣ 3￣)づ I spent like at least 12 hours just on part 1 in both writing and proofreading, only to not even get to part 2 yet. Feedback is welcomed. This is not a comfortable read.

Also I want to thank @wreakingmarveloushavok for giving me the idea of what Mexican pastry that's eaten on birthdays! Everything else I googled, including any inaccurate health related mentions.

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randomlonelymusician · 6 days

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Lacey Games New Transcriptions!

Emails

Email 1 by line:

Concern over Lacey's games character

Hello parents! Today I want to bring attention to this website I found my girl watching: Lacey's girl games.

I thought it was innocent until I saw the mascots. There is

one, Jay, who acts and dresses like a boy. She [...x2] the

devil's sign [...4-7] it is totally inappropriate

for girls. I can't believe

they'd put a [..x1] in [...x2]. I am a very concerned

mom because of that. My little [...name?] started telling me she wanted a skateboard. What's next, wearing those hideous boy ones[?]? Hanging

around boys will hurt her? Wanting to become a boy? Be careful.

Email 2 by line:

I just saw it. That is not a girl, that is a t/d*slur*. You

character. I [...x1] about it on

everyone agrees to [...x2-3] by now. It's a t/d*slur* in it

"girls" website [...x8] hopefully

[...]

Email 3:

I can definitely agree that a character that says "I'd only be caught dead wearing makeup" in one of her games is not a role model little girls should he having. I don't know why they couldn't just keep Lacey and the other one and get rid of the boygirl thing.. Let us know about updates on sending emails. Maybe also block it in schools until then.

Jay End Screen

Text by line:

She stepped into the empty room at the edge of the universe and

calmly walked toward the single button on the wall as she

had been told by the gods above could delete the existence of anyone

she disliked she thought long and hard of all the ugliest souls she had

ever known she made her decision and her finger met the button without any ceremony

but looking down at her feet it was all red with blood she stood in shock the blood tainted her bery being she had thought deletion

to be clean and to start without realizing that death is the only deletion

that exists and there is no death without painful unrelenting grief

and grief stared at her through mirrors forever, from the eyes of

all she has ever thought to delete it was a world catastrophe

___________________________________________________________

Please add to these! This is just a start based on what I can make out!

#lacey's flash games #lacey games #the disturbing rabbit hole of laceygames.com #lacey's makeup parlour #jay's skating game #lacey's wardrobe #lacey's diner #lacey's petshop #lacey and the jammers #yaniaso games #ghosttundra

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corollaservant · 10 days

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(18+) missed you // dabi x f!reader

cunnilingus, yandere, dubcon/noncon, implied drugging

sick art by @birf__ on X // link (for the whole thing)

it's quiet when he enters the apartment. you barely hear him as he murmurs a soft ‘’i'm home’’, your back towards him, watching tv absentmindedly. the next words will define how the evening will go. a ‘’stand up’’ means it’s bad, a ‘’missed you’’ means it's worse.

‘’i missed you’’ he says, ‘’come here’’ but you don't move. he advances towards you, sitting down as he looks in your eyes. ‘’did you miss me?’’ he says, voice almost whiney, there’s some dried blood under the staples. ‘’i did’’ you utter, not bothering to tell the truth. his lips are on your neck, painted fingers groping and squeezing what feels like your carotid artery, he’s needy and seems desperate.

‘’you’ve been so good today’’ he says as if you’ve accomplished anything, all you did was sit sedated on his couch, not bothering to get up at all.

‘’i think i’ll reward you baby’’ he breathes on your wet neck, bringing what feels like dry skin- his lips on yours and sliding his tongue in your mouth. but you don’t back away, you intertwine tongues, as you notice him inching closer, both hands around your neck, i can breathe, you think.

the next thing happening is you’re lying down on the couch, under no circumstance would he bother carrying you to bed, his day has been exhausting as is, you’re naked and trembling, it’s cold in the apartment but a heat always accompanies him. you’re also soaked, such a stupid thing the human body, reacting in ways you don’t want it to. his head is now in between your legs, folds parted, metal gliding from your thighs to your inner lips, your cunt twitches in anticipation, as he fondles it and you mewl.

‘’p-please..Dabi’’ you tell him, how desperate you actually seem but he doesn’t mind. Not today.

‘’i know, baby’’ he murmurs, tongue lapping at your slit, swirling around your swollen nub, he will go easy on you today. a harsh slap echoes in the room, his hand comes in contact with your bare thigh as you scream.

‘’be quiet, not too much noise.’’ he grumbles, the position annoying him, he can’t get full access to the hidden treasure, his day’s reward.

you’re being lifted from the couch in seconds, only to find yourself on top of him, he’s lying down this time as your naked body quivers atop, pussy positioned on his mouth, black painted hands gripping your waist.

‘’stop fidgeting pretty’’ he says but you can’t be patient, you need his tongue in you, how stupid is that? he's in your cunt again, spitting on it as saliva drips down his chin and onto his chest, a look down would show you his pretty half lidded eyes staring at you, a large handprint decorating your left thigh and he’d only spanked you once. your fingers tug on his white hair with caution, would he smack the same spot again? but you don’t really care at the moment, as you timidly start grinding on his open mouth and nose, trying to get your relief as his grip on your waist tightens. he's licking up your sopping slit, inching closer to the nub and it tingles, he tickles you and you jerk, overstimulated clit pulsating and causing you pain as you whisper: ‘’p-please, s-suck it’’.

he is in a good mood today, that’s why he spanks your thigh, same spot, heated palm and the pain shoots up your core as you soak his mouth.

‘’don’t tell me what to do’’ mouth full of your pussy, as you blabber. since he’s given you unspoken permission to touch his hair, you continue; tugging harshly as white strands get tangled in between your knuckles and you feel your core tighten, your clit spasms, signaling a tormented orgasm, hips buck up his nose, as he shuffles, his dick isn’t the priority here but he can’t ignore the constant reminder.

‘’D-dabi, fuck, im g–gonna-’’ you pant as he slaps your thigh again; same spot, same viciousness and spits on your cunt – it’s too many sensations at once, a lapping tongue with your arousal and his saliva expecting to get more out of you, the abuse on your nub, the pain from his hits, the longing eyes and sloppy mouth full of your slick as you cum crying, eyes brim with tears, hips jerk on his face, while he tastes your cunt’s sweetness, half-smile forming on his stained features.

it's always worse when he tells you he missed you. it means you have to prepare yourself to enjoy what comes next.

#mha x reader #dabi x reader #dabi smut #yandere dabi #dabi x you #todoroki touya x reader #tw dubcon #tw noncon #had 82737 wips but brainrot took over #check their art on twitter btw!#corollaservant

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eddiemunson-mylove · 10 months

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Always Have, Always Will

summary -

Things don't go to plan when you finally confess your feelings to your best friend Eddie

warnings -

Angst with happy ending | Nothing else really

word count -

1.8K

masterlist

_______________

Four solid taps to the screen door with the palm of your hand was enough for Eddie to call from his room, “I’m in here!” Rolling your eyes at his lack of safeguarding, you swung the door open and let it slam behind you as you toed yourself out of your shoes, leaving them by the door. With one final deep breath you padded down to his room, replacing your look of dread with a rehearsed smile.

You found him as you usually would. Sat on the bottom corner of his bed furthest from the door, facing away and resting his arm atop an acoustic guitar, his pen and pad strewn hastily next to him in the event of any new material for the band. His hair was sitting low on his shoulders in a bun that you were sure was about to unravel (usually at the case of his hair band snapping at the struggle to contain it all) and his tank top was so low cut at the sides, you wondered why he bothered to wear a shirt at all.

“Hey sweets” he chirps, always the first to break the silence. You return your best ‘hello’ before joining him at the foot of his bed, hands curled in your lap as the two of you settle into a silence as he aimlessly strums at the strings. What would normally be a moment shared that you’d cherish, it quickly became suffocating as you allowed your mind to swirl at all the possibilities and outcomes of this visit. To Eddie, you were simply a best friend that had come over to spend time with him after not having seen him for a few days longer than usual. But to you… this could be the end of everything that you held dear to you.

The very thought that after today Eddie could potentially no longer be a part of your life pained you to your core. Physically pained you in a way that could not be expressed in words. Almost enough for you to forget the whole ordeal and settle for the what ifs. But you had made a promise to yourself, and to Robin, that it was necessary for you to allow yourself that one possibility. That single chance that would result in Eddie feeling the same way. Have him leaping into your arms screaming hallelujah as the credits roll on a happy ending. Slightly getting ahead of yourself there…

You let yourself lay back onto his bed, resting your head and closing your eyes to just bask in the sound of Eddie’s light strumming and the wildlife from the forest outside his trailer. On one final flick of his fingers across the brass, you feel his body adjust to lay his guitar on the ground before situating himself next to you. He lets out a big sigh, further inflating your anxiety. It’s almost as if he could sense the dread; he could feel the fear.

“Something’s wrong,” he confirms, staring blankly at the ceiling just as you were doing. It was now your turn to let out a sigh, one that was larger than his.

“Nothing’s wrong” you reply meekly, making his head fall to the side to see your profile.

“Okay… something is definitely wrong.” He could read you like a book. And at times like this, his talent for doing so was exhausting. You wished that you could spend a few more moments just pretending that everything will be okay. He has no idea that you are stalling on handing him some life altering information. No idea that he is rushing his potential downfall.

But you had to tell him now, sooner than anticipated. You couldn’t even bring yourself to come up with another excuse. You had spent one too many nights crying yourself to sleep, aching for something more with your best friend. Having him be with you and present but not in the way that you want him to be, always at arms length for you to desperately reach out to grasp for hope. Hope that he would let you fall into his arms as he whispered a thousand ‘i love you’s’. Hope that he would pull you in by your chin for a saccharine kiss, one that leaves you dizzy and disoriented.

And yet the only person that could make this a reality is you and your confession. You droop your head to the right to meet his gaze, before quickly picking a spot on the wall behind him, unable to stay strong under his stare. You pray quickly to a god that you didn’t even believe in, you finally open your mouth to speak…

“I’ve been thinking…” you begin, before immediately being cut off.

“Uh-oh” he jests, a smirk sitting tight on his lips. You elbow him and close your eyes to take a deep breath before you open them again. His smirk is gone, finally realising the weight of the situation.

“I have been thinking, more of a realisation to be honest. And this realisation can lead to two outcomes. One being the outcome that I would like, and the other meaning we could no longer be friends” your voice cracks at the end, as though uttering such thoughts allowed were enough to scar you. Your eyes meet his briefly and you can see his mind desperately trying to gage the situation before he opens his mouth again,

“Well surely you’d choose the one where we’d still be friends… right?” He presses, his tone shaking slightly at the sudden threat.

“That decision isn’t up to me Eds” You reply in a voice smaller than anticipated, yet he still clung to every word.

“Well then who? Did your mom say anything again? Your dad? I thought he liked me at least!” He was starting to panic now, similar to your own feelings but you knew you had to stay calm and coherent for him.

“No Eddie… it’s up to you,” you butt in before he could start rambling his anxieties, “it’s yours and your decision only”

“Well then I choose the one where we can still be friends! Obviously.” You take your hand that lay flat on the bed to grab his own that had started flailing in the air as he stresses his point. Placing it back between you on the bed, you let go in order to shift yourself onto your side so that you were facing him properly for the final blow.

“It’s not as easy as that Eds, you haven’t even heard what my realisation is yet.” You can feel the sting behind your eyes, suddenly conscious that this could potentially be the last time you get to see him like this again. The last time that he would let you be so close to him. Maybe even the last time he would let you speak to him. That last thought causes your waterline to threaten to spill over.

“Well what is it then?” he bursts out, his patience wearing thin, his panic reaching its peak, “What could be so drastic that we couldn’t continue being friends?” You allowed yourself one final deep exhale as a single tear escaped your eye and ran down your face before getting lost in your hair from your horizontal position.

“I love you, Eddie”

You say nothing more. Just letting it hang in the air for the trembling boy before you to process. But he is quick to issue a response,

“Okay? And I love you too,” he returns a little dumbfounded, “you can tell me what it is”

“No Eddie,” you stress at him slightly harsher than you intended too at the prospect of having to repeat yourself and dig an even bigger hole trying to explain, “that’s not what I meant… I love you”

“Oh…” he muses, as though no damage had been done.

“Oh?” he tries again, as though piecing the puzzle together.

“OH” the penny drops as he’s quick to shift his gaze from your own. His hand that was currently resting on your wrist shifts away from you before he sits up suddenly. You're quick to match his posture, waiting for words to come but a silence settles over the two of you again. This time it was anything but a comfort.

“Eddie?” you shadow your hand over his shoulder but he dodges your advance to stand to his feet. You watch with your eyes stinging from the presumed rejection as he paces his room once, twice, three times before he grabs his keys and finally faces you for clarification.

“I’ll be right back” he deadpans, staring at his open bedroom door.

“Eddie… what?” your voice breaks again, the tears free flowing at this point.

“I’ll be back, I promise. I just need to…” he trails off and gives you one last glance before darting through his hallway and out the door, leaving the screen to slam behind him.

Left only with your crippling thoughts, you resume your previous laying position and find yourself naturally curling in before letting out what would be your first gut wrenching sob of many. The ache in your chest had progressed to a sharp stab with each gasp for air as your whole body shook. It wasn’t long before a damp patch formed on the duvet beneath your head and your sobs quieted down into soft wails.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep. The late nights of contemplation and exhaustion from crying finally took its toll. But now you had to once again face reality as your slumber was disturbed by the slam of a door and some heavy footsteps trudging towards the bedroom. Afraid to move, afraid to compromise your safety bubble, you remained in your fetal position.

You followed the sounds of the footsteps until your eye line was met with two dark jean-clad knees. You finally angled your head to look upwards to find Eddie looming over you, a freshly picked bunch of bluebells in his grasp. Slowly and cautiously, you raise yourself into a seated position.

“You didn’t think I was actually gonna let you confess to me did you?” He beams at you, as though the last few hours of pain hadn’t happened.

“What?” you question, confusion deeply rooted in your brain.

“Sweetheart, I’ve got a rep to protect here. Can’t have you going around telling people that you swept me up. That’s my job,” he chuckled, mostly to himself. He moves to sit down next to you, his hand reaching to caress the one that you were using to hold you upright. Angling his head so that his eyes could meet your own, he places the flowers between you on the bed so that his free hand could raise up to cradle your cheek.

“I love you too,” is all he mutters as he leans across to close the gap, his lips slotting effortlessly against your own. He presses firmly, almost as if to stress his affections to you before pulling away all too soon to finish,

“I always have, and I always will.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson stranger things #joseph quinn #joe quinn #joseph quinn fluff

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gabseyoo · 9 months

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RESERVATION — GOJŌ SATORU

content: female reader, established relationship, mirror kink, handjob, spit as lube, petnames, slight dirty talk. word count: 1,5k.

summary: after seeing your boyfriend get out of the shower, you’re not sure if you’re going to make it to the reservation on time.

note: hi, i posted this a while ago but it flopped, so im trying again :p

“Babe.” You called your boyfriend while knocking on the bathroom door twice before opening it without even waiting for his answer, come on, you’ve been living together for so long that unless the door was locked, you could just walk in whenever you wanted. “Did I happen to leave my hoop earrings in here? I can’t find them.”

As soon as you had one foot inside the bathroom, you found Satoru wrapping a towel dangerously low around his hips as he stepped out of the shower. It wasn’t something you hadn’t seen before, but it would be a big lie to say that the sight didn’t still make you drool.

Today was date night and that was why you both were getting ready to go out to dinner at a fancy place. You were already wearing a nice dress, your hair was done and your makeup was on point with your favorite red lipstick. Satoru... well, besides the fact that he had just gotten home from work half an hour ago, he wasn’t the fastest person in the world to get ready.

“The golden ones?” He asked as he dried his hair with a smaller towel, “I saw them by the sink.”

You licked your lips before closing the door behind you and walking to the sink, evidently there were your earrings, so you didn’t take long to put them on while watching in the mirror how Satoru behind you finished drying his head and with one hand he brushed back the white locks. Fuck. You almost let out a sigh.

“Excited about tonight, baby?” He spoke a few seconds later, walking to your side and abruptly bringing you out of your thoughts. You weren’t surprised when you felt his hand squeeze your butt, on the contrary, the simple touch made you smile.

“Sure, the restaurant is new isn’t it?” You answered as you adjusted your dress. Thanks to the proximity, you could smell the masculine scent of his body wash that never failed to delight your nostrils.

“It was a real pain in the ass to get a reservation, it better be worth it. If it isn’t, I’ll kill Suguru for recommending it to us.” Satoru said, putting moisturizer on his face. If he didn’t look so attractive right now and your body wasn’t reacting to it, you’d already be rushing him to get dressed up fast to make it to the said reservation on time.

“Don’t worry, I looked up reviews on the internet, it seems to be fine.” You said, moving one of your hands to his lower back to caress his skin while you looked at him with greedy eyes. “You look good.” You added before giving him a kiss on the shoulder, leaving a red mark thanks to your lipstick.

“I’m just in a towel, baby.” He giggled, stretching out his arm to grab his toothbrush and put toothpaste on it.

“I know, that’s why.” Honestly, you couldn’t contain your desire to touch him anymore, so you brought your hand to caress his abs, dangerously close to the edge of the towel, smiling victoriously when you heard him let out a gasp while brushing his teeth.

“Yeah?” Satoru mumbled still with the toothbrush in his mouth before spitting and cleaning his mouth. “Someone’s a little clingy today.”

You knew your boyfriend like the back of your hand, you knew he already understood what your intentions were and was just playing dumb.

“You don’t like it?” You asked with a faux-innocent tone as you moved your feet until you were behind him, his muscular back in all its glory in front of you. Without waiting any longer, you inhaled the masculine scent of his body before slowly running your tongue over his skin and then lightly sucking on it.

Gojo was quick to react to that, his breathing became heavier and shivers ran through his body; you knew how sensitive he was on his back and you were using that fact to your advantage.

“I do but—” He couldn’t finish his sentence because a moan escaped his lips when your fingers went up from his abs to his pecs to caress his nipples. “The reservation.”

“You want me to stop?” Just to tease him, you were about to withdraw your hands, but Satoru held them in place by placing his hands over them.

“We have time.” He whispered and a mischievous smile appeared on your face.

Happily, you lowered your hand to the bulge that had formed under the towel that still covered him.

Attacking his back again with your lips, you moved your hand down to his crotch to gently caress his bulge, which began to get harder under your palm as you heard Satoru let out little grunts and felt him push his hips forward in an attempt to feel more contact.

You had to see that, you had to see his facial expressions, but it was obvious that his large figure in front of you wasn’t going to let you do that, so you gave up spreading wet kisses on his back (now covered with lipstick stains) to poke your head out and make eye contact with him in the mirror.

A moan almost left your own lips at that sight.

Satoru, with his hands against the sink making some veins stand out, wet white hair falling in his handsome face, his lips slightly parted and his electric blue eyes looking at you with nothing but desire.

“Fuck, you little minx.” He tried to turn around, but you quickly put your other hand against his hip to stop him. Gojo was obviously much stronger than you, you knew your grip wasn’t strong enough to stop him, but he still gave in to your actions, letting you do with him as you pleased.

“Let me make you feel good.”

The only thing that covered his lower half was now on the ground being kicked aside by Gojo while you admired his naked figure in front of you. It didn’t take you long to wrap your hand around his cock and make slow circles on his leaking tip, eliciting a sweet groan from him.

“Spit on it.” You asked since the pre-cum was unfortunately not enough to move your hand easily.

“I just showered.” He joked, but he still gathered saliva in his mouth and took your wrist to spit it into your hand, which after a few seconds returned to caress his shaft, being now easier to slide your palm up and down. “Fuck, just like that.”

Satoru closed his eyes, enjoying you giving him one of those stellar handjobs he loved so much. Which you didn’t like, so you quickly spoke up, “Eyes in the mirror, or I’ll stop.”

It was rare when you got bossy during intimacy, but when you did, you certainly drove Satoru crazy because he immediately let out a grunt and you felt his dick twitch.

“Look at you, babe.” You cooed when Gojo opened his eyes and immediately made eye contact with you. “Look how pretty you look right now.” You added in a whisper.

“Fuck. You’re really something else.” His grip on the sink intensified, looking at you with a smirk. “Faster, baby.”

Obligingly, you increased the speed of your movements to bring him closer to the edge. “Like that?”

“Yeah, god, I love you so much.” His voice came out raspy as he swept back his hair with one hand. “I’m gonna cum.”

The fact that he kept staring at the scene in the mirror, his gaze traveling from your eyes to your hand jerking him off, wanting to get a glimpse of it all, how he’d slightly open his mouth to let out a sigh and then close it again in a moan, all that made you clench your thighs in arousal.

The scene looked so hot, he looked so hot, all you wanted was to make him cum.

“Cumming that fast?” You asked teasingly, bringing your hand up to circle his tip with your thumb, spreading more of the precum that was leaking out, before sliding back down his length.

“Yes.” He wasn’t even ashamed of it, which motivated you to put a little more pressure on his cock, just the way he likes it.

“Cum for me, baby.”

That was all it took to make him explode, a high moan with your name was the last thing his lips left before he came, spilling his cum all over the sink. He’d surely make you clean up all this mess, later.

Satoru quickly turned around and reached for your lips, kissing you passionately while you kept stimulating his shaft to make sure he cum completely, his action caused drops of his semen to fall on your dress, but to say you cared about that would be a lie.

“Shit.” Gojo murmured against your lips, his hands going to fondle your tits aggressively.

You playfully pulled him away from you by placing your hands on his chest, “Satoru, didn’t you want to get to the reservation on time?” You teased, even though you knew that by now that was almost impossible.

A gasp left your lips when your world was turned upside down, literally, since Satoru lifted you up to carry you over his shoulder. His response came after he slapped your ass hard as he made his way to the bedroom.

“Fuck the reservation.”

#𐀔 — mar wrote this.#— thirsts #— jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen imagines

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writeforfandoms · 11 months

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Born for Greatness 3

Find the series masterlist

The aftermath of being attacked, and some familiar faces from a previous assignment.

AKA I couldn’t resist sneaking a couple more people into this fic. :D

Warnings: Swearing, mild possessive behavior, mention of bruises and head injury, more world building.

Eventual John Price x f!reader

Word count: 2.8k

By the time Gaz knocked on your door, you were ready. Still sore as hell, but ready.

“Morning,” you murmured, picking up both bags.

“You alright?” Gaz looked you over quickly. “Didn’t see you at dinner.”

“I was nauseous,” you told him truthfully. “Didn’t want to risk it. I’m fine, sleep helped.” Sleep had also helped the bruises form, but. You weren’t going to tell him that.

“Still.” His jaw clenched for a moment. “You’re a guest and you were injured.”

“Already told off your Alpha for this,” you huffed. “You are not to blame for this. I didn’t expect any violence, and things escalated quickly. It happens. Definitely not the worst I’ve been hurt on the job.”

The look Gaz shot you very clearly said that was not as reassuring as you hoped. But he nodded once, either accepting that or at least not fighting you on it, and walked you out to the air strip. There was a small military plane there waiting for the pack, and you stifled a sigh. Lovely.

“Here, I’ll load these for you.” Gaz took your bags and whisked them away before you had a chance to protest.

Leaving you standing off to the side watching the bustle, unsure what to do with yourself.

This time, Price approached you from the front, rather than sneaking up on you. You were grateful for that - you didn’t think your head would thank you for any jump-scares today.

“Feelin’ alright?” he asked, doing the same visual sweep Gaz had.

“Better,” you agreed with an easy smile. “I have to admit I’m not used to protocol with military transport, so you’ll have to tell me if there’s anywhere I shouldn’t sit.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Price said with a low, amused rumble. “Sit anywhere.”

You nodded and hid a wince at the throb of pain that inspired. Right. No more moving your head today. The flight was definitely going to be super good for your head.

Not.

Somehow, it took no time to get everyone on board, and you picked a spot where you hoped you’d be out of the way.

So of course Soap dropped down next to you with an easy grin, soothingly warm in the chilly interior of the plane.

“Didja bring a book?” he asked, pulling his phone out.

“Yup.” But you had no idea if you’d be able to focus on it, not with the way your head felt.

“Good. Won’t be too long in the air, but long enough to get bored.”

“Not everyone has the attention span of a pup,” Gaz called, teasing.

“Oi! Rich comin’ from you.”

Price sighed and looked up as if asking for patience, and you stifled laughter under your hand. “Soap, make sure she’s in tight.”

“Rog.” Soap paused before he touched you though.

“You’re good,” you murmured, granting him a pleased smile.

He returned the smile easily before he checked that you were securely in your seat and gave his Alpha a thumbs up.

After that, it wasn’t long until the plane was in the air, and you leaned back, closing your eyes. Your head ached and you were still tired.

“Alright there?” Soap leaned in close to ask you, his hand touching yours briefly.

“Head hurts,” you admitted, though you hated to do it.

He hummed, and one gentle hand tipped your head forward carefully. “Got a bit of a goose egg there.”

“From yesterday,” you agreed, keeping your eyes closed. “I’m fine, it just hurts.”

“Be better to rest your head on me than on the plane,” he offered easily, already gently guiding your head down to his shoulder.

“You don’t mind?” you checked, not fighting him. You did shift in your seat to make it easier to lean on him, his warmth comforting.

“Not a bit.” His hand left your skin slowly, as if making sure you weren’t going to move. You weren’t even tempted - his shoulder was definitely more comfortable than the plane, and you sighed slowly before relaxing fully.

Gentle nudging was pulling you from the warm comfortable space you’d made for yourself, and you groaned your protest. “Few more minutes,” you mumbled, barely lucid.

“We’re landing,” Soap said, humor clear in his voice. “Gotta get up now.”

You cracked open one eye and huffed, displeased. But you sat up carefully. Your head definitely hurt less now, which was good, and you felt less tired. You blinked a few times, carefully not looking at his packmates. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“You needed it.” His smile was easy and he patted your knee. “‘Sides, can’t get bored while you’re asleep. Figure you had the right idea there.”

You laughed quietly and stretched your shoulders. “You make a good pillow.”

Interestingly, that caused him to blush a little, cheeks going pink. Aw. That was adorable.

You did wince when the plane set down, but quickly smoothed out your expression again. Soap hopped up and offered you a hand up, which you took. Gaz had already stolen one of your bags and you grabbed the other, which ended up being the blanket. Aka the lighter bag.

You stepped out of the plane into sunshine and moved out of the way, looking around. This… looked familiar. Very familiar, actually.

“Oh.” You blinked as you turned towards the barracks, shading your eyes. If you were right… Yes, that window was the pack room, and the curtains twitched. You couldn’t hide your grin.

“Oh what?” Price asked, coming to a halt next to you.

“I’ve been here before,” you said. “For this pack.”

The door to the barracks burst open and a giant stepped out. Easily inches taller even than Ghost, König was quite distinctive.

And then he was barreling towards you.

Seeing the potential disaster before it happened, you jogged a half dozen steps forward so you wouldn’t be right next to the Alpha when König got to you.

And then you were swept up into a tight hug, literally lifted off your feet as König rumbled at you.

“Hi, big guy,” you said, laughing a little, patting the top of his head over his hood. “Where’s your Alpha?”

“Waiting.” He squeezed you so carefully, always aware of his strength. “I could not wait.”

“It’s good to see you too.” You stiffened at the low growl behind you. Oh shit. Right. The other pack. “Put me down, please.”

König frowned at you, you could tell, but he set you down. You patted his arm and then took a step back, holding up one hand to ask him to wait.

“Alpha Price,” you said, turning to find the other three clustered behind their Alpha. Closing ranks. Well, this was off to a great start. “This is König, of the local pack. I worked here before, thus the enthusiastic greeting.”

König grumbled behind you, a distinct noise demanding your attention. You flapped your hand at him.

“Alpha Horangi will undoubtedly be here momentarily.” You finally spared a glance back at König, one eyebrow raised.

König very innocently pointed off to the side, and you sighed.

“Horangi, please, for the love of me, don’t do this to me today.”

“You are no fun.” Horangi slunk out of nowhere, mask and sunglasses in place.

You sighed and looked up at the sky. You couldn’t murder Horangi, he’d murder you first.

Horangi stopped a couple feet away from you, head tipped as he surveyed the other pack. For a long moment there was tense silence.

Then Horangi stuck out one hand. “Be welcome on my territory,” he rumbled, the greeting traditional.

Price took his hand, shaking firmly. “We appreciate the welcome.”

“This way.” Horangi led the way to the barracks. König grumbled again and reached for you, and you swatted his hands.

“No,” you said sternly. “My head hurts.”

“You are injured?” Instantly you had a very concerned shifter leaning down over you, protective and worried.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, shooing him ahead of you. “I swear to you we will catch up later, but I have to help them first.”

König narrowed his eyes a little, displeased, but nodded once. He looked behind you to the current pack with a soft rumble before he turned, jogging after Horangi to catch up with his Alpha.

“There are days,” you said to no one in particular, “that I wonder about my sanity.”

“Aye, me too,” Soap agreed, fingers light on your elbow. “Head still bothering you?”

“Some.” You grimaced.

“I’ll check once we’re inside.” Price’s voice left no room for argument, and you were too tired anyway.

“Sorry,” you murmured carefully. “I honestly did not expect König to react like that.”

Price shook his head. “Not your fault,” he murmured back. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, a quick flash of teeth betraying his amusement. “Didn’t you just berate me about this?”

You laughed, leaning a little into Soap. “More or less,” you agreed. The sunlight was quickly becoming too much, making you grateful when you stepped into the barracks. König had vanished, but Horangi had waited.

He didn’t say a word, just silently turned down a corridor, going to the very end and pushing open a door.

“This should be sufficient for your pack,” Horangi offered, stepping out of the way. But his gaze snagged on you, which you only knew because of the smirk you could hear in his voice. “Your room is still open from last time.”

“Ah.” Well. That was… somewhat problematic. “I’ll–”

“She’ll stay with us.” Price stopped behind you - you could feel the warmth of him bleeding through your clothes, sending a shiver up your spine.

Horangi tensed, just a little, hands twitching at his sides. But he nodded, curt and silent, and strode away again.

“I can handle him,” you said on a sigh, looking back at Price.

Price just grunted, his hand gentle but firm around your elbow as he led you into the room.

Well. Suite of rooms, really. Clearly this was meant for either visitors or someone higher up, because the sitting room area was decent, with a kitchenette. Through an open doorway you could see a bathroom, and you guessed the other two were bedrooms.

Price deposited you in a chair, and you eased back carefully. Your bruises were reasserting themselves now - just what you needed on top of your head aching. Big fingers tipped your head down, just a little too close to the bump, and you hissed. Price froze for a heartbeat before he continued, much more carefully.

“Might have a concussion,” he murmured, hand sliding down to cup the nape of your neck, soothing you.

“Only a mild one.” You closed your eyes with a little sigh.

Price rumbled a displeased noise, but his hand didn’t move. “You didn’t mention the concussion yesterday.”

“I was keeping an eye on it,” you grumbled back. “I know what a bad concussion feels like.”

He huffed, and a moment later his free hand was tugging up your sleeve to check your arm where Keyes had grabbed you. That had bruised, and you didn't need to see it again, so you just stayed put.

"It's not bad," Gaz murmured, though he sounded upset. Probably still unhappy that you'd been hurt in the first place.

"It's fine," you assured him with a sigh. "Just bruising, it'll heal."

Price let your sleeve fall back into place, though he kept his other hand on the back of your neck. "You'll be able to rest while we're gone."

"When do you have to go?" You leaned back a little into his hand. It was soothing, that was all.

"Briefing in an hour, not sure when wheels up is." Price leaned closer to you, not quite looming or hovering but some other third thing.

"Got it." You snorted softly. "Turns out you don't need me here anyway, this base is well trained."

Price merely hummed. "You'll stay here while we're briefing, so I don't have to find you."

"You could ask a question, you know," you grumbled, finally tipping your head back to glower at him. "I might even say yes."

Price huffed while Soap and Gaz snickered quietly. "Please." It was flat, absolutely no question to it.

"I'll think about it." You smirked.

Price shook his head, though he couldn't entirely hide his amusement. He released you, and you blinked at the flash of disappointment before forcing your gaze away.

You stayed quiet while they did whatever they did to get ready, mostly quiet.

But you were surprised when Soap and then Gaz grabbed you in one-armed hugs before they left.

You weren't sure if those were meant as comfort, claiming, or both. Whatever the intention, they left you warm and skittish and a little anxious.

It was your job to get personal. To understand their needs and anticipate them. With some packs it was simpler than others.

And, sure, there had been some packs before where you maybe could have stayed, could have deepened the bonds and made it work…

But that niggling anxiety wouldn't let you. Because they'd get tired of you eventually.

People always did.

Breathing a little unsteady, you shook yourself out. Clearly this mild concussion was just messing with you, and you just needed to walk it off.

But you did leave a note for the pack telling them you'd gone on a walk, at least.

The base was the same as the last time you'd seen it, still bustling with activity. But this time most of the soldiers already knew you, nodded to you in recognition.

You weren’t entirely sure how long you'd been wandering when Horangi fell into step next to you, easy as anything.

"So that's your new pack."

"You say that like any of the packs I work with are mine and not just work."

Horangi hummed quietly, keeping pace with you. "Not a great showing for them, bringing you here injured."

"It's sometimes part of the job," you reminded him. "Not like I left here completely unscathed, either."

Horangi shrugged. "König is happy to see you."

You slanted a look at him, amused. "I'm happy to see him, too." That went for both of them, but you were used to Horangi hiding his own emotions behind the bigger man.

"Should be three days or so," Horangi told you, and you blinked, caught off guard. "If all goes well."

"When do things ever go well?" You asked, mostly habitually.

His chuckle was low and rough, not unlike the chuffing of his other form. "Good question."

You laughed quietly, shaking your head, but you did finally start to head back toward the barracks. "Leaving tonight or tomorrow?"

"Tonight. Timeline got pushed." Horangi shrugged. "You'll be on your own after dinner."

Something, some soft part of you, ached at being left alone again. You hid it well - that little part of you had refused to die, but you refused to acknowledge it. "Got it."

Horangi nudged you ahead, and when you blinked back at him, he merely motioned for you to keep going. You shrugged but kept walking, figuring he wanted some alone time or something.

Then you spotted Price standing outside the barracks, arms crossed.

“I didn’t mean to be out for that long,” you said as you approached, eyeing him carefully.

Price shrugged once. “Wheels up after dinner,” he said, pulling open the door and waiting for you to enter. “You’ll sit and eat with us?”

At least he managed to make it a question this time. “Sure,” you agreed after a moment of thought. Actually, food sounded good.

Price nodded and opened the door to the suite again, ushering you in first. You side-eyed him, unsure where this was coming from, but you didn’t object.

The rest of the pack was working quietly to get packed up, moving around each other easily. You stayed out of the way, jotting down things you could do over the next few days to keep yourself busy.

Gaz nudged you when the others were done. “Ready to go eat?”

“Sure.” You tucked your phone away again, surprised when Gaz stuck next to you. The pack even sat you between them at dinner. Why, you couldn’t say for certain. It was mostly endearing.

And you tried not to think too much of it when Gaz and Soap grabbed you for hugs again before they took off. Ghost nodded once to you, following the two sergeants, and Price paused in front of you. For a moment, you thought he’d say something, but he ended up just patting your shoulder and leaving.

Leaving you confused and staring after them.

#born for greatness #john price x reader #john price x you #f!reader

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wolfjackle-creates · 3 months

Text

Bring Me Home Arc 3 Part 1

Happy WIP Wednesday! So last week, we had a tie between Bring Me Home and Answer My Call. The tie breaker didn't come in until Monday after I'd already finished the entire Bring Me Home chapter and half the Answer My Call one.

So y'all will be getting two fic upates today then I'm going to sleep. I'm tired after a full day of work with a call out. XP

If you want a say in next week's update, vote in the poll!

Welcome to Arc 3 of Bring Me Home! 🎉🎉🎉

Story Summary: Danny's parents find out his secret. It doesn't go well. But he's not alone. His friend Tim Drake, better known as Red Robin, and the Young Justice will not let him suffer.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: fanon-typical violence. This is my dissection fic, but I don't think I crossed the line into graphic. Let me know if you disagree.

Arc 1: AO3

Arc 2: First, Last

-----

Danny waved goodbye to Sam and Tucker as he made his way home from school. They had a long weekend and he planned to fall into bed and take a long nap. And then maybe grab some midnight tacos as Phantom for dinner.

He hummed as he thought about how awesome those tacos would taste when reached his home. Still lost in his daydreams, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Only for electric pain to shoot up his arm. Danny screamed, paralyzed to the spot. He tried to pull his hand back, but something held him in place. He fell to his knees, arm still held out and radiating pain through the rest of his body.

“What? Danny!”

“M-mom?” he forced out between cries. “Hurts!”

He could feel his transformation tugging on his core and he tried to force it back.

“Jack! Quick, it’s Danny!”

“Please,” begged Danny. Even kneeling was getting to be too much. Blackness was threatening the edges of his vision so he closed his eyes. He had to keep from transforming. He had to.

He didn’t even have the breath to scream anymore.

He heard his dad’s voice. There was a flash of light. And then nothing.

---

The first thing Danny was aware of was that everything hurt. His muscles were aching and his right arm was practically numb. The next thing he noticed was that he way lying on something hard. He tried to roll over, only to realize he was strapped down. And not just at his wrists and ankles, but also at his waist and neck.

His eyes flew open in shock and he yelled in panic. Had Vlad gotten him?

“It’s awake, Mads!”

Orange filled his vision as his dad leaned over him.

“D-dad?” asked Danny. He felt his core humming in his chest. His core, not his heart. He twisted his head just enough to see a black jumpsuit.

He was Phantom. His parents knew.

His dad’s face contorted with anger, an expression he’d never once seen there before. “Don’t you dare call me that, impostor! What have you done with my son?”

“Dad, it’s me. I swear. I—I can explain.” He tugged on his restraints, trying to phase through them. Only to scream as the anti-ghost shielding shocked him.

His mom’s steps echoed from out of sight. “You aren’t escaping us that easily, ghost,” she spat the last word. “How long have you been possessing Danny?” She finally came into view, goggles blocking her eyes and her mouth hard.

“I’m not possessing him, I am Danny!”

She sneered. “Jack, now.”

“Release our son!” shouted his father. Then he pulled out a spray can and held down the nozzle.

Danny saw the mist approach him and scrunched his eyes closed as he turned his head to avoid the spray. But of course it was impossible. He whimpered as it settled on him, tiny pinpricks of burning. As he lay there, the feeling grew more and more intense until he couldn’t help but cry out.

And that’s when he breathed it in.

It was all agony, inside and out. The mist settled in his lungs, pure fire trying to melt core.

With a flash of light, he was Danny Fenton again. His heart beat in his chest and his lungs screamed for oxygen. The pain didn’t go away, but it lessened. Danny gasped in deep breaths, his limbs shaking in their restraints as he tried to push through the pain.

“Did it work?” asked his dad.

Fingers brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sweetie? Are you back with us?”

Danny opened his eyes, tears gathering and looked up at the face of his mother.

Her expression turned from hope to hatred so fast he thought he was dreaming. “Green eyes, Jack. The ghost is just trying to trick us.”

“The ghost repellent has never failed before. How are you surviving, ghost?”

Danny screwed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see his parents’ faces. “It’s me, I promise. It’s me. I’m alive. I’m alive.”

“Stop lying!” screamed his mom.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his side, followed by a wave of agony. He felt like he was being electrocuted again. In defense, he transformed back into Phantom—his ghost form was so much more durable.

But the pain only got worse. He screamed. His wail was crawling its way up his throat, only to fizzle out into a wave of electricity when it hit the anti-ghost restraint strapped around his neck.

“Loud, isn’t it?” asked his father.

“Let’s shut it up, Jack,” said his mother.

“No, no please. It’s me, Danny!”

They ignored him, though. The pain stopped just long enough for him to gasp in a few breaths. Then piece of metal was being fixed under his jaw and over his mouth. His head was yanked up so it could be strapped in the back. Danny tried to yell into the muzzle, but it muffled all sound.

After that, he lost track of what they did. So many inventions were taken out, used, and discarded. Anything to destroy the ghost part of him or force him out of his living body.

He wished he could obey. That he could just be their son again and not Phantom. But he’d learned many times over the last three years that it was impossible. He was both Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom and spitting himself apart would only ever lead to destruction.

He didn’t know how many times he was forced into a transformation as his body tried to choose the form more resistant to the torture. It didn’t seem to matter, though, if he was Fenton or Phantom. His parents would check his eyes or use the ghost tracker and then the next wave of pain would wash over him.

Eventually, however, even his parents ran out of inventions to use.

“This isn’t working, Jackie.”

“What if we can’t force it out, Mads? What next?”

“We’ll cut it out. You know we’ve long hypothesized about the existence of a ghost heart. What better way to test our hypothesis than cutting the parasite out of our own son?”

Danny’s eyes flew open and he tugged with aching muscles, twisting as much as he was able. His muffled protests were ignored just as much as his words had been.

“Where do you think it’s hiding its heart?” asked his dad.

“We’ll use the Fenton Scanner to find the areas of densest ectoplasm concentration and search each of them.”

His mom stalked out of sight and Danny could hear her rummaging through various bins and cabinets looking for the scanner.

His dad, however, stared down at him, eyes hidden behind his goggles and his mouth in an uncharacteristic frown. “If you’re still in there, Danno, we’re gonna get rid of it. We’ll free you, son.”

Danny wanted to tell him he wasn’t trapped, to say again that he was himself, whatever he looked like. But all he could do was whimper and blink away the tears.

Then mom was back, a small scanner in her hand. She pointed it at Danny and he tensed, expecting more pain.

But he felt nothing. Soon enough, the device beeped and she waved over his dad.

“Look at this, sweetie. It’s working better than I expected. Only two main areas of ectoplasm concentration: his brain and his chest.”

“That’s awfully close to his heart, Mads. I don’t know if we can remove it without hurting Danny.”

“If we don’t remove it, he’ll be dead anyway!” Her last word caught on a sob.

Danny was crying in earnest now, too. This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. How long would it take anyone to even notice? Jazz was away at college, Tucker had plans with his parents all night, Sam was trying to get along with her parents to get out of a rich-person function later in the month, and he and Tim didn’t have a check-in until Sunday.

Could he survive his parents for two whole days until then?

He forced his eyes open to see his parents hugging. All he wanted was to be between them, caught up in their embrace. But instead he was strapped down to a hard, cold table.

They separated.

“Hold him still, Jack,” said his mom.

So Danny did the opposite. He ignored the ache of his muscles, the way they protested, to twist and yank and move as much as he could.

But his father’s hands were big and he was strong and Danny was tired. When his dad spread his hands over his shoulders and pressed, Danny couldn’t fight back. Above him stood his mom, holding a scalpel that glowed green.

Danny closed his eyes tightly when he saw her lower the blade. He couldn’t watch this. Then agony as it sliced through his skin.

Danny screamed into the muzzle. The pain was so intense that he could focus on nothing else. He didn’t know if his parents were talking to each other. He didn’t know what they were finding inside of him.

Instinct forced him to hide his core, to push it smaller and disguise it. But he knew that nothing would stop his parents forever.

He had no way to judge the passage of time. It felt like an eternity; it felt like a second.

Then the hands on him ripped away suddenly and new shouts, new voices, rang out in the lab.

Danny blinked his eyes open to see Sam and Tucker above him. Sam was paler than he’d ever seen her and Tucker didn’t look any better. He tried to talk to them, but the muzzle still covered his face.

Sam turned her head away and shouted, “Kon!”

A moment later, Superboy was landing next to her, his face grim. Then Danny’s restraints, muzzle included, fell to pieces. He was free.

He pushed himself up, needing to see, only to cry in pain and fall back down when the cuts on his chest protested the movement.

Sam and Tucker shouted at him, told him to stay still. Their words were fuzzy and hard to focus on. Everything was hard to focus on. But in the brief moment of time he’d been able to see more than the ceiling above him, he saw Tim in full Red Robin get up using his staff to keep his parents away.

Tim was here. And the world went black.

-----

I no longer tag, but if you want notifications when I update, check out the Subscription Post.

After about 40k of writing, we're finally back to the scene that started it all! Only now with 4x the number of Young Justice on hand. About three years have passed between Arc 2 and Arc 3, so they've all gotten quite close. There's group chats. So many group chats. Danny's met more members of the Young Justice (and I may write a few of those meetings in the future which is 80% why I decided to make this a series rather than a single work on AO3).

But on the rescue team we've only got Red Robin, Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Impulse.

I'm about a third of the way through with major edits for Arc 2. So I'll probably start cross posting to AO3 quite soon! Main changes are in what Tim tells Bruce about where he is and what he's up to.

#dpxdc #bring me home #now with arc 3!!!#Hope you all are as excited as I am!#dissection fic #vivisection fic #gore #not super graphic #by dp standards at least #but tagging just in case #danny is not having a good time #but his friends weren't gonna let him suffer for too long

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st-kitten · 5 months

Text

707 pt.3

← previous chapter christmas special

A/N: um... i've got two small special effects for this part, sooooo see if u can use them at the right moment :")

WARNINGS: trauma, implied death by accident, a good cry honestly, violence (intended IM A GIRLS GIRL BUT SOME THINGS ARE OKA-), that shlong, sloppenheimer (kidding: oral sex, both receiving), age gap (newsflash 😒) (reader is obv 20+ and toji is idk 38?)

"can we call y/n? for cake?" asked megumi.

"i'm not sure she wants to see anybody today, kid," replied a distressed toji

"but it's my birthday..."

toji couldn't resist megumi's puppy eyes. but he figured that if there was anyone you'd listen to, it would be him. it was worth a try.

both of them stepped out of their apartment, hearing music coming from your apartment. toji felt his breath returning to his lungs. music meant you were okay. or at least alive. your singing got clearer as the two of them stood outside your door. he tried knocking but it was left unanswered. toji wondered whether it was just a recording playing, so he pressed his ear on the door. no, that's definitely her. open the fucking door, y/n!

all toji had as a sign that you were inside were was you were singing.

[mention: easy on me, by adele, again for the lyrics ft.]

"i know there is hope in these waters..." is she crying?

"but I can't bring myself to swim, when i am drowning in this silence..." your voice croaked in the end. she's definitely crying. what the fuck did i do...

toji looked around the lobby. seeing it empty, he grabbed your doorknob and pressed hard on it, tearing it apart, breaking it. he gave it to megumi. he barged inside your barely lit, dark living room, only to find you sitting on the floor, head against the sofa, looking at the ceiling. broken glasses and torn papers surrounded you as you sang at the top of your lungs, voice overcome with some kind of pain that toji couldn't understand, but just feel.

"you can't deny how hard I've tried i changed who I was to put you both first but now I give up..."

"i was still a child..."

"so go eas-" hearing the door blast open, you stopped, whipping your head in its direction.

you were about to bark at toji when you saw the look on his face. fear... then you saw megumi, holding your doorknob, standing behind his father.

toji saw your grief-stricken face. the haunting melody of whatever heart-wrenching song you were singing still echoed in his ears, reaching out from the walls like a desperate cry for help. your disheveled hair clung to your face, a stark contrast to the carefree spirit that used to reside next door.

"w-what are you d-"

"what happened?"

toji treaded carefully around the broken glass, telling megumi to wait where he stood. he knelt down beside you, pushing away the small shards.

you sat there, too horrified to say anything. why is he here? a small shaky breath left your mouth, the rest bubbling up like lava, ready to erupt.

"i don't know what i did baby, but i'm sorr-" toji's apology went unheard as tears streamed down your face and a cry tore through the air like a wounded animal's howl. it was guttural, unrestrained, and laced with a pain so visceral that toji felt it in his bones. the sound wasn't pretty; it was raw and unfiltered, like the ugly side of life laid bare for anyone in earshot.

without a second thought, toji enveloped you in a tight embrace, pulling your trembling shoulders into him. he sat on the floor next to you, one leg folded down and the other tucked to his chest. he felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine as you sobbed into him.

"it's okay..." was all he could say. even he knew that it wasn't about fixing everything; it was about being there in whatever storm was raining down on you. he looked at megumi, unsure about how his son would take seeing you break down. the child stood a silent witness to all of it, his eyes glistening slightly.

"why is it okay?" you muttered. "for parents to be your first bullies..."

"what... stopped them," you sniffled, "from just listening to me?"

toji held onto every word that came out of your mouth. a part of him was relieved that this wasn't about him.

"i didn't want a fucking cake... i didn't want a cake, i just wanted them..." your breath hitched.

"you spend half of your life raising a child in the cruelest way... your last words to each other end up being an argument and... your last words to me were nothing..."

toji felt a knot in his stomach. he watched megumi leave and go back to their apartment. he was torn between his kid, disturbed on the eve of his birthday and the woman he was cradling, on her birthday...

as the echoes of your cry faded, they left behind a heavy, oppressive silence. only your shaky breath could be heard. he sat beside you, his eyes searching for the right words as you wiped away the tears that had traced down your cheeks.

"birthdays are supposed to be happy, ya know..." he whispered to you, as gently as he could. as if the wrong words would shatter you.

"they're also supposed to be spent with family apparently..." you said, gritting your teeth. toji didn't know what to say... he wanted so desperately to talk to her. but how do you even say something at a time like that?

megumi's small steps echoed in your living room. both of you looked at him. you felt like bawling your eyes out and toji simply smiled at his son.

megumi carried a small plate with a loaf of bread sitting atop, two tiny candles buried in it, their flames flickering in the dark room. he stood in front of you, holding out the plate to you with his tiny hands.

you held the plate, placing your hands on his. you glanced at the clock, which was seconds away from midnight. you blew one candle, covering the other with your palm. and when the clock struck 12, megumi blew the other candle out.

"happy birthday, gumi," you put the plate down and hugged him. he wrapped his tiny hands around you, resting his head on your shoulder. "happy birthday, y/n," he said softly.

hours passed by as you talked to toji about your unforeseen disappearance. megumi had fallen asleep in your lap and you stroked his head. you told him about your 13th birthday, your parents death in a car crash... you left some things off the conversation. oh, how toji felt each word you said. he knew how ruthless families could be. his own was never kind to him. he told you about his scar in return, and how he felt insecure about it.

"it's kinda hot, if you ask me." seemed like you were back to being your normal self.

toji smirked. "i know. you wouldn't stop kissing it last night."

you smacked his chest with the back of your hand. but it brought you two to that conversation. toji wanted it off his chest.

"i like ya."

you looked at him, taking a shallow breath.

"not just 'cause we made out yesterday. i'm the worst person to talk about feelings and shit to, but... i got 'em. for you." toji was done with it. he didn't want to stretch it any further. not after the day you'd had.

you opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off, "sit with it for a while. ya don't need to answer me right now."

toji picked megumi up from your lap, carrying him in his arms. he pressed a soft, patient kiss to your lips. "belated happy birthday," he said against your lips, got up and left, leaving a large hole in your door.

[ambient song y/n might vibe to: jeene mein aaye maza, by ankur tiwari]

you wandered aimlessly in the convenience store, picking up things and putting them back where they didn't belong. you circled the whole store thrice until the cashier asked you if something was wrong. paying for cheap beer and rice crackers you didn't even want, you left the store.

you walked home in the evening, head in the clouds. (a cloud shaped like toji)

he liked you. his words hammered in your mind like construction workers at the crack of dawn. girls usually felt giddy after hearing a boy confess to them. the fuck were you feeling? and why was it some kind of diarrhoea? you mind went back to how you'd kissed and how good it felt. there was no doubt that you found him attractive. you liked spending time with him. but did you like him? what even would you do if you did? date him? be his girlfriend? mother to his child? how did one go about dating an older man? if anything, he'd end up with another child.

you walked by a park, watching children playing (mostly falling), building sandcastles in the pit (and falling on them), running around chasing nothing (and falling), scurrying into their parents' arms (guess what).

did you want to be that to megumi? because being with toji meant being with megumi and being responsible for him.

you sat down on the pavement, sipping on beer that tasted like toothpaste, pondering over what kind of life you'd build for yourself. you were not interested in hook up culture. committed relationships were made to sound like life imprisonment sentences. the titles didn't apply to you and especially him. what would being with toji even look like? once your little quinn project comes to an end, what then? would he grab the cash and bolt? would he stay? would he stay anyway?

the more you sat and thought about it, the more things blurred. you thought it best not to overthink it. he did tell you to not rush an answer. but you were not the most patient of all people. the one thing you disliked was how things get awkward every time someone confesses their feelings out of the blue and the other has to be the dealbreaker.

you decided to do the rest of the thinking at home. the city was twinkling with christmas lights and decorations. it was always a wonderful sight to see. it made you want to travel to a quaint countryside only to realise your long lost love for the holiday season and family values as you broke into song about reuniting with your childh-yes, that hallmark movie.

when you entered through the gate to your building, you spotted megumi near the postboxes. a very uncomfortable megumi... in the arms of a woman you'd never seen. she looked rich. fur coat, pradas, sunglasses that covered her whole face like a covid shield. megumi so didn't want to be held like that. your gaze fell on toji, who... drumroll... had the exact same expression as his kid. as you walked in that direction you could hear the conversation.

"he likes me, don't you think?" PLEASE that's what rich people sound like?

"just put him down," toji sighed.

"no, i'm gonna steal him!!!" she giggled, shoving her face into megumi. he flinched and pushed himself away from her.

"aww, he's so playful... toji, why don't you invite me over for a drink?"

megumi wiggled like a worm in her arms, trying to escape her grip. he twisted like a pretzel until she had to put him down. but she held onto his hand tightly. that didn't go unnoticed by toji who was growing angrier every passing minute.

"come on... it'll be fun," she sneered.

"i gotta look after my kid." that was all he said.

"i'm sure he won't mind... right meggy? you'll let daddy and i play for a while, right?" megumi tried to pry her hands off, but she tugged at him harshly.

suddenly, all the diarrhoea made sense. the blur cleared. your eyes narrowed as you observed the audacious scene unfolding before you. something in your head snapped and you took purposeful steps towards her, and offensive gaze locked, devoid of any remorse.

swatting her hand off of megumi's, you put the kid behind you protectively. in a millisecond, your hand swung with conscious thought, as you smashed the beer bottle on her head. the glass shattered on her scalp, cutting through the background noise like a warning shot.

"not. your. kid."

caught between shock and appreciation for your sudden defence, toji covered his curled mouth with his palm. he looked at megumi, who stood behind you, holding the ends of your jacket. the kid looked back at his father, smirking mischievously. toji turned his cackling laughter into an asthmatic cough.

the woman couldn't take a hint even when it hit her in the skull.

"who do you think you are?"

"how dare you hit me? do you know who i am?"

"i'm talking to you!!! hello!!!??"

you let her run her mouth. you weren't interested in what she had to say. you looked down at megumi. you could see the faint red strip that circled his wrist. you knew how manipulative it was to use toji's kid as a means to get to him. you already befell his threat. but you understood it all of a sudden.

the honest urge to protect your kid.

the woman eventually stomped and left, mouthing cuss words at passersby.

"so... care to explain what that was?" asked toji, folding his hands, looking at you with fascination.

"my answer," you said with a smile as you held megumi's little hand, rubbing the back of it with your thumb.

toji smirked proudly.

"what happened here?" asked the building watchman, who heard about the act of violence from others who witnessed it.

"nothing interesting,"

"they're saying you harassed a woman," he was quick to throw an accusing glance at toji.

"nonsense! just some personal drama," you interrupted. "that's the father, this is his son."

"and that's the unholy spirit..." toji mumbled to the guard, earning a death glare from you.

the three of you walked towards the elevator. you handed megumi the rice crackers you bought and he wasted no time in digging in. toji put his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer as he whispered in your ear, "what does a fella like me have to do to see you smash another bottle again?"

"flirt with another woman and i'll gladly smash one on your head."

toji's deep chuckle vibrated in your ear.

megumi dragged you inside their house to show you his new sketches. he'd really outdone himself. he'd also made his father hang all the small drawings on the christmas tree they had in their living room. toji was glad that he'd found something to occupy himself with. not that he didn't want to spend time with the kid, but seeing him not get overly attached to a single parent relieved the giant weight on his shoulders.

"mmm! gumi, i have a gift for you."

megumi trotted to you like a puppy, eyes twinkling like stars.

"you're gonna spoil him."

"correct."

you gave him a cd. "i wrote you a song." megumi clutched the cd like a prized trophy. he opened the case and showed his father the cd. you'd chased down your producer's sales guy to put one of megumi's sketches as the cd cover.

"when did you even have time to do this?"

"last night. and today morning."

"you didn't sleep?"

you looked away from him, perfectly expecting a fatherly scolding. instead, toji just chortled. he left megumi to listen to your song on a loop as the two of you went to your apartment. (sorry megs, but this is a toji x y/n)

you closed the door, swearing that the hole where your doorknob used to be was getting bigger by each minute. not a moment later, toji had his arms wrapped around you, his mouth on yours. you dropped the grocery bags on the floor and threw your hands around his neck. bumping into nearly every piece of furniture along the way, you sauntered into your room, lips glued to each other. he kissed you like it was the last thing he could do in the world and you kissed him like it was the first thing you wanted to do before anything else.

"mmm... hold on," toji pulled away momentarily and said, "promise me one thing."

"what?"

"you don't disappear when shit hits the fan. you come talk to me."

you felt guilt churn inside you, recalling how you'd left toji and megumi to wonder what 'they' had done wrong to make you go distant.

you nodded. "i promise."

toji held you in his arms for a while, taking a look at your face. he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and you winced.

"ow! careful, i just got my ear pierced."

toji raised his eyebrows. he pushed your hair aside and saw a helix piercing, the edge of your ear pink and slightly swollen.

"that looks like it hurt."

"oh, it did."

"then why'd ya get it?"

"i always get piercings on my birthday."

"why?" toji honestly didn't understand this form of self-harm.

"what can i say, buddy, i love getting stabbed..." you said plainly, backing away and took your shoes off.

toji snorted a laugh at your comment. "masochist."

"aww, big man uses big words now..." you said, keeping your shoes under your bed. toji simply slapped your ass.

"sadist."

"by the way, i added some background noises to our recording. it sounds so good!"

"oh? let's hear it then," said toji, sitting down on your bed. he was glad to see you be your usual confident self. last night had him tensed with worry. even though he wasn't the source of your pain, he couldn't imagine how lonely you must've felt spending your birthday crying as life wickedly toasted to your parent's death, scarring the one day you were supposed to own with pride.

you made him listen to some excerpts, but ended up talking over them anyway, excitedly telling him how smartly you had edited some things. he just watched you with a small smile. whenever you turned to face him, his eyes fell on your piercing. he counted how many you had. nine. marking nine years of an anniversary nobody would want to remember like this. four piercings on each ear and one in your nose. did you really need the pain to validate your broken heart? did it make you feel like you deserved it?

he dismissed those thoughts from his head. it was your decision. and you bore it like an ornament, and not a scar. plus, he now that he fully took your face in, he couldn't deny hot incredibly hot those piercings looked on you. the thought of you sitting through that and showing off your piercings made his stomach flip. seriously, how much more hot could you get?

as if to answer his question, your recording played in his ear, some scene at a party with your characters failing to keep their hands to themselves. his voice blended with yours like the perfect duet. the way you spoke, changing your tone, pitch, hell, even your little laugh to suit your character made him feral. he wanted to hear you more. but not for some recording. he wanted to hear you for himself.

the moment the recording ended, toji pounced on you, grabbing your neck, careful not to hurt your ear as he kissed you roughly. you gasped, but melted on the spot. you liked where this was going anyway. toji moved his lips along yours, nibbling at you mouth. he let you catch a breath, before shoving his tongue inside, only for it to hitch again.

he pushed you into your bed, immediately hovering over you. he let his hands run up and down your legs. you hummed under his touch. he felt you shuffle underneath. he pulled away for a moment to watch you sneak your phone out of the pocket, finger pressed on a red dot.

"you wanna give your fans a show, baby?" he murmured.

"nuh uh, this is for me," you panted.

toji smirked. "gotta make this good then..." he peppered kiss on your neck, sucking on your skin. he could smell that god awful coconut perfume. to ease the weight his humongous body dumped on you, he shoved his knee between your legs, hoisting himself over you properly. you practically moaned in his mouth at the feeling of his knee rubbing against you. you had no idea what to do with your hands, so you just let them stay on your stomach lifelessly.

toji broke the kiss once more, chuckling at the whine that escaped from your mouth.

"so needy..." he growled, taking his shirt off with one hand. your jaw hung open as you took him in. the way he towered you even when sitting on his knees made him seem almost... monstrous.

toji only it thought it fair to get rid of your clothes too. he held your waist and pulled you to him, hoisting you on his lap. he took your jacket off, throwing it on the floor.

"be careful with the shirt. it's vivienne westwood."

"strip then."

slowly, taking the sweet time of your life, you pulled the shirt off, turning it right side up and neatly folded it, placing it at the far end of your bed.

"you done, sweetie?" he cooed in your ear.

"done."

"lovely. put your hands to use." he had you folded under him, back on the bed, kisses getting rougher, wetter, messier. you clawed at his shoulder, back, neck, chest, every part of him that you could touch. he licked a particular spot just under your ear that made you mewl in pleasure. like a vampire, toji bit your neck, causing you to moan softly.

his free hand unclasped your bra and tossed it away.

"would it kill you to not throw my clothes here and there?"

"thought you liked it violent, baby..." he murmured in your ear, biting a hickey on your neck. he kept switching between kissing your lips and sucking at your neck while he played with your tits, squeezing them, pinching them, kneading them like dough. he was right. they did fit in his hands perfectly. he latched his mouth onto one, making you squirm under him.

toji was absorbing your body. he felt bold; bold to take what he wanted from you. well, what he wanted was you. your body, your hips, your mouth, all of it. he wanted to show you just how desirable you were to him.

the hand that roamed your waist slowly trailed down your cargo pants. you didn't even realise when he took them off, but it was good anyway. less is more.

at an agonisingly slow pace, the tips of his fingers teased you over your panties. toji took a look at you, covered in his marks, lips pink and swollen.

he chuckled, "just how many of these stupid panties do you have?"

"I FUCKING KNEW IT. PANTY THIEF!" you smacked his abs.

"they're mine now," toji murmured as back away, spreading your legs apart with his hands, grabbing at your thighs. he kissed your inner thigh languorously making his way down to your wet cunt. he took your panties off, once more putting them back in his pockets. he dipped two of is fingers inside slowly, as if he was learning about your body. he watched your every reaction, every quiver, every hitched breath as he took his time and prepped you for himself. he curled his fingers at an optimal spot and like a cat on heat, you mewled and your legs shut tight around his hand.

"uh uh uh, i need these legs wide open, darling." he knew how much you liked it when he said that. when you didn't spread them, he smacked a hard slap on your hip, causing you to gasp and giggle as you did as directed.

"don't be a brat."

"or what?"

toji didn't retort. instead, he dove straight into your cunt, painting your insides with long strokes with his tongue. he paired it with his forefinger running up and down, inside and out, pushing against your clit. hearing you whimper and pant just made him want to tease you. recording all those dirty audios with you had him gain a mind in the game. like an illusionist, his hands disappeared and he pulled away, making you pine for him.

"toji fushiguro, i will smash a bottle on your head if you ever take your mouth off me like that again..." god, you sounded so sexy.

"ya know... it makes my dick hard when you talk to me like that."

you crunched forward and grabbed his hair, pulling him back to your pussy. toji chuckled, resuming eating you out like a man starved for days.

"oh i bet it does," you said breathlessly, throwing a few more slurred taunts his way. toji extended his free hand and shoved two of his fingers in your mouth.

"put that mouth to use, brat." he groaned in pleasure feeling your tongue swirl around his fingers, sucking them, gently biting them whenever he lapped at your cunt the right away. even with his fingers stuffed in your mouth, he could hear your muffled moans loudly. he sped his pace, slipping his fingers in and out of you, lapping at your core. he felt you clench and he took it as an open invitation to increase the pressure. you let out a long, stretched moan as you gushed all over his chin.

"is this what you ladies call girl dinner?" toji took his fingers out of you, licking them and tasting you, smacking his lips.

you laughed, throwing your head back.

"ugh, shut up."

"make me," you commented, practically waltzing into the man's next plan for you. toji's hand wrapped around your throat as he pulled you up as if you weight nothing. he got off the bed, standing in front of you as you were on all fours.

"gladly," toji slid his pants and boxers down, freeing his hard-as-a-rock girth.

"this isn't fair, toji," you cried at the size of it.

"i know, baby..." he gripped your chin with his fingers, nearly crushing your jaw. you looked up at him and seeing you on your knees for him lit a fire within him.

playfully you licked his wet lip like a kitten...

"cute. but that's not gonna cut it, sweetheart."

"i'll have you know i won the popsicle eating contest in my college..."

toji chuckled, holding his cock out to your face and smacked it against your lips. "gonna keep me waitin'?"

you took his head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, letting the tip run between the faint slit. you bobbed your head a few times, adjusting to his length and width. you'd be grateful to have a jaw left by the time you've sucked him dry. you took his length in your, stroking what you couldn't. you felt his cock twitch and pulsate in your mouth.

"god, you're doing so well..." toji reached forward, accidentally thrusting more of his dick in your mouth, making you whimper. he picked up your phone, which had been recording every lewd sound you made and he held it by his hip. "you sound so... fucking perfect, baby... gagging over my dick like that."

he pushed your hair aside, gripping it tightly as he pushed your head further in, moaning at how good it felt to have you take damn nearly all of him.

"fuck... shit.... s' good" toji let a buffet of grunts and moans spill out of his mouth. first, because he you took him that well, and second because he wanted you to get off to his voice, just like he did to yours. he began thrusting into your mouth faster, feeling his release creeping its way up. had he known how easy it was for him to come just by getting a quick blowjob, he'd have put more work into the foreplay. but fuck, he loved every damn moment of it. how your mouth was wet and warm, how your pointed tongue knew just where to lick, how your cheeks hollowed to pull him in.

"keep going, baby... i'm almost there," he panted, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back, hips moving at a brutal pace. his mind went to you eating a popsicle for some reason and he laughed, paving the way for a guttural moan that rumbled through his mouth as he came into your mouth. you closed your eyes, letting the uncomfortable feeling pass away as you managed to swallow the barrel full of cum he just shot into your mouth.

toji pulled out, feeling euphoric. he was completely obsessed with you. he wanted to take your right there. he wanted to be inside you. fuck, he wanted to see how loud you could get for him.

a knock on your main door and a small voice calling out to toji snapped you back to your senses.

"what a cockblock," toji sighed.

you threw a pillow at him. "that's your adorable birthday boy you're talking about!"

toji changed back into his clothes, refusing to give you your panties back, earning another pillow to his face. he looked at you to make sure you still didn't have second thoughts about him. but there you were, effortlessly moving around the room, picking up the pieces of clothing he'd tossed here and there. he loved how much fun you had doing all these things with him. it made the experience twice as much worth it.

you changed into your pyjamas and led toji out of your bedroom.

"does it say 'juicy' on your ass?" he said, reading the glittery text on your pants.

"ya bet it does," you smacked your own ass, proud of your sense of fashion, no matter how ridiculous it was.

"gonna fuck that ass someday."

"fix my door first." you peeked through the hole in your door, looking at the top of megumi's hair.

you opened the door to see megumi standing in his pyjamas, holding his demon dog, yawning.

"awww, sorry for keeping your dad for so long."

megumi yawned again, nodding.

"she sang a song for me too, you know..." said toji, picking up his sleepy kid, giving you a wink. you kicked his ass, making him stagger out of your house.

"good night."

"good night..." you smiled at the two.

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊

TAGLIST: @kaininety2 @ruixrei @chicken-fifi @mrsfush1guro @szillx @queendessi24 @sillysillygoofygoose @shadowmoonlight0604

#forgive me father for i have sinned #toji fushiguro #dad toji #toji #fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro x y/n #megumi #juicy pants

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fatuismooches · 1 year

Note

i'll brainrot with you about dottore and his sick! s/o:

clearly with s/o's conditions it's not optimal to go outside in the freezing cold, but one day the snowfall is so much more gentle outside and something like this is a rare occasion in snezhnaya. would dottore indulge them (of course with plenty of precautions taken) or would he rather not risk it at all?

your writing paints such vivid pictures in my head and i honestly love the comfort and warmth your work brings :]]

♡ 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐲 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 ♡

synopsis: Your poor health and fragile condition have consistently gotten in the way of various activities for many years. But that was going to change today, as you were going to take your first step into the flaky goodness of pure, white snow.

includes: dottore w/ gn! reader

notes: Related to the posts under my fragile reader tag. Thank you very much, I'm very glad my writing makes you happy! This was so cute, I originally planned for it to be only a couple hundred words but I went overboard and decided to make it a full-blown piece.

You used to enjoy the concept of cold. Growing up in a hot country had you deeply curious about the kind of weather that would warrant people wearing dozens of layers, bundling up to the point where they were barely recognizable. You wanted to go somewhere that snowed one day, you once told your lover as he sat at his desk, tinkering with Archons knows what. Dottore only grunted in response, saying that if research led him there, you would accompany him. As a matter of fact, there were some Ruin Guards he wanted to take a look at in Dragonspine. You hummed, enjoying the moment as you continued to flip through the picture book.

But now, you couldn’t bring yourself to like the cold. You think that if you weren’t sick, you’d enjoy the weather in Snezhnaya much more, but the cold permeates your body even though you’re inside the lab. (Dottore had to force Pantalone to give him more funds to install more heaters.) You didn’t like to even walk through the halls of Dottore’s complicated maze-like lab because they were too big, making the cold air suffocate you all around. (Unless you’re accompanied by a clone. Somehow, Dottore had implemented a feature into his clones to heat up and become warm, so when you’d cling to them, you wouldn’t be cold anymore. You enjoyed it thoroughly because the reactions of the clones were cute.)

Many days, you spent the time looking out the tightly sealed window at the snow. Despite living in the snow-covered nation for so long, you had never sunken a foot into the powdery fluff. When Zandik was recruited into the Fatui, you were unconscious during the trip because your body surely would not be able to handle such an extraneous journey. How would it feel, you thought? You’ve frequently asked some of your favorite clones to tell you how the snow felt. (You felt slightly embarrassed asking your real lover.) Apparently, most of the time the snow was deep and crunchy from continuous snowfall. If you weren’t careful where you walked, half of your leg could get swallowed underneath! Many children liked to form things like balls out of the snow and play games with them. But sometimes, very rarely, the snow lightens and melts, depending on how the Tsaritsa feels. It’s a beautiful scene, apparently.

You had lost faith in the Gods long ago after your mysterious illness suddenly struck you (Zandik never cared about them in the first place), but you hoped and prayed to any force that was willing to listen to you - please let the snow ease up, just a bit. It was a bit hypocritical since you did not like the cold, but you still desired to experience it like a normal person. You could bear the pain if only to have fun for a couple of minutes. You did not tell your lover this; one, because you knew it was impossible with your condition, and two, you did not want to bother him with your frivolous wants. But it seemed like you were too obvious with your intentions, as one of the first things you’d do in the morning was drag yourself out of bed, despite the great amount of energy it took, to go to your favorite window and peer outside.

“You seem to be quite interested in watching the snow lately, aren’t you?” The deep voice behind you made you jump.

“Zandik! Oh, you scared for there,” you pressed a hand to your heart and quickly took a seat that was already permanently placed near the window, already tired from the past few minutes. Your lover walked toward you, hands carefully placed behind his back, each step calculated. You couldn’t help but find some happiness in that - the way he walked was always so commanding and enchanting somehow, hypnotizing too.

“The weather here is quite different from Sumeru,” you observed. “I can’t help but be intrigued by it.”

“Is that so? It is quite boring to me. The landscape is always the same and it is rather hard to conduct experiments outside because of it.”

“Heh, it’s always the experiments and research with you. At least try to enjoy it,” you teased, rolling your eyes at him playfully. Dottore shook his head and gently flicked your forehead, causing you to pout.

“Furthermore, the cold isn’t good for you. I believed you didn’t like it, anyway,” Dottore scoffed.

“I know,” you said softly. “But I still want to experience it,” the last part was a mumble that was meant for yourself, but Dottore heard it anyway, making his eyes widen as a thought began to quickly form.

“Do you… want to go outside and see the snow?”

The fact that you were caught made you bolt up straight and quickly try to deny it. “No, no, I’m fine. It was just a fleeting thought,” you quickly reassured him.

Dottore doesn’t know why he didn’t realize it sooner. Of course you would be bored, waking up every day to the same redundant routine, watching everyone go about their daily lives while you sat there, helpless to do anything besides wait for him to cure you. Of course you would want to do something new, after hearing the same repetitious lines of how you’ll get better soon, how he’s working on a new medicine, how it’ll all be over soon, but when was “soon” coming? How long has the envy of others been eating you up? The thought of that made his smile slip.

A soft goodbye snapped him out of his thoughts. A clone had come to administer your daily medicine and get you ready for the day. Dottore quickly put his usual smirk back on and nodded at you. Your gentle smile and a wave bid him farewell, as the clone wrapped his arm around you to support you as you walked away. But Zandik was still thinking. When was the last time he had seen you with a big smile? A big, goofy one that stretched your lips beautifully and made your face hurt from smiling that hard. The answer was, he did not know. The most he could recall was from his Akademiya days, where you would greet him with one of those grins every morning, always a ball of energy.

The fact followed him throughout the day as he worked. The mere idea that it was bothering him so much was simply absurd. But he could not forget about the times his clones has reported to him about the times you cried. When you refused to leave your room some days or didn’t want to eat. He was not one for any type of comfort, not when his hands had committed some of the most wicked acts to man. How could he be, when the first thing on his mind was to hurt others, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you?

He did not know what to do, where to place his hands or if saying something would make the situation worse. He did not know what to do other than let you rest your head on his shoulder, allowing you to take his hand and place it on your head, giving him the okay to stroke your hair. He let you babble to your heart’s content and awkwardly wiped your tears away, for when he looked into your painfully bleak eyes that were once filled with life, he did not think he could refuse you.

It was an odd feeling for him. He took pleasure in seeing the pain of others, delighting at the moment when they lost all hope. He found it amusing when others took a stand against him, only to see their expression fall when they realized it was fruitless. But you? The thought of that happening to you made him… He had to do something.

—

One day you woke up, ready to live out another normal and boring day. As you sleepily rubbed your eyes, you noticed something was a bit off. Usually, you could hear the wind howling and the snow slamming against the windows, even if it was just a little bit. But there was nothing. As you lay on the bed, collecting enough energy to get out of bed, a glimmer of hope grew within you. With a great push, you heaved yourself out of bed and made a beeline to the window. You sat down on the chair, and pulled the curtains to the side, prepared to be disappointed, but what you saw blew you away.

The snow had melted significantly, leaving a moderate and easily walkable layer on the ground. The snowfall had reduced greatly, and it no longer pounded on the window. Instead, it flew down calmly from the sky, which was still gray, but it was a beautiful, hazy kind of gray. Now that there weren’t mass amounts of snow blowing your view, you noticed there was some kind of river around the lab. It was still frozen over, but the ice sparkled beautifully and reflected the snow-covered trees. Speaking of trees, you didn’t know it was possible for such boring things to look so pretty. Copious amounts of snow rested on the limbs, occasionally slumping to the ground with a thud, and the process kept repeating as snowfall continued.

Your jaw was slack the whole time, as you continued to take in the breathtaking scenery. Snezhnaya just got ten times better, you thought.

“I see you’ve seen the change in weather, [Name]. It seems to be to your liking.”

“Eep!” you started at the assertive voice that was practically in your ear. Dottore had snuck up on you while you were too entranced by the view to notice him. “You need to stop doing that,” you scolded him.

His deep chuckle tugged at your heartstrings. “To think that after this many times, my experiment’s results have not changed. Truly fascinating.”

You tried to ball your hands into fists to prevent yourself from blushing. “A-Anyway, you should have woken me up earlier! I didn’t think this was possible!” you fretted, still in utter shock at this.

“That, I could not do. You know your body requires a great amount of rest.” You couldn’t argue with that. He was right.

“Now, is there something you want to do?” It was as if he had somehow planned for this to happen.

You fiddled with your sweater, trying to find the words for your outlandish request. “Sooo, um, I know this may not be possible, but can I go outside? I know with my health and stuff it may be hard but… just for a bit, please,” your voice got quieter and quieter towards the end of your sentence. You bit your lip in anticipation and nervously kept your eyes trained on the rug-covered floor. The few seconds of silence that passed felt endless.

“Yes, you may-”

“Really?!?!”

Your legs were swinging happily, and there it was. Pearly whites peeked out as you grinned cheerfully and you threw your hands up into the air. The smile he had not seen in far too long.

“But, I will accompany you, and you must stay by me at all times. You must follow all of my directions as well. Do you understand?”

A walk with your lover too? “Yes, yes I’ll do anything you ask!” you easily complied. You gathered all of your energy and squeezed your partner as hard as you could (which, wasn’t that hard, but to you it was) taking him off guard. You buried your face into his midsection and refused to let go, your words of thanks being muffled from being so close to him. Dottore was stiff at first but then eased into your embrace, fingering a cord of your hair.

You were feeling a burst of energy from this exciting news, so you had to do one more thing. You released him, and when you looked up, you could see that same self-assured, confident smile that you loved. Before he could speak again, you tugged on his blue ascot with as much force as you could summon, pulling him farther down to your level allowing you to smash your lips onto his. Catching him off guard allowed you to be in control for a couple of seconds, but it is quickly relinquished as your lover takes over quickly, effortlessly deepening the kiss. When the two of you parted, he had an almost smug grin on his face, displaying his pointy shark-like teeth.

“My my, quite eager, aren’t we? I have not seen these kinds of surprises since those old days.”

“Well,” you pecked both of his soft cheeks again, “you know I always make sure my doctor knows how I feel.” At that point, there was a knock on the door and one of Dottore’s clones came in to help you with your morning routine.

“Go about your day. I will come to get you when it’s time.” You smiled and squeezed his hand once more as you rose from the chair. Dottore’s hands returned behind his back as he watched the clone and you leave.

“Perhaps I should start to add new variables to my experiment… the results are quite interesting indeed.”

—

You could not focus on anything for the whole time. Your mind was all over the place thinking about how satisfying it would be to sink your foot into the fluffy goodness.

Apparently, Dottore had designed some kind of special jacket for you to wear, along with a scarf, gloves, earmuffs, boots, and more. It had some kind of built-in heater somehow, which made everything consistently warm including your body. Normally you’d listen to his rambles on how he created it and such, but you were too giddy at the thought of freaking snow. (And also how he took the time to make all this stuff for you. It probably only took him a short amount of time considering how intelligent he was, but the action warmed your heart.)

There were quite a few clones in the lab area watching you. You think that they seemed happy for you. One of them was helping you put the gear on while your lover set down some ground rules. Zandik also had on a big fluffy coat, which made him look rather cute. You kind of wanted to fit yourself inside of it with him.

“First, you must stay by my side at all times. You’ll probably have to hold onto my arm to steady yourself. We will be following a path. This means no straying in any other direction, at least without my permission. Of course, if you feel that you can’t handle the weather anymore, let me know immediately. Do you agree to abide by these rules?”

You held back a sigh and a laugh. You knew that all of these precautions were necessary but they were still a drag. Plus, the way your lover said it all seriously as if your very existence was on the line made you want to giggle.

“Yes, Zandik. I agree to all of your rules,” you huffed as the clone finished zipping up the jacket. “My common sense is still intact, you know.”

Even though he did not show it at all, Dottore was the slightest bit uneasy. There were many things he did not understand or know about your illness. Would the sudden change in the environment trigger you? He was not sure, but he already prepared for the worst. If anything, it would be a learning experience too - to see how much your body could handle. He was ready to take notes in his head.

“Come here.”

You slowly trekked your way toward him, getting used to the feel of the long boots. It was hard to imagine wearing these every day, but you soon fell into your lover’s chest as he began to stroke your hair.

“Well then, let us go,” he wrapped a steady arm around your waist to help you balance. “Watch the lab for me,” Dottore directed the other clones as they waved goodbye to you.

They were so cute, to be honest. Especially the ones from the Akademiya days.

—

You did not realize the extent of how big Dottore’s lab was until now. There were so many paths and rooms you walked by that you had no idea existed. What was beyond those doors? Some questions were better left unanswered. You were just letting your partner guide you as you clung to his side (the walking was a lot) until you reached a great, big door with a keypad.

“Are you ready?”

You eagerly nodded.

“And you do still remember the-”

“Yes, Zandik, I remember everything you told me,” you groaned. “Please just open the door already.”

“Patience, [Name],” he chuckled. “I look forward to seeing your reaction.” He let go of you and typed a whole long password on the keypad. And in an instant, loud noises exuded from the door as it began to open from the sides.

The first thing you felt was the puff of cold air hitting your cheeks, instinctively making you raise your arms to cover it. In a couple of seconds, the door opened completely and you could feel the light shine down on you. You put your hands down, and the snowy, outside world was laid before you.

It was majestic. The snow has managed to be untainted by any other substances, allowing it to be a pristine white that covered the landscape. Slowly, you took a few steps forward as Dottore carefully watched you, until you were standing at the edge where the floor ended, and the snow began. You took a quick glance at your lover and he motioned for you to go on. And so you did. You stepped into the snow.

The first thing you noticed was the crunch of the snow under your boots. It was oddly satisfying. And the way your foot sunk so easily into, it kind of reminded you of quicksand. But you could kick it around so easily, yet you could see it was hard enough to be used to form something solid. The cold hit you like a ton of bricks, but you were doing everything in your power to withstand it. The enhanced gear from your partner helped a lot. But, all you could say was wow. You were starting to get a bit jealous of the people who could walk in such surroundings every day with ease.

Dottore on the other hand was quite satisfied. The scenery was not what he found appealing. Rather, it was you. He found no interest in such worldly things, but your reactions were ever-changing and amusing to him. A snowflake fell on your nose and melted. You wrinkled your nose at the unfamiliar feeling. And he couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Hold onto me. The road is quite icy and slippery. You need to be very careful.” Zandik linked his arms with you, and you gratefully reciprocated.

You could not keep your eyes off anything and everything you saw. You loved Sumeru, but Snezhnaya was starting to grow on you. It was beautiful. But what you loved, even more, was talking to Zandik. You two had not had this much time together in far too long. He enthusiastically prattled on about his experiments, his creations. He even told you about his clones’ journey to Sumeru, and how the almighty Traveler was powerless against them. You indulged him of course. You had always loved his voice, and you found it rather endearing when he’d go on his rambles.

Dottore intentionally made sure the pace was slow and steady, so as to not rush your body or make you too tired. But of course, even after only a bit of time passed, you needed to rest. Thankfully, the two of you reached some kind of gazebo with a couple of benches inside. You had no idea this existed, and it seemed Dottore didn’t either, which didn’t surprise you. That man probably only cared about the entrance and exit to his lab.

The bench was cold but you did not care. Having your lover with you for this long already made you feel warm and fuzzy. Furthermore, you’d be crazy not to take advantage of the situation. You called his name and before you could make a move, he spoke.

“How do you feel?”

“Huh?”

“Has your heart rate increased since the exposure to the snow and cold? Do you feel light-headed? How easily can you move your arms and legs?”

“O-oh, well… um, I feel cold. My heart is a bit fast from the walking, but nothing out of the ordinary. My legs hurt from the walk too… but I’m used to it.”

“Interesting…” Zandik put his hand to his chin as he seemed to think. You sighed, and shifted closer to him, beginning to run your hands up his coat, which clearly grabbed his attention but he watched you silently. Your hands reached his soft cheeks and brushed over the cold exterior of his mask.

“You know, you should take this off more often,” you suggested as your hands began to creep under the sides of the mask. “There’s no one around…” you hummed. Dottore made no move to stop you so you easily slipped the mask off, revealing his sharp crimson eyes boring into you, and scars from long ago. Of course, you couldn’t help but smile at the face of your lover.

You moved in to press your lips against his, pleased at how you could now gently trace your fingers over his scars. No matter how long you knew him, he was sensitive to touch around that area, so you always made sure to be careful.

It was an odd, but strangely good feeling, Dottore thought. One he did not know he missed, as you began to pepper kisses along the top of his face. It had been a while since the two of you had kissed for so long, which was a result of your lack of liveliness due to your illness. It seems the new surroundings really did help you. He would have to keep that in mind.

“You’re so cute,” you giggled. He frowned at that and grabbed both your wrists, pushing your back onto the bench, and making you yelp.

“Enough of that. I believe that all of this has gone to your head,” Dottore’s domineering tone was back again.

“I was just- eep!” Your words were cut short as Zandik’s lips began to mark your neck.

“The human body’s temperature can go up a substantial amount just from kissing. Would you care to experiment the limits of that with me? You would be the perfect test subject,” you felt his unhinged grin spread against your neck.

“After all, I wouldn’t want you becoming too cold now, hmm?” His impossible strength easily overpowered you as he moved to hold both your wrists with one hand, while his free one rested on your thigh.

As you relinquished yourself to him, your lips were claimed an innumerable amount of times, a clear reminder of who you belonged to.

—

You had to turn in early for the night. The miniature adventure was so, so fun, and it felt like you kicked your illness in the ass for a bit, but now you really had to get some rest to recover what little strength you had. Surprisingly, Zandik was there with you this time, instead of one of his clones.

“...I’m sleepy, Zandik.”

“Of course. Your body has experienced much more physical exertion than usual. It needs time to relax.” You sighed, letting the warmth of the blankets begin to take you to dreamland.

“Hey, Zandik?”

“Yes, [Name]?”

“Remember when we were in the Akademiya, and during the night, I’d go down into your bunk bed and sleep with you? Hehe…”

“Yes, I remember rather clearly, the intrusion of my privacy and theft of my pillows,” he sighed. The first time you did that, he did not expect to be entranced by the sunlight cascading onto your peaceful face, the fluttering of your eyelashes, and the occasional quirk of your lips as you clearly dreamt of something good. But he had no knowledge of how to handle these feelings, so he shoved you off the tiny bed, rudely waking you up. You ended up walking around the Akademiya with a bump on your head after that.

“I was trying to give you hints, Zandik. You were just dense,” you pouted. “Hey, you should come and lay with me for a bit. Like the old days.”

Dottore was hesitant. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, rather, he was so incredibly busy, especially after today. To be more precise, he felt that time not spent on finding a cure for you was time inefficiently used (most of the time.)

You tugged on his sleeve pleadingly. “Just for five minutes, until I nod off…”

He couldn’t bring himself to deny you, as he slipped under the covers with you. The softness of the mattress, plush blankets, and pillows that had your scent almost made him do a double take. It had been a long time since he was in a bed in general. Perhaps just a few hours of rest wouldn’t hurt. It would boost his effectiveness drastically…

You immediately scooted your body towards his and pressed it into his, nudging your face into his chest. He came to rest his hand on your head, while the other was loosely thrown over your waist.

“I miss you,” you softly uttered. He did not respond, nor did you expect an answer - what could he say anyway? The soft stroking on your head was more than enough for you at this moment, and it quickly lulled you to sleep.

“Thank… you.” You were out like a light, while your lover looked at you, absentmindedly fiddling with a strand of your hair.

It was no simple task to make this happen. But as a scholar, of course, he was able to negotiate. For once, it wasn’t for his own gain, but for you. The results? It was a complete and utter success.

Dottore could not lie, he felt as though he was back at the Akademiya with you. He remembers the two of you walking down the hallways, your chatty and sweet self a stark contrast to his rather irritated and know-it-all aura. How you would hug him from behind late in the night as he worked at his desk, begging and whining for him to go to sleep as you both had long lectures in a few hours.

He admittedly wants to see you take the first step into a raging blizzard. He wants to see you brave the cold with ease. He wants to see you swing your sword without abandon again, not afraid to take on anyone in a verbal or physical fight. He wanted his assistant back: the one who would be ready to jump down the throat of someone who dared to question him, the one who organized his notes in the most efficient manner.

The God of Wisdom once told him that his research was insulting, contradictory to the rules and ways of life. Now that he looked back on it, he found it amusing - even a Godly being was held back by such drivel. But it did not matter to him. There was no rule or barrier he wasn’t willing to cross in order to cure you, as he had already done it multiple times with no remorse. He would oversee your absolute recovery personally.

After all, there were many more snowy days to come.

Bonus:

“You know, Arlecchino, I saw the most interesting thing the other day,” a soft voice echoed throughout the room.

“Hmm? What was it?”

“I happened across our lovely Doctor going into Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa’s chambers. For what, I wonder? Hehe…”

“...I guess that [Name] person truly does mean something to him, if he was willing to go that far.”

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