#he's so predictable in the most unpredictable ways | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 9 months ago

Note

All the NRC students (+maybe neige and Chen'ya) with a incubus? Can be either platonic or romantic but romantic would be preferred

(Male reader please!)

All NRC (-Ortho), Rollo, Neige, Che'nya with M! Incubus! Reader

thanks for the request <3 also had a lot of fun writing this so it ended up getting a little out of hand

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle prided himself on maintaining control—control of his dorm, his emotions, and, most importantly, his heart. So when you, with your playful, lingering glances and mischievous smirks, started pulling him into your orbit, it rattled him.

It didn’t help that you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’ve told you before about your uniform,” Riddle said sternly, eyes flicking over the slightly disheveled appearance you sported. The red cravat was loose, shirt collar slightly askew, and there was something about the casual disregard for the rules that sent his pulse racing.

You tilted your head, stepping just close enough to make his heartbeat uncomfortably loud in his ears. “I’d fix it, but I think you like it this way.”

Riddle’s face burned, and he instinctively took a step back, his composure slipping. “T-That’s absurd! The rules exist for a reason—”

You smiled, a slow, deliberate thing that made his breath hitch. “Maybe you just like breaking the rules when no one’s watching.”

Riddle’s heart thudded against his ribcage, his voice lowering to a flustered murmur. “I... I don’t know what you’re implying, but... please—fix it.”

But you didn’t move, and for the first time, Riddle wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.

Trey Clover

Trey had always been steady, reliable. The calm amidst the storm of his fellow Heartslabyul students. But you? You were the unpredictable spark in his otherwise predictable life.

He watched as you leaned casually against the kitchen counter, watching him roll out the dough with that knowing smile on your face. The way you lingered so close, the heat of your body just barely brushing against his, had him more distracted than he’d ever admit.

“You know,” you said, voice low and smooth as honey, “you’re really good at this whole ‘baking’ thing. I can’t help but wonder what else you’re good at.”

Trey’s hand stilled, his heart suddenly pounding a little harder. He glanced at you, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s... just practice.”

You laughed, the sound soft and intimate, as if the two of you shared a secret. “Hmm. Maybe you could teach me sometime. I’m a quick learner...”

Trey swallowed, eyes flicking to yours, his usual calm slipping just a bit. “I-I could. But, uh, maybe we should focus on the task at hand first.”

But the way you stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his, told him that focusing was going to be a lot harder than he thought.

Cater Diamond

Cater loved attention. He lived for it. But the way you looked at him? That was something different. Something that made his heart skip a beat, even though he’d never admit it.

“You’ve got all those fans, Cater,” you said, leaning close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you, “but when’s the last time you had someone all to yourself?”

Cater’s grin faltered, just for a second. “What’s this? You jealous? Don’t worry, I’ve always got time for you.”

But his casual charm wasn’t quite enough to hide the way his pulse quickened as you leaned even closer, your breath brushing against his ear.

“Jealous?” you echoed, your voice low, teasing. “Nah. Just curious. Wondering if you can handle it when all the attention’s on you for real.”

Cater swallowed, his playful demeanor slipping as his mind raced. You always did know how to get under his skin. “Hah... you’re too much, you know that?”

You grinned, and Cater couldn’t help but wonder if, for once, he’d met someone who could play his game better than him.

Ace Trappola

Ace liked to think of himself as smooth. Unshakable. Too clever to fall for anything or anyone. But every time you got a little too close, flashed that wicked grin, or dropped a suggestive comment, he found himself floundering in a way that left him both frustrated and intrigued.

“So, Ace,” you drawled, standing far too close for him to feel comfortable, “how long are you gonna pretend I’m not getting to you?”

Ace shot you his best smirk, crossing his arms as if the proximity wasn’t bothering him at all. “Pfft, please. You’re not even on my radar.”

But the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him, and you stepped even closer, your hand lightly brushing against his arm.

“Really?” you murmured, your eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re telling me that if I kissed you right now, it wouldn’t faze you at all?”

Ace froze, his heart doing an acrobatic flip in his chest. “I-I mean... not at all,” he stammered, but the blush creeping up his neck told a different story.

You grinned, pulling away just before he could gather his thoughts. “We’ll see about that.”

Ace exhaled shakily, trying to regain his composure, but all he could think about was the way his heart hadn’t quite slowed down.

Deuce Spade

Deuce wasn’t used to being flustered. He was the serious one. The dependable one. But you? You had a way of completely throwing him off his game with nothing more than a smile.

“Deuce, you’re looking a little tense,” you teased, your voice soft and almost soothing as you stood in front of him. “Something on your mind?”

Deuce swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything other than the way your fingers lightly brushed against his arm. “N-No! I’m just... thinking.”

“About me?” you asked, your lips quirking up in a teasing grin.

Deuce’s face turned bright red. “N-No! I mean, not that I don’t—no, wait, I didn’t mean—uh—”

You chuckled softly, leaning in just a bit closer, your lips barely inches from his ear. “Relax. I’m just teasing you. Unless...”

Deuce’s breath hitched, his heart racing as he tried to find his voice. “U-Unless?”

You smiled, pulling away slightly, but the warmth of your touch still lingered. “Unless you want me to be serious.”

Deuce’s brain short-circuited for a moment, and all he could do was nod, his face burning as his heart hammered in his chest.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was used to being in control. To having people fall in line around him. But you? You were the one person who never seemed to be affected by his lazy dominance. If anything, you enjoyed pushing his buttons.

You stretched out beside him in the sunlight, lazily twirling a blade of grass between your fingers. “So, what’s the plan, Leona? Gonna keep pretending you’re not interested forever?”

Leona opened one eye to glare at you, his voice a low growl. “I told you, I’m trying to sleep.”

You smirked, propping yourself up on your elbow to lean closer to him. “Uh-huh. Sure. But you’re not very convincing when your heart’s racing like that.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t stop the smirk that tugged at his lips. “You think you’re cute, huh?”

“I know I am,” you replied smoothly, your fingers brushing against his arm just enough to make him tense.

Leona scoffed, turning his head away, but the flush on his cheeks betrayed him. “You’re asking for trouble, herbivore.”

But the way he didn’t move away told you he didn’t mind one bit.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie wasn’t used to being the one on the receiving end of tricks. He was the one who pulled the pranks, got the upper hand. But you? You had him constantly on edge, never knowing what you’d say or do next.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Ruggie said, his voice low and teasing as you sidled up next to him.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a smirk. “Am I? Or maybe you’re just not used to someone playing it better than you.”

Ruggie laughed, though there was a hint of nervousness behind it. “Better than me? C’mon, I’ve got this in the bag.”

You leaned in close, your breath warm against his ear. “I don’t think you do.”

Ruggie’s heart skipped a beat, his mind scrambling for a witty comeback, but all he could focus on was the way your lips brushed against his ear ever so slightly. “Y-You’re not playing fair.”

You chuckled, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. “Who said anything about playing fair?”

Ruggie grinned, his confidence slipping just a little. “You’re trouble. But... I think I like it.”

Jack Howl

Jack prided himself on his discipline, his focus, his unwavering sense of duty. Yet, you had a way of completely unraveling all of that in a matter of seconds.

He was lifting weights in the gym, mind focused, muscles straining, when you appeared beside him. “Need a spotter?” you asked casually, leaning against the bench with a smile that was just a little too playful.

Jack grunted, trying to ignore the way your presence made his heart race. “I can handle it.”

You chuckled, leaning in just a little closer. “I’m sure you can, big guy. But why pass up the chance to have me watching your back?”

Jack nearly fumbled the weight, his ears flicking in annoyance, though he couldn’t quite hide the blush creeping up his neck. “I-I’m fine.”

But you didn’t move. Instead, you rested your chin on your hand, watching him intently. “You know, I think you try too hard sometimes. Maybe you should let someone else take care of you for a change.”

Jack’s grip tightened on the barbell, his pulse quickening. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight or the way you were looking at him that was making his chest feel tight. “I don’t need—”

You reached out, brushing a hand against his arm, sending an electric jolt through him. “Don’t need help? Or don’t need me watching you like this?”

Jack huffed, setting the weight down with more force than necessary. “You’re impossible.”

But the way his tail twitched betrayed the fact that he didn’t really mind.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul was a planner. Every move, every interaction was calculated, precise. And yet, somehow, you always seemed to throw his carefully crafted plans into chaos.

He watched as you entered the VIP room of the Mostro Lounge, that ever-present smirk on your lips. “You’re awfully quiet today, Azul,” you teased, crossing the room with a confidence that always made his palms sweat.

Azul adjusted his glasses, trying to maintain his usual calm demeanor. “I’m simply... observing.”

“Observing, huh?” you echoed, leaning on the edge of his desk, far too close for comfort. “And what exactly are you observing?”

Azul cleared his throat, eyes flicking nervously to yours. “Y-You, of course. You’re quite... unpredictable.”

You grinned, your fingers brushing against the edge of the desk, inching closer to his hand. “Unpredictable? Or maybe you’re just bad at reading me.”

Azul’s heart raced, though he tried to keep his expression neutral. “I assure you, I’m quite skilled at reading people.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Then what am I thinking right now?”

Azul froze, his mind scrambling for a coherent thought, but all he could focus on was the heat radiating from your body and the way your eyes seemed to see right through him. “I-I...”

You chuckled, pulling away just before he could respond, leaving him flustered and very much off balance. “Guess you’re not as good as you thought.”

Azul adjusted his glasses again, trying to regain his composure. “You... are infuriating.”

But the flush on his cheeks said he didn’t mind being bested by you.

Jade Leech

Jade was used to being in control, much like his boss. He enjoyed observing people, watching how they reacted, and staying two steps ahead. But with you? You were always just a little bit ahead of him, and that intrigued him far more than he’d like to admit.

“So,” Jade drawled, his usual polite smile firmly in place as you stood across from him in the lounge, “what brings you here today? Surely not just to cause more chaos?”

You smirked, tilting your head in that way that always made his heart beat just a little faster. “Maybe I just like the view.”

Jade raised an eyebrow, though his pulse quickened. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware the decor was so interesting.”

“Oh, the decor’s nice,” you said, stepping closer, your fingers lightly brushing against the smooth wood of the table. “But I wasn’t talking about that.”

Jade’s smile widened, though he couldn’t quite suppress the flicker of surprise in his chest. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you?”

“Bold?” you echoed, your hand resting on the table just beside his. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know what I want.”

Jade’s eyes gleamed with intrigue, his voice lowering to a murmur. “And what is it that you want?”

You leaned in, just enough to make his heart skip a beat. “I think you already know.”

For the first time, Jade found himself unsure of what move to make next—a sensation both unsettling and thrilling. “You... are quite the enigma.”

You grinned, pulling away with a wink. “And you love it.”

Jade’s smile didn’t falter, but the way his heart raced told him that, perhaps, you were right.

Floyd Leech

Floyd was wild, unpredictable, and always on the hunt for something exciting. You? You were the perfect mix of chaos and control, and that made you his favorite person to mess with.

“Shrimpy~!” Floyd’s voice echoed down the hallway as he bounded toward you with his usual enthusiasm. “Whatcha doin’? Boring stuff again?”

You glanced up, smirking as he slid to a stop in front of you. “Just waiting for you to catch up, Floyd. Took you long enough.”

Floyd grinned, his mismatched eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oho, you’re in a mood today, huh?”

You shrugged, leaning back against the wall, your posture casual, but your eyes gleaming with mischief. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just wondering if you can keep up.”

Floyd’s grin widened, his heart racing at the challenge. “Oh, I can keep up, don’t worry.”

You stepped closer, close enough that Floyd’s playful grin faltered for just a second. “Can you, though?”

Floyd’s eyes narrowed, his excitement turning to something sharper, more focused. “Heh, you’re askin’ for it, Shrimpy.”

But instead of backing down, you just grinned, your hand lightly brushing against his arm. “Maybe I am.”

For the first time in a while, Floyd found himself caught off guard, his usual chaotic energy tempered by the unexpected heat in your gaze. “You’re somethin’ else, Shrimpy.”

You winked, pulling away before he could react, leaving him both intrigued and frustrated in the best possible way. “I know.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim was all sunshine and joy, always smiling, always positive. But when you were around? He found himself feeling something a little different—a flutter in his chest that he didn’t quite understand.

“You’re always so happy, Kalim,” you teased, your voice soft but playful as you sat beside him on the steps of Scarabia. “What’s your secret?”

Kalim beamed at you, his usual enthusiasm shining through. “It’s easy! I just focus on the good things. Like you being here with me!”

You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. “That’s sweet. But what if I wasn’t here?”

Kalim blinked, his smile faltering for just a second. “Then... I’d be sad, I guess.”

You tilted your head, your smile turning a little more mischievous. “Really? Sad? Or maybe... you’d miss me?”

Kalim’s face flushed, his usual cheerfulness giving way to a sudden nervousness. “O-Of course I’d miss you! You’re my friend!”

You leaned in, your voice lowering just enough to make his heart race. “Just a friend?”

Kalim’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. “W-Well, I mean... I-I—”

You chuckled, pulling away before he could stumble over his words any more. “Relax, Kalim. I’m just teasing you.”

But the blush on his cheeks remained, and Kalim couldn’t quite shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be more than just friends.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had spent most of his life in control, always planning, always calculating. But with you? You threw all of that right out the window. No matter how hard he tried to remain calm, you always seemed to know just how to get under his skin.

He was organizing a batch of ingredients for the next Scarabia banquet when you strolled into the kitchen. “Jamil, you’re always working so hard,” you said, your voice lilting with a teasing edge.

Jamil didn’t look up from his task, though the way his grip tightened on the spoon betrayed his reaction to your presence. “Someone has to,” he muttered, keeping his voice neutral.

You leaned against the counter, watching him with that playful glint in your eye. “But don’t you ever get tired of being so... responsible all the time?”

Jamil glanced at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What are you getting at?”

You grinned, reaching for one of the nearby aprons. “I’m saying, maybe you need a break. Let someone else take care of things for once.”

Jamil snorted, shaking his head. “And who exactly would that be? You?”

You slid the apron over your head, your movements far too casual. “Why not? I can handle a kitchen just fine.”

Jamil raised an eyebrow, watching as you tied the apron with a flourish. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

You shot him a playful wink. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

For once, Jamil was at a loss. The idea of letting go, even for a second, was foreign to him. But the way you moved with such confidence... it made him wonder what it would be like to let someone else take control, just for a little while. “Fine,” he said after a moment, crossing his arms. “But if you burn anything, you’re cleaning it up.”

You grinned, reaching for the nearest pan. “Deal.”

And as you moved around the kitchen, humming to yourself, Jamil found himself watching you with a mix of exasperation and something warmer—something he wasn’t quite ready to admit.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always prided himself on his perfection. His looks, his demeanor, everything about him was carefully crafted to be flawless. But you? You were the one person who could make him forget all of that, even if just for a moment.

He was seated at his vanity, carefully applying his skincare routine when you entered the room. “You know, Vil, you’re almost too perfect,” you said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

Vil raised an eyebrow, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Almost?”

You stepped closer, your eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah. But perfection’s boring.”

Vil turned slightly, regarding you with a cool, appraising look. “I see. And what, pray tell, would you suggest?”

You grinned, walking up behind him and resting your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe you should loosen up a little. Try being... I don’t know, human.”

Vil’s lips curved into a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that would be lowering my standards.”

You chuckled, your breath warm against his neck. “Or maybe it would just make you more relatable.”

Vil’s gaze flicked to yours, a spark of something sharp and amused in his eyes. “I’m not interested in being relatable.”

You straightened, your smile widening. “Good thing I’m not asking you to be.”

Vil turned fully to face you now, his violet eyes narrowing slightly. “Then what are you asking?”

You shrugged, your tone playful. “Maybe I’m just asking you to let me in.”

For a brief moment, Vil’s carefully crafted facade cracked, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to let someone see beyond the perfection. But he quickly composed himself, his smile returning. “Perhaps.”

But the way his heart skipped a beat told him that you were already closer than he’d like to admit.

Rook Hunt

Rook loved beauty in all its forms. He admired it, sought it out, and treasured it. But there was something about you—something wild, unpredictable, and utterly enchanting—that drew him in like nothing else.

You were standing at the edge of the Pomefiore courtyard, gazing out at the forest beyond when Rook appeared beside you. “Ah, mon trésor,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent. “What a beautiful sight.”

You glanced at him, smirking. “You say that about everything.”

Rook chuckled, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “Perhaps. But in your case, it is always true.”

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth in his gaze made your heart flutter. “You’re such a romantic.”

Rook smiled, leaning in just a little closer. “Can you blame me? You are... irresistible.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk turning playful. “Am I?”

Rook’s eyes sparkled, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Without question.”

For a moment, you were caught in his gaze, the intensity of his admiration washing over you like a wave. But then, with a grin, you stepped back, breaking the spell. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to keep chasing me, then.”

Rook laughed, his heart racing at the challenge. “Ah, mon cœur, I would chase you to the ends of the earth.”

And as you turned away, a smile playing on your lips, Rook knew that he would do just that—no matter how long it took.

Epel Felmier

Epel had heard rumors about you—whispers in the halls of an incubus who could charm anyone with just a glance. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was your mix of quiet strength and subtle flirtation that kept him intrigued. You had this easy confidence that drove him wild, even though he’d never admit it.

You were lounging on a low wall near the Pomefiore gardens, basking in the afternoon sun when Epel stormed up, looking as if he had something to prove. "So, how does it work? Your whole 'incubus charm' thing?" His tone was half curious, half challenging.

You chuckled, tilting your head. "You want a lesson, Felmier?"

Epel crossed his arms, trying to appear unaffected, though the slight flush on his cheeks gave him away. "Nah, I just... I don’t get it. How do ya make people swoon without even trying?"

You smiled, leaning forward slightly, your voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. "Maybe I just have that effect on you."

Epel’s eyes widened, and he quickly looked away, cheeks turning a brighter red. "Y-yeah, right. As if!"

You laughed softly, standing up and stepping closer, close enough for Epel to feel the warmth radiating from you. "You seem flustered. Careful now, or people might think you're one of my admirers."

Epel swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. "I ain’t like the others, y’know. You’re not gonna charm me that easily."

"Oh, Epel," you teased, brushing a finger lightly under his chin, tilting his face up to meet your gaze. "Who said I was trying?"

Epel froze, heart pounding in his chest, his usual bravado completely melting under your touch. But before he could say anything, you pulled back, leaving him standing there, speechless and confused.

"You’re fun to mess with," you said with a wink, turning to walk away. "But don’t worry. I like you for more than just your pretty face."

As you disappeared down the path, Epel stood there, face burning and thoughts racing. He wasn’t sure if he was flattered or completely thrown off balance, but one thing was for sure—he was hooked.

Idia Shroud

Idia hated attention, and you—an incubus who naturally drew people in—was the last person he expected to become infatuated with. But there was something about you that made it impossible for him to focus on anything else. It didn’t help that you seemed to enjoy making him squirm.

He was holed up in his room, hunched over his desk, when you casually materialized in the middle of the room. "Yo, Idia," you greeted with a grin. "Miss me?"

Idia nearly fell out of his chair, his hands fumbling to close several tabs on his computer in a panic. "W-what the—don’t sneak up on me like that!"

You chuckled, leaning against his desk with your usual easy confidence. "You’re cute when you’re flustered, y’know that?"

Idia’s face turned bright red, and he pulled his hoodie over his head, muttering under his breath. "N-n-not cute. I’m not... cute."

You smirked, leaning in closer. "Oh, but you are. The way you hide in your hoodie, the way you avoid eye contact... It’s pretty endearing."

Idia peeked out from under his hoodie, his golden eyes wide with a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Endearing? M-me?"

"Mm-hmm," you hummed, reaching out to brush a strand of his blue hair away from his face. "You’re more interesting than you think, Shroud."

Idia’s breath hitched, and he quickly pulled his hood tighter, as if it could somehow protect him from your teasing. "Y-you must be messing with me," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

You grinned, leaning back but keeping your eyes on him. "Maybe a little. But I mean it. You’ve got this whole mysterious, untouchable vibe going on. It’s kind of hot."

Idia froze, his mind short-circuiting at the word "hot" being used in reference to him. He stared at his screen, trying to pretend like he wasn’t blushing furiously under his hood. "Th-this is like... some kind of nightmare..."

You laughed, pushing off the desk and heading toward the door. "Nah, just a dream you’re not ready for yet."

Idia didn’t dare look up as you left, but his heart was racing, and his mind was filled with thoughts he had no idea how to process. You were dangerous, but also kind of intoxicating. And despite everything, he found himself looking forward to the next time you’d appear in his room out of nowhere.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus was used to people fearing him, revering him even. But you? You weren’t scared. In fact, you treated him with the same teasing confidence as everyone else, and that... intrigued him.

You had found him in his usual spot by the gargoyles, admiring the stone figures with that serene look on his face. You leaned casually against a nearby pillar, watching him for a moment before speaking. "Y’know, for someone so powerful, you sure spend a lot of time alone."

Malleus turned to you, his emerald eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Does that surprise you?"

You grinned, walking over to stand beside him. "A little. I mean, shouldn’t someone like you have people fawning over them all the time?"

Malleus raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but amused. "I am not particularly interested in such... distractions."

You chuckled, giving him a playful nudge. "Oh, come on. Everyone needs a little attention sometimes. Even you."

Malleus looked at you for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face. "And you believe you are the one to provide it?"

You met his gaze, your smile softening just a bit. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just curious about what makes you tick."

Malleus considered your words, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your playful demeanor. "You are unlike any other... bold, yet not reckless."

You smirked, leaning closer. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Malleus tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your heart race. "Perhaps it was meant as one."

For a moment, the air between you was thick with unspoken tension, but you broke it with a light laugh, stepping back. "Well, if you ever get tired of talking to gargoyles, you know where to find me."

Malleus watched as you turned to leave, his lips curving into a small smile. "Indeed. I may take you up on that offer."

And as you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d just unlocked a side of Malleus Draconia that few had ever seen. The thrill of it was enough to make your heart race.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia had lived through centuries and seen all manner of beings, but you—a cheeky incubus with a penchant for teasing—caught his interest more than anyone in recent memory. You had a charm about you that was hard to ignore, and Lilia, of course, found it entertaining.

One evening, you found him lounging upside down on a tree branch, casually playing a game on his phone. You leaned against the trunk, grinning up at him. "Don’t you ever get tired of hanging upside down like a bat?"

Lilia’s red eyes flickered toward you, and he chuckled softly. "Why would I? The world looks more amusing this way. And I get to see delightful surprises, like you."

You smirked, folding your arms. "Flattery will get you everywhere, you know."

"Ah, but I don't need flattery with you, do I?" Lilia responded smoothly, dropping down from the tree and landing gracefully beside you. "You're already drawn to me."

You laughed, stepping closer. "Confident, are we? You must know my type, then?"

Lilia’s smile widened, his sharp fangs peeking through. "Perhaps. You do have a taste for the mysterious and ancient, do you not?"

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to make the air between you crackle with tension. "Maybe I like a little danger."

Lilia’s eyes gleamed mischievously. "Careful now. I might just take you up on that."

For a moment, there was a spark of something unspoken between you—something thrilling, intoxicating. But you knew Lilia well enough to know he enjoyed the dance as much as you did. You gave him a wink before pulling back. "See you around, old man."

Lilia chuckled, watching you walk away with a look of pure amusement. "I do enjoy our little games," he murmured to himself. "Such an interesting soul you are."

Silver

Silver had always been calm and composed, his emotions well-guarded behind his serene expression. But with you, something shifted. You had a way of breaking through his defenses, and even if he tried to ignore it, you seemed determined to fluster him.

One afternoon, you found Silver in a quiet spot near the garden, practicing his swordsmanship. He was focused, moving with precision, but you, being you, couldn’t resist a little disruption. "Nice form," you called out, leaning against a tree. "But I bet you’ve never faced a foe like me."

Silver paused, lowering his sword and turning to you with his usual calm gaze. "Are you suggesting a duel?"

You grinned, stepping forward. "Not exactly. More like a... sparring of wits. I think I’m winning already."

Silver blinked, clearly puzzled by your words, but there was a slight twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. "I wasn’t aware we were competing."

"That’s because I’m subtle," you teased, giving him a playful look. "You should keep up."

Silver’s eyes softened, and for a moment, his usual stoic expression faltered. "I’m trying. But you... you’re not easy to figure out."

You took another step closer, your voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Maybe that’s part of the fun."

Silver’s breath caught for a moment, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "You’re... different from anyone I’ve met before."

"And that’s a good thing?" you asked, genuinely curious.

Silver nodded slowly, meeting your eyes with a sincerity that made your heart flutter. "Yes. It’s a good thing."

For a moment, the two of you stood there in comfortable silence, the connection between you growing stronger. And though Silver was not one for grand gestures or flirtatious banter, his presence alone made you feel something deeper than words could express.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was nothing if not loyal to Malleus, and that made dealing with you—a distracting, charming incubus—all the more frustrating for him. No matter how hard he tried to focus on his duties, you always seemed to show up at the worst possible moments, throwing him off balance with your teasing.

You found Sebek in the library, his nose buried in a book about fae history. With a sly grin, you slipped into the chair beside him, leaning on your elbow and watching him intently. "You know, Sebek, you could use a break every now and then."

Sebek stiffened, his green eyes narrowing as he glanced at you. "I have no time for distractions! Lord Malleus requires my full attention at all times!"

"Uh-huh," you replied, clearly not buying it. "I’m sure Malleus is off doing his own thing. Meanwhile, you’re here, working too hard."

Sebek slammed his book shut, standing abruptly. "I am not ‘working too hard!’ I am doing my duty! Unlike some people who waste their time with frivolous nonsense!"

You smirked, standing up to match his energy. "Frivolous, huh? Is that what you think of me?"

Sebek’s face turned red, but whether from anger or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell. "Y-you’re always... always causing trouble! With your... your incubus ways!"

"Incubus ways?" you repeated with a laugh, stepping closer to him. "Sebek, you’re adorable when you’re flustered."

"I am not flustered!" he barked, though his reddening face said otherwise.

You leaned in, lowering your voice just enough to make him even more uncomfortable. "You’re really bad at hiding it, y’know."

Sebek sputtered, taking a step back as if he didn’t know how to handle the situation. "I... I have no time for your... your charm!"

You grinned, thoroughly enjoying the effect you had on him. "Don’t worry, Sebek. I’ll leave you alone... for now."

As you walked away, you heard Sebek muttering something under his breath about ‘distractions’ and ‘duty,’ but the small smile on your face told you everything you needed to know. He was hooked—whether he liked it or not.

Rollo Flamme

Rollo prided himself on being composed, dignified, and resistant to the distractions of the outside world—especially when it came to magic. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to avoid the temptations of the world, you always seemed to challenge his resolve.

It was an unspoken game between the two of you. Whenever you visited the City of Flowers, you'd find a way to tease him, either with your charm or just by being yourself—a confident, unabashed incubus who was clearly enjoying Rollo’s discomfort.

One afternoon, you caught Rollo walking through the garden, looking as serious as ever. "Rollo, fancy seeing you out here in the sunshine," you said with a grin, stepping into his path.

He stopped, eyeing you warily. "What do you want?"

"Now, is that any way to greet a friend?" you teased, taking a step closer. "I was just admiring the flowers. They seem to like the sunshine—maybe you should give it a try."

Rollo’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to understand your motives. "I have no interest in trivial matters like sunlight. I have more important things to attend to."

"Of course you do," you said, rolling your eyes. "But maybe you should lighten up a bit. Enjoy life while you can."

Rollo’s expression hardened, clearly annoyed by your carefree attitude. "Not everyone indulges in hedonism like you, incubus."

You chuckled, crossing your arms. "Who said anything about hedonism? I’m just suggesting you try having some fun."

"Fun," Rollo repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "Fun is not my priority."

"Maybe it should be," you said, giving him a sly look. "Life’s too short to be so serious all the time."

Rollo’s lips pressed into a thin line, his resolve clearly wavering. "You’re wasting your breath. I won’t be swayed by your... charms."

You grinned, leaning in just a little closer. "We’ll see about that."

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but notice the way Rollo’s gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to wear him down.

Neige LeBlanche

Neige was a sweetheart—open, cheerful, and always kind-hearted. He found your presence comforting in a way that surprised even him. Despite your incubus nature, he was drawn to your charm, though it was clear you used it in a more subtle way around him.

One snowy evening, the two of you were out in the village, walking together under the falling snow. Neige was humming a soft tune, his usual cheery self, but there was a quiet warmth between you that wasn’t there before.

"You really like the snow, don’t you?" you asked, watching as Neige caught a snowflake on his finger.

He smiled, his cheeks rosy from the cold. "It reminds me of home. There’s something so peaceful about it."

You nodded, watching the way the snowflakes danced around him. "It suits you. You’re like a snow prince."

Neige laughed softly, his eyes twinkling. "That’s a sweet thing to say. But I’m just me."

"Just you?" you echoed, tilting your head. "Neige, you’re a lot more than just ‘you.’ You’re... warm. Kind. You make people feel at ease, even me."

Neige looked at you, surprised by your honesty. "I didn’t know you felt that way."

"Of course I do," you said with a smile. "You’re different from anyone I’ve met. Most people don’t look past the whole incubus thing, but you... you see more."

Neige’s smile softened, and he reached out to gently take your hand. "I don’t see you as an incubus. I see you as... someone special."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and for once, you didn’t have a witty comeback. Instead, you squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch against the cold winter air.

"Neige..." you began, but before you could say more, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

"Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "For being you."

You stood there in the snow, your heart racing as you realized just how much Neige meant to you. And for once, you let yourself enjoy the moment without any teasing or playful banter—just the quiet, tender connection between you and him.

Che’nya

If anyone was as mischievous as you, it was Che’nya. The two of you were a chaotic pair, always getting into some kind of trouble together. He found your incubus abilities amusing, often encouraging you to use them to mess with others. But when it came to the two of you, there was an unspoken understanding that your games were more than just harmless fun.

One day, you found Che’nya lounging in a tree, his signature grin plastered across his face. You jumped up to join him, perching on the branch beside him. "Up to no good again?" you asked, smirking.

"Always," Che’nya replied, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "But what about you? I hear you’ve been causing quite the stir lately."

You grinned, leaning back against the trunk. "What can I say? It’s in my nature."

Che’nya chuckled, leaning closer to you. "You do have a way of stirring things up. But I wonder... what would happen if you turned your charm on me?"

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the challenge. "Is that a dare?"

"It’s an invitation," Che’nya said, his grin widening. "Let’s see if you can out-charm me, incubus."

You leaned in, your face mere inches from his. "Careful what you wish for, Che’nya. You might just fall for me."

Che’nya’s eyes twinkled with amusement, but there was a hint of something more in his gaze. "Maybe I already have."

For a moment, the playful banter between you fell away, replaced by a spark of real connection. You could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken understanding that there was more between you than just teasing and games.

But, true to form, Che’nya was the first to break the moment with a laugh. "You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I’m not so easily won over."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "We’ll see about that."

As you jumped down from the tree, you glanced back at Che’nya, your grin widening. "I’ll be back to claim my victory, Cheshire."

Che’nya’s grin never faltered as he watched you walk away, but deep down, he knew that when it came to you, he was already losing the game.

Masterlist

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vandme12 · 5 months ago

Note

know my creativity has no limits, mortal 🫶

Ronin x reader who is a cannibal but hid it from everyone including Ronin 🤭

WORDS :7729

PROMPT : SICKENING SWEETNESS

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Cannibal Themes, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : You were the sweetest person ever, How did you end up with Ronin, Maybe it takes a mess to understand a mess... Ronin walks in, when you're chewing the shiny bone.

HOW DELIGHTFULLY SWEET YOU ARE:

You're the very essence of sweetness—like a burst of sunshine and a cloud of warmth all in one. A heart dipped in honey, every word you utter feels like it’s been dusted with sugar, and your presence is as comforting as the softest blanket. You exude an undeniable charm, effortlessly weaving love and kindness into every moment. You’re a living, breathing masterpiece of warmth, kindness, and beauty, and if sweetness were a currency, you'd be the wealthiest person alive.

Someone as pure and gentle as you… it’s almost unreal that you’d end up with Ronin Beaufort. But here you are, in his world, where sweetness meets chaos. How perfectly twisted, don't you think?

Being in a relationship with Ronin? It’s something you never could’ve predicted. You walked in with the belief that he would never captivate you—how could he? His whole aura screamed danger, chaos, and unpredictability. He wasn’t the type to get under anyone’s skin. He was the one who did the damage. You were too kind, too soft, too… sweet for someone like him.

But then, little by little, something shifted. You started seeing the cracks in that devilish mask, and underneath, you found a deeper, more complicated person than anyone ever expected. His flirtations became a twisted kind of affection, his threats, strangely, a form of intimacy. And somewhere, somehow, without even realizing it, you fell into his world—his chaotic, dark, yet strangely magnetic world.

The more you fought him, the more you were drawn in. He pushed you to your limits, but in doing so, he peeled back layers of yourself you never knew existed. And when you realized it—when you understood how far you'd fallen—it was almost like a sick joke. You? Falling for someone like him?

But here you are, tangled in his grip, willingly wrapped in the chaos and the thrill of his twisted love. It’s dangerous, yes. But there’s no denying it: you wouldn’t have it any other way.

u. The table before you was set with a single plate, a fork, and a knife—neatly arranged, as if this were some normal, respectable meal. But it wasn’t.

Oh, it so wasn’t.

You sighed, staring at the piece of meat on your plate. Cooked to perfection, slightly charred at the edges, seared just enough to lock in the juices. The smell was rich, mouthwatering. You hated that part the most—the fact that it smelled good. That it tasted even better. That despite every ounce of shame that sat heavy in your chest, despite every promise you made to yourself that this is the last time, you knew deep down... it wouldn’t be.

Your fingers gripped the fork tightly, pressing the prongs into the tender flesh. You could hear it now, Ronin’s voice in your head, laughing, teasing:

"Really, sweetheart? All that sugar and spice, and this is your dirty little secret?"

No. No, no, no. He could never know.

Your serial killer friends didn’t even know. Which, honestly, was insane. They knew you were no saint, sure. You had your fun. But they all thought you were just… well, a little bloodthirsty, maybe. A sweet little thing with a bite, a killer, sure, but not like this. No one could ever know.

You sliced into the meat with practiced ease, lifting a piece to your lips, hesitating for just a moment.

This is the last time.

You popped it into your mouth.

…

Goddamn it, why was it so good?!

Your head hit the table with a dramatic thud, groaning into the wood as the taste flooded your senses. You hated this. You hated yourself for loving it. The texture, the richness, the way it melted just right on your tongue—like the best cut of steak you’d ever had. And the worst part? The worst, absolute worst part?

You knew exactly who this was.

You sat up, chewing slowly, staring at the remains on your plate.

"Sorry, Pastor Jim," you muttered around your bite. "You really should’ve stopped touching choir boys."

You stabbed another piece, eating with a little less guilt.

Because technically, you were still keeping to your moral code, right? You only went after the worst of the worst. And it’s not like you meant to start eating them! That had been an accident! A very unfortunate accident involving a freezer, a power outage, and a very poor sense of food preservation. But after that first taste? Yeah. Yeah, it became a problem.

You shoveled another bite into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Ronin would never let you live this down if he found out.

Oh, he’d love the murder part—he’d practically applaud you for it. Maybe even invite you on one of his little outings. But this? This would be his golden ticket to bullying you for eternity. He’d never shut up about it. You could already hear him.

"Oh, doll, you mean to tell me all this time you’ve been lookin’ at me like a snack, you meant it literally?"

You dropped your fork and groaned again. No. Nope. That was nightmare fuel.

You reached for a napkin, dabbing your lips as if you hadn’t just committed an unforgivable sin. The plate was almost clean now, the evidence disappearing bite by bite. As much as you hated yourself for it, at least it was practical. Waste not, want not, right?

Still. You needed to get out of this habit before you really fucked up. You’d been careful, so insanely careful, but all it took was one slip-up, one little mistake, and suddenly you’d go from ‘mysterious and deadly’ to ‘literal horror movie monster.’

You sighed, pushing your plate away, feeling full but entirely unsatisfied. The guilt was still there, coiling like a snake in your gut, whispering, This isn’t normal. You’re a freak.

Like that was news.

You stood, stretching, rolling out your shoulders as you walked over to the fridge. Opening it, you took a moment to survey the contents, lips pursing. You had normal food in there. You could just eat normal food. Maybe. Probably.

You shut the fridge.

Later problem.

For now, you needed to clean up and make sure no one ever found out about this.

And, more importantly, make sure Ronin never, ever found out.

Because one thing was certain: if he did…

You would never hear the end of it.

The clock read 2:47 AM. The server was quiet—everyone else had gone to sleep, the usual chatter of chaos and mayhem dying down for the night. Well, almost everyone.

One handle still glowed in the dark.

Goreboy.

You smirked, clicking on the voice chat. The moment it connected, his voice came through, low and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"Hey, what’s up, darlin’? Can’t sleep? Or just missed my face too much?"

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. "It’s just… missing. And both."

He chuckled, the kind of sound that dripped with amusement, but also a little bit of something else—something that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

"So, what’d you wanna ask me for?"

You blinked. "For…?"

A dramatic sigh from the other end. "Idiot. Valentine’s."

Oh. Right. Last year had been a disaster. Mostly because he thought it’d be funny to leave you a gift-wrapped corpse—freshly skinned, because of course he’d go the extra mile. It had ended in a chase, a near-stabbing, and an impromptu rooftop knife fight that nearly landed both of you in jail.

Ah, memories.

But this year, you had both agreed—no killing each other for Valentine’s.

Which meant you had to get him something.

"So," you started, tapping your fingers on the desk, "what do you want?"

Ronin’s face—well, his emoji reaction—popped up on the server. A middle finger.

"Why would you ask for a goddamn gift?" he grumbled. "You’re supposed to surprise your lover. That’s, like, the whole point, sweetheart."

You huffed. "And yet, last year, I got a literal human hide on my doorstep."

"I thought it was romantic."

"You thought wrong."

A pause. Then, a laugh. "Fine. Flowers. That’ll do."

You blinked. "Flowers? Like… lilies or something?"

"Sure. Whatever. I’m not picky."

"Okay!" you chirped.

And for a second, just a second, there was silence. Something rare when it came to Ronin.

Then, in a tone so casual it made your blood run cold—"Midnight snack?"

Your heart stopped.

You sat up straight. "What?"

"You been eating, sweetheart? Kinda weird, this late at night. But, uh, mostly just wondering ‘cause you got ketchup on the end of your lips."*

…Oh.

OH.

Your hand shot up to your mouth, wiping at the corner.

You looked at your fingers.

That was not ketchup.

You shot up from your chair. "I’ll be right back!"

You rushed to the bathroom, practically tripping over your own feet as you scrambled to wash your hands. The blood—not ketchup—clung to your fingers, vivid and fresh. You were quick, but not quick enough to forget that Ronin had seen it.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and for a moment, you froze, staring at the sink, the sound of running water filling the silence. It was too close—the slip-up, the small hint of a mistake that could unravel everything. The last thing you wanted was for him to know.

He didn’t notice. He didn’t notice. He’s too busy being an idiot to notice.

You scrubbed your hands furiously, trying to erase any trace of it, the red staining the water swirling down the drain, just like the thoughts in your head. It’s fine. You’ve done worse.

You wiped your hands on a towel, your mind racing. He hadn’t called you out on it. Yet. And it wasn’t like he needed to know, right? Please, don't notice.

You shook your head, trying to brush off the paranoia creeping in. Of course, he'd notice. Ronin noticed everything.

But for now, you were in the clear.

You took a deep breath, checking your reflection in the mirror, making sure you didn’t look too guilty. You ran your tongue over your lips, still tasting the remnants of that awful little snack.

It was weird, you thought. You hated it, but also? It was surprisingly good.

You turned on your heel, heading back to the computer with a forced smile on your face, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

"Everything okay, darling?" Ronin's voice came through, smooth and teasing, as if he hadn’t even noticed your brief disappearance.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," you said, trying to act casual, even as your mind screamed at you.

"Mm. Good." His voice held that strange amusement, as if he was watching you. "Better not be hiding anything, sweetheart."

Both of you were uncharacteristically still—something had shifted, some unspoken tension that made everything feel… off.

Ronin’s voice had been teasing at first, but now, as the minutes passed, it felt like he was holding something back. And then, the blush hit. You weren’t sure if it was him or you who started it first, but it was unmistakable. His voice took on an almost shy edge when he spoke again.

"Kay… Better not let you be a not sleeper this time," he said, the words almost careful as if testing the waters. "That time your fucking manager almost made you... frickin’ not sleeper. We wouldn’t want that, right?"

You let out a soft chuckle, but even you knew it was a little too nervous. The memory of that incident was still too fresh—the way you’d almost been pushed to the edge by that workaholic manager, the constant pressure, the stress. It had taken everything in you to keep functioning, but Ronin’s comment seemed to shift the mood, the tension, and for a moment, your walls cracked.

"Yeah..." you said, your voice soft, almost a whisper. "But I wouldn’t mind speaking to you. You know? Speaking to you is enough."

You didn’t even know why you said it, why it felt so vulnerable all of a sudden, but there it was. You were falling deeper, and you couldn’t help it.

"Hah… I’m really a hopeless romantic, huh?" You sighed, the weight of your own words settling in. You hated how much you were giving away with every little thing you said, every little action. But somehow, with Ronin, it didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like… something else.

"Well, hit me up," Ronin’s voice came through again, but this time, it was softer—an almost teasing undercurrent that made your heart flutter. "We could spend Valentine’s at mine… or yours. Or hell, that alleyway we ran into each other in last time."

You flushed, unable to control the heat that rushed to your cheeks at the thought. The alleyway was a place you’d never forget—the smell of blood in the air, the thrill of the chase, the way everything had felt so… alive.

"I—I don’t know about the alleyway," you stammered, feeling the tips of your ears burn. "But, sure, we could… we could do something like that. I’m not picky."

Another laugh, low and dangerous. "Yeah, you’re always the one who’s not picky, huh?"

And then you heard it. The sound of him clearing his throat. Was he blushing, too?

"You’re really going to make me lose my shit over this, huh?"

You bit your lip to suppress a smile, but you couldn’t help it. Ronin was a lot of things—volatile, unpredictable, dark—but he was also fun. And somehow, against your better judgment, you liked that. You liked the dangerous little dance you two played.

"But," he continued, his voice now tinged with something almost sweet, "I don’t want to sleep deprive you again."

Your heart fluttered at the way he phrased it. Sleep deprivation… was that his way of caring? Of worrying about you? Or was it just his twisted way of showing affection? You couldn’t tell anymore.

You tilted your head, staring at the screen. The words you wanted to say got caught in your throat. Does he care, or is this all just part of the game?

"Well, I do have to work," you said, shifting uncomfortably in your chair, the weight of it all sinking in. "Manager said there’s more writing to do."

Ronin’s voice changed in an instant. You could hear the frustration, the tension rising as he cursed under his breath. "What the fuck? More writing? Are they insane?" He sounded genuinely pissed now, and it wasn’t the playful anger you were used to—it was something more serious.

You winced. "Yeah, I know. It’s a lot."

"Fucking hell," he growled, a rare tone of annoyance seeping into his voice. "You need a break. Don’t let them fucking work you to death. What are they thinking, pushing you like that?"

You chuckled nervously, trying to mask the heaviness that weighed on you. "It’s fine. I can handle it."

But Ronin wasn’t having it. "No, you can’t. Fuck that." The silence that followed felt almost too loud. "Do whatever you want, but don’t overwork yourself. I swear to God, if you doom yourself like.."

Your breath hitched.

"Ronin…" you whispered, barely audible. "I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me."

There was a long, heavy pause. Then, with a sigh, Ronin muttered under his breath, "I don’t want to hear about it if you end up like that. You hear me?"

You bit your lip, your eyes stinging. He wasn’t just angry anymore; he was worried. Maybe even protective. And you were terrified that you might like it.

"I hear you," you said softly, but it wasn’t enough.

You glanced at the clock. Valentine’s was approaching. And you? You had a lot of thinking to do.

The call ended abruptly, but you were still left staring at your screen for a few moments, lingering in the silence that filled the room. You hadn’t expected Ronin to hang up so soon, but maybe he wasn’t one for goodbyes. After all, when it came to Ronin, it was always about the moment rather than anything after.

Just as you were about to put your phone down, your screen flashed with a new message.

Goreboy: "Why not stay on the call until you fall asleep?"

Your lips curled into a smile as you quickly typed a reply. "I don't want you to worry." You meant it, but there was always a part of you that liked the idea of him sticking around, even if he didn’t seem to care about you quite the way you cared about him.

The response came almost instantly.

Goreboy: "I’m not worried, sweetheart. You’re just a rotten saint, too good for your own shit."

You chuckled at that. "Rotten saint, huh? Sounds about right." You sat back in your chair, feeling the comfort of the familiar exchange. Something about him being around always made the long hours of work seem more bearable. It was easy to get lost in the chaos of his teasing, and his dark sense of humor made the night seem... lighter.

You: "Well, I’d like that. Let’s do it then."

And so, you returned to typing, the soft clack of your keyboard the only sound between you and the quiet hum of the night. He didn’t say much at first, but you could hear the occasional rustle on his end, the shift of his posture or the sound of him stretching. You couldn’t see him, but you could almost picture it.

You laughed at something funny in the book, your fingers moving almost too quickly to keep up. You two chatted about anything and everything—his usual dark humor, your frustrations with the latest writing assignment. Every now and then, you’d get caught up in a tangent, bantering back and forth until the conversation felt easy and natural, like the two of you weren’t constantly circling each other in some game neither could win.

As the hours passed, the yawns began.

You felt a wave of exhaustion crashing over you. Your eyes drooped, your head growing heavy, but you fought it—if only for a little longer. It was nice, being able to laugh with him, to share the quiet moments that didn’t need words.

But as the minutes ticked by, it was clear your body wasn’t going to listen. Your words became slower, your typing more erratic, and before long, the yawns became impossible to hide.

"Shit…" you muttered, rubbing your eyes. "I think I’m falling asleep."

You heard Ronin’s voice through the speaker, low and almost playful. "You sure you’re not just bored of me already?"

You chuckled softly. "No... just tired, I guess."

There was another pause, but you could hear him shift in his seat, the slight rasp of his breath as he yawned, too.

"Yeah… I’m getting there too," he said, the words thick with exhaustion. "Guess you’ll have to deal with me being sleepy now. How’s that for fun?"

You smiled, your head sinking into your pillow. "It’s fine," you murmured, your voice soft, nearly a whisper. "I don’t mind."

He let out a quiet huff, but it was different from the usual playful smirk. It sounded… gentler, more like he was actually considering something, his usual sarcasm dulled by the exhaustion that hung heavy in his voice.

And then, just as you were slipping further into that comfortable, drowsy haze, you heard him sigh.

"It’s not that healthy," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "At least you're asleep now."

You barely registered the words before they faded into nothing, your eyes closing.

"Good night," he whispered softly, his voice low, almost tender in its quiet warmth.

You wanted to say something, to reply, but the words died on your lips as sleep finally claimed you, the exhaustion sweeping you away before you could even react.

The last thing you heard was the sound of Ronin’s breath on the other end of the line, as if he, too, had surrendered to the pull of sleep.

"Good night, sweetheart," he repeated, and then the call ended.

This is the last time, He talked with you. At least you didn't come online, Angel told him to check up on you before she uses her gun.

Your house was quiet. Peaceful, even.

Well, except for the fact that you were currently sitting on the kitchen floor, absentmindedly chewing on a cooked leg.

Not your leg, of course. That would be ridiculous. No, it belonged to your now ex-manager, who was currently in several pieces scattered across your apartment. You hadn’t planned on killing him, but he just wouldn’t shut up about your deadlines, your workload, how you weren’t being "grateful enough" for all the opportunities he gave you. He’d pushed you, and pushed you—until you pushed back.

And now? Now he was dinner.

You sighed, poking at a plate of slightly undercooked meat with a fork. You’d always hated this part of yourself, the part that craved something you shouldn’t. It was disgusting. It was wrong. And yet, the taste... well. You weren’t about to lie to yourself.

You took another bite.

And that was exactly when Ronin kicked open your front door.

"What the fu—"

You froze mid-bite, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. Ronin, meanwhile, was standing in your doorway, expression torn between disbelief and absolute amusement. He scanned the scene before him—blood smeared across the floor, the half-butchered body slumped over the couch, you sitting there like a guilty puppy with a mouth full of human flesh.

You swallowed slowly. "...I can explain."

Ronin blinked. "Can you?"

You considered your options. "No."

A beat of silence.

Then, he cackled. Not just a chuckle, but a full-on, throw-your-head-back kind of laugh. "Holy shit," he gasped between laughs. "*I thought you were just some cute little killer, but this? This is—Oh my fucking God!"

"Listen!" you said, standing up and wiping your mouth as if that would somehow erase the crime. "It’s—okay, it’s exactly what it looks like, but—"

"YOU’RE A FUCKING CANNIBAL!" he howled, doubling over, hands on his knees. "Oh, this is the best thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck Valentine’s Day, this is my real gift!"

You scowled, crossing your arms. "You don’t have to be so loud about it."

"*Are you kidding? This is hilarious!" He wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Angel thought you were dead, and instead, you’re in here having a romantic dinner for one with your goddamn manager! Jesus, sweetheart, you could’ve told me you had a taste for this kind of thing."

You huffed. "Because you’d react so well?"

"*I’m reacting great!" he gestured wildly at the room. "This is the best fucking plot twist of my life! You’ve been holding out on me!"

You muttered under your breath, "I hate being like this."

Ronin grinned, stepping closer, his boots splashing in a puddle of blood. "But you still do it."

You didn’t answer. You just turned away, rubbing your temple. "Are you going to tell Angel?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said without hesitation.

"Ronin."

"Okay, fine," he smirked. "I won’t. But only because I wanna see how long it takes her to figure it out on her own. Could be fun!*"

You groaned, sinking back into a chair. "I can’t believe this is happening."

"*I can." He sat on the counter, kicking his legs like a child. "So, what’s the verdict? Tastes good?"

You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, "...Yeah."

Ronin was still laughing. How was he still laughing?

He was clutching his stomach, cackling like you’d just told him the funniest joke in the world instead of, you know, revealing that you were a literal serial cannibal.

"Angel is going to love this," he wheezed, wiping at his eyes. "I mean, fuck, I thought you were just some adorable little killer, but this? Oh, sweetheart, this is—this is something special."

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the blood-smeared counter. "Yeah, well, keep it to yourself," you muttered. "She’d have a heart attack if she knew."

"Oh, absolutely," he grinned, still catching his breath. "Which is exactly why I’m tempted to tell her."

"Ronin."

"Relax, relax," he smirked, waving a hand. "I won’t. But I will be thinking about it. Every time she nags me, I’m gonna remember that you are out here making gourmet fucking human dinners, and it’s gonna make my entire week."

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. "God, why did I let you into my house?"

"Because you secretly love my company," he said smugly, hopping off the counter. "Now, c’mon, you said you needed to clean up, right? Let’s do it."

"Wait," you smirked, a sudden idea sparking in your mind. "Actually, I was thinking… you could help me cook instead."

His laughter stopped. He blinked at you. Then his lips curled into a wild grin. "You are so fucked up, and I am so in love with that."

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at that. "So that’s a yes?"

"*That’s a *fuck yes.**"

Midnight Cooking Show: Cannibal Edition

The two of you stood over the kitchen counter, your manager’s remains laid out in a disturbingly organized manner. You had spent the last few minutes separating the best cuts, while Ronin was busy washing the parts that were, in his words, "too chewy for my taste, but hey, I’m not the one eating this sick shit."

"So, what’s the dish, Chef?" he grinned, leaning against the sink. "Please tell me we’re making something fancy. Like, I dunno, some five-star shit. Let’s turn this asshole into a delicacy."

You smirked, grabbing a knife. "Ever had Char Siu?"

Ronin’s eyebrows shot up. "Are you fucking kidding? That’s, like, the best thing ever. That sweet, sticky, roasted pork shit? That?"

You grinned wider. "That. Except, well… pork’s off the menu.*"

Ronin howled with laughter. "You’re insane. I love it. Let’s do it."

Cooking Instructions (as narrated by you and Ronin, because he wouldn’t shut up)

Step One: Choosing the Meat

"Alright, we’re looking for the tender stuff, right?" you said, eyeing the cuts. "Something fatty but not too fatty."

Ronin tilted his head, considering. "I feel like an asshole saying this, but our dear ex-manager here was kinda scrawny. Might be a bit tough."

"That’s what marinating is for," you hummed, grabbing a particularly meaty thigh. "This should work."

"God, I’m never looking at a butcher shop the same way again," Ronin snorted. "This is so fucked up and I am having the best time."

Step Two: The Marinade

"Alright," you said, pulling out the ingredients. "We’re gonna need honey, hoisin sauce, soy sauce, Chinese five-spice, Shaoxing wine, oyster sauce—"

"Okay, okay, wait a goddamn second," Ronin interrupted, pointing at you. "Are you telling me that your cannibal ass just had all this on hand? Like, you were prepared to make human Char Siu?"

You blinked. "I like cooking."

He doubled over. "Holy fuck, I can’t— You’re out here casually prepping for gourmet murder meals, and you want me to believe you’re ashamed of being a cannibal? Sweetheart, you are BUILT for this."

You huffed, shoving a bowl into his hands. "Shut up and mix the marinade."

"With pleasure."

Step Three: Marinate the Meat

Ronin watched as you coated the leg meat in the thick, dark-red sauce, the sweet-smoky aroma filling the kitchen.

"You know," he mused, propping his chin on his hand, "I’ve seen some fucked up shit. But watching you massage sauce into a man’s thigh like it’s a goddamn steak might just be my new favorite memory."

"I hate you," you said, completely void of heat.

"You love me," he grinned.

You ignored the way your face burned. "It needs to marinate for a few hours," you said instead. "Overnight would be best, but I doubt we have that kind of time."

"Booooo," he pouted. "Fine, what’s next?"

Step Four: Roasting

You slid the marinated human flesh onto a roasting rack, setting the oven to the perfect temperature.

Ronin leaned against the counter, watching you with too much amusement. "So, uh, just wondering…"

"What?" you asked without looking up.

"When do I get a taste?"

You froze. Then, slowly, you turned to him, smile too sharp. "You don’t."

His grin faltered. "…Huh?"

"You’re not eating this."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I said so." You leaned in slightly. "You’re mine, Ronin. I don’t share my food, and I don’t eat the things I like."

For the first time tonight, he was the one caught off guard. His smirk flickered, eyes scanning your face, looking for… something.

Then, he grinned. A slow, dangerous thing. "Oh, sweetheart." His voice was lower, sweeter. "That was the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me."

You rolled your eyes. "Just go set the table."

Dinner for One (Plus One Obsessed Serial Killer Boyfriend Watching You Eat)

The aroma that filled the kitchen was heavenly. The glazed, caramelized crust of the human-Char-Siu gleamed under the kitchen light, a perfect blend of smoky, sweet, and savory.

Ronin watched intensely as you took your first bite, his chin resting on his hands.

"Well?" he smirked. "How’s our dear ex-manager tasting?"

You chewed slowly, savoring the rich, perfectly seasoned meat. After a moment, you swallowed, licking your lips. "Mmmm… tender. The marinade really helped."

Ronin whistled. "Damn. Maybe I should take up cooking."

"You can help clean instead."

"Ew, no. That’s boring."

"Then sit there and shut up."

"Aye-aye, Captain Cannibal."

He grinned as you continued eating, watching you with something intense, fascinated, and a little dangerous.

And you?

You chewed, swallowed, and pretended you weren’t thinking about how Ronin would taste.

"You know, you look cute like that," Ronin murmured, propping his chin on his palm as he watched you scrape off the last bits of blood from the counter. "White clothes were a bold choice, though. Now you look like a bloodied lily."

You paused, glancing down at yourself. Your white button-up, once pristine, was now splattered with deep crimson. You were drenched in it—smudged across your sleeves, streaked along your cheek, staining your collar.

"Cute," you echoed dryly. "I look like a crime scene."

Ronin grinned. "Yeah. But a pretty one."

You sighed, tossing a rag at him. "Shut up and help me clean, lover boy."

He caught it easily but made no move to help. Instead, his grin widened, his eyes dark with amusement. "You know," he drawled, "since Valentine’s Day is coming up, I’ve been thinking…"

You raised an eyebrow, still scrubbing the floor. "Thinking about what?"

"Your gift."

That made you pause. You turned to him slowly. "Ronin."

"What?" He was way too smug.

"If this is a cannibal joke—"

"Oh, it absolutely is."

"Ronin."

He laughed, finally pushing himself off the counter. "Relax, sweetheart. No human meat in your chocolates. Probably."

"Probably?"

"No promises."

You groaned, turning back to your cleaning. "I swear to God, if I find even a hint of flesh in whatever you get me—"

"Then you’ll love me anyway, because you already do," he finished smoothly, flashing you that damn grin.

You scowled at him, pointedly ignoring the heat in your face. "What’s the actual gift, then?"

He hummed, tilting his head as if considering it. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted. Lowered. Darkened.

And then he smiled.

Not his usual cocky, playful smirk.

Something softer. Deeper. Dangerous in a way that made your heart skip.

"I already saw my gift," he murmured.

You blinked. "…What?"

He didn’t elaborate. He just kept looking at you, as if you had already given him something he wasn’t willing to name.

You opened your mouth, about to demand an explanation, but he had already turned away, grabbing a sponge.

"C’mon, let’s finish cleaning up," he said casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped something on you and walked away.

You frowned, staring at him for a few seconds longer. But he didn’t look back.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

Fine.

You’d let it go. For now.

Valentine’s Day. The day of romance, devotion, and in your case—waiting in a corpse-themed purgatory for your unhinged serial killer boyfriend.

Because of course you were.

You weren’t in some cute little café, or at a fancy dinner with overpriced wine. No. You were sitting on an overturned crate in Ronin’s personal murder studio, a dingy, bloodstained alleyway that smelled like iron and bad decisions. A place where the pavement was practically screaming for an exorcism.

Romantic, right?

You sighed, adjusting the heart-shaped box in your hands. Inside was a batch of apple crumble chocolates, apple crumble brownies, and an apple crumble cheesecake, because Ronin—annoyingly—had mentioned once that he liked apple crumble ice cream, and your dumb, smitten heart had latched onto that information like a leech.

You glanced around at your surroundings, unimpressed.

A "Happy Valentine’s Day" banner would’ve really brightened this place up. Maybe some candles. Or bleach. Yeah. A lot of bleach.

But honestly, what the hell else did you expect? Candlelit dinners weren’t exactly Ronin’s vibe—unless the candles were being used to torture someone.

Still, you sighed. He was late. Typical.

You kicked a stray piece of… something. Meat. Maybe. You weren’t going to check.

Waiting here was a mistake.

Ten Ways Ronin Had Annoyed You This Week: He kept making cannibal jokes. Every damn conversation. No escape. Called you "Gourmet Hannibal" like it was a fucking title. Asked if your favorite song was “Eat Me Alive” by Judas Priest. Claimed he was “checking his fingers just in case” whenever you looked at his hands too long. Said, “I’m a snack, but not like that,” at least five times. Every time you ate, he dramatically recoiled like you were about to rip his throat out. You bit into a steak, and he muttered, “Damn, there goes another one.” Started calling you “Tooth Fairy” because you had “a weirdly specific taste.” When you asked him to drop it, he said, “You first.” Brought you an actual human tooth in a jewelry box and asked if that was a ‘romantic gesture’ or a ‘fucking problem.’ (It was both.) (And Angel suggested him this. It takes a cannibal to fucking know another)

And despite all of that, you were still standing here. With chocolates.

God, you were down bad.

Instead, all you got were a few ominous puddles, some suspicious stains, and a crowbar leaning against the wall like it was waiting for its next victim. So romantic.

You checked the time on your phone. Ronin was late.

Oh, what, was he busy? Did he have better things to do on Valentine’s Day than see you? What, was he murdering someone else?

Cheating bastard.

You huffed and crossed your arms, scowling at the empty alleyway.

And then, because you were bored, you started making up excuses for him.

Maybe he was picking flowers. You doubted it. Last time someone handed him a bouquet, he used it to smother a guy.

Maybe he got distracted by something shiny. Likely. Ronin had the attention span of a caffeinated raccoon.

Maybe he got arrested. Again.

Maybe he was actually planning something really sweet and elaborate for you. HA. Yeah, no.

Maybe he was testing you to see if you’d get impatient and kill someone while waiting. Classic Ronin move.

You kicked a stray pebble, sighing dramatically. He was taking forever.

At this point, you were tempted to start leaving cryptic messages in blood just to pass the time. Maybe something poetic. Something that would make future detectives stare at the crime scene and go "What the hell does this mean?"

Maybe something simple, like:

"Men will literally commit murder instead of going to therapy."

Or, if you were feeling extra dramatic:

"My Valentine is LATE and I’m NOT MAD but if I WAS, there would be CONSEQUENCES."

You pulled out your phone and considered texting him something passive-aggressive, just to be a menace.

Maybe: "Are you cheating on me with your victims? :("

Or: "I swear to God, if you stood me up, I’m eating all this chocolate myself and then killing you for making me eat that much sugar."

Or, if you wanted to really get under his skin:

"Hey, I’m just gonna leave this box of sweets here, okay? Hope some random guy enjoys them! :D"

That one would definitely get a reaction.

You smirked to yourself, already typing.

But before you could hit send—

A voice drawled from behind you.

"Damn, sweetheart. You look so cute when you’re plotting."

You startled, whipping around.

And there he was.

Ronin Beaufort, in all his smug, late-ass glory, grinning at you like he hadn’t just made you sit in a bloodstained alleyway for an HOUR.

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re late."

"Fashionably."

"You don’t even have a watch."

"Exactly."

You huffed, shoving the box of chocolates into his hands. "Here. Happy Valentine’s, you menace."

His brows lifted slightly in surprise before he smirked. "A gift? For me? You shouldn’t have."

"I really shouldn’t have."

He snorted and popped open the box, blinking at the sheer excessive amount of apple crumble-themed sweets inside.

Then he looked at you.

Then back at the chocolates.

Then back at you.

And then—

The bastard laughed.

Like, full-on cackled.

"Oh, you’re OBSESSED with me," he teased, grinning like the absolute menace he was. "Damn, sweetheart, this is embarrassing for you."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up and eat."

"You love me SO much it’s ridiculous."

"Ronin."

"Like, imagine being this whipped—"

"RONIN."

"I feel so flattered—"

"RONIN, JUST EAT THE DAMN CHOCOLATES."

He snickered but finally picked one up, popping it into his mouth.

And then—

He froze.

You smirked. "Good?"

He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable.

Then he swallowed and looked at you.

And for once, Ronin was speechless.

You grinned. "Told you I was good at baking."

He blinked. "Sweetheart, I don’t know if I wanna kiss you or kill you right now."

"Romantic."

"No, seriously, what the hell?" He grabbed another one, taking a bigger bite. "Why is this actually amazing?"

"Because I have actual skills, unlike you."

"Wow. Bold of you to disrespect my artistic talent."

"Beating a guy to death with a crowbar is not artistic talent."

"SAYS YOU."

You laughed, shaking your head.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

Then, much softer, Ronin spoke. "Thanks, sweetheart. Really."

You blinked at him.

And there it was again.

That look.

That look he gave you sometimes, when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

The one that was too soft for him, too raw. The one that made your chest tighten and your stomach flip.

You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling way too warm. "Yeah, yeah. Happy Valentine’s, loser."

Ronin grinned. "Happy Valentine’s, darling."

And, with zero warning, he leaned in and kissed you.

Oh.

OH.

Your brain short-circuited.

But you barely had a second to process it before he pulled away, smug as hell, licking a bit of apple crumble chocolate off his lips.

"Mmm. Sweet," he murmured, shooting you a wink.

And then, just to be a menace, he added—

"Kinda tastes like human flesh, though."

You smacked his arm. "RONIN!"

He cackled.

Valentine’s Day. A day of love, romance, and— apparently—receiving an actual human heart in a goddamn box.

You blinked down at it, tilting your head like a curious little puppy.

It was fresh. Still glistening. Still warm. Nestled inside a bed of black tissue paper, a stark contrast to the pale pink ribbon tied around the lid. There was a letter tucked neatly inside, pressed against the inner lining.

You didn’t open it. Not yet.

Instead, you just… stared at the heart.

And then you smiled.

Because oh—oh, this was so cute.

Your face practically lit up, your eyes shimmering with the kind of sickeningly sweet delight that could rot an entire dentist’s career. You clasped your hands together, a lovestruck little sigh slipping from your lips.

And then—

You picked up the heart.

With your bare hands.

And gently, lovingly, sweetly held it to your cheek.

Like a cherished stuffed animal.

Like it was the cutest thing anyone had ever given you.

Because to you—it was.

Your voice practically dripped with saccharine delight. "Ohhh, Ronin… you SHOULDN’T HAVE!"

Ronin, who was leaning oh-so-casually against the alley wall, just grinned. Like the absolute menace he was. "You like it, sweetheart?"

"LIKE it?" You gasped, offended by his lack of confidence in his own romantic gesture. "Ronin, I LOVE it."

You nuzzled the heart slightly, sighing in contentment.

Like it wasn’t a literal organ from a probably-still-warm corpse.

Like this was a plushie and not something that had been inside a human being ten minutes ago.

"You’re so thoughtful!" you cooed, holding the heart up like it was the most precious thing in the world. "Oh my God, my boyfriend is so romantic. He literally got me a heart for Valentine’s! What a sweetheart!"

Ronin cackled, "Sweetheart, you’re actually insane."

"Says the guy who just gave me a heart in a box," you shot back, giving him an adorably scolding little pout.

He snorted. "Okay, yeah, fair. But I mean… well, I thought you might appreciate it more than flowers.*"

"You THOUGHT RIGHT!"

You cradled the heart in your hands, your expression practically glowing with love and adoration.

Like someone had just gifted you the rarest diamond in existence.

Like you weren’t holding a fresh, dripping, human organ.

Ronin watched you, his eyes dancing with amusement.

He had expected a reaction.

Shock. Maybe a flustered little squeak. Possibly even an affectionate slap to the arm.

But this?

This was…

So. Much. Better.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re seriously hugging a heart right now."

"Because it’s sweet, Ronin! It’s so SWEET!" you insisted, gushing over it like a lovestruck schoolgirl. "You gave me something that symbolizes love in the most LITERAL way possible! It’s like saying ‘I love you with all my heart’—but PHYSICALLY! That’s so poetic!"

Ronin just stared at you, grinning like a lunatic. "You’re so damn cute, it’s ridiculous."

You beamed at him. "I KNOW!"

And then, like the sickeningly sweet thing you were, you held the heart close to your chest and sighed. "This is the best Valentine’s Day ever."

Ronin just laughed.

Because of COURSE this was your reaction.

Of course you, his hopelessly adorable, sickeningly sweet, horror movie protagonist of a lover, would treat a bloody human heart like it was a goddamn teddy bear.

HEARTFELT!

God. He was so obsessed with you.

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. "So? Where did you get it?"

Ronin raised an eyebrow, smirking. "What, you wanna know the sourcing? What are you, a food critic?*"

"I mean, a good gift comes with a story!" You twirled a strand of hair around your finger, genuinely eager. "Like, did you rip it out yourself? Was it a special kill? Was it from someone annoying? Is this a love rival’s heart? Did you monologue before taking it out? C’mon, tell meee!"

Ronin grinned. "Damn, sweetheart, you wanna know all the gory details?"

"Of course!"

"You’re adorable."

"I KNOW!"

Ronin laughed again, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright. If you MUST know—"

Before he could continue, your eyes sparkled as a thought hit you.

You gasped, clutching the heart tighter. "Oh my God—"

Ronin blinked. "What?"

Your entire face lit up. "I should PRESERVE it!"

Ronin… stared. "I’m sorry, what?"

"OHMYGOD, IT’LL BE LIKE A SENTIMENTAL KEEPSAKE!"

You spun around, practically twirling in excitement. "I can keep it in a jar! Oh! Or taxidermy it into a cute little display piece! Maybe put it in resin! OR! OR! I could make it into a necklace—"

"*SWEETHEART.**"

You whipped back around. "YES?"

Ronin was wheezing. "You are SO—" He choked on his own laughter, running a hand down his face. "I fucking LOVE you."

You giggled, hugging the heart closer. "I KNOW!"

Ronin shook his head, still grinning. "Damn. You really just accepted a human organ like it was a bouquet of roses."

"BETTER than roses!" you chirped. "Flowers wilt, but this? This is LOVE. This is COMMITMENT."

Ronin chuckled, watching you with that ridiculous fondness in his gaze. "You’re actually insane."

"I PREFER ADORABLY ECCENTRIC!"

"You’re both."

You grinned. "I KNOW!"

Ronin sighed, still grinning, before nodding towards the box. "You gonna read the letter, or just keep caressing the damn thing?"

Your eyes widened. "OH RIGHT, THE LETTER!"

You gently (and very reluctantly) set the heart back inside the box before snatching up the envelope.

It was sealed with red wax.

You gasped. "OHMYGOD, YOU SEALED IT WITH WAX?"

Ronin smirked. "Had to be fancy for my girl."

Your soul practically ascended. "OHMYGOD, YOU’RE SO ROMANTIC, WHAT THE HELL!"

Ronin snorted. "Open it already, sweetheart."

You ripped it open.

Inside was his messy, unmistakable handwriting.

It read:

Sweetheart, You’re probably grinning like a maniac right now, and if you’re not, I’ll be disappointed. Just so we’re clear: this was not easy to get. The bastard screamed a lot. He was annoying. So I made sure to take my time. But I figured—if I’m giving my heart to anyone, it’s you. Unfortunately, my heart is still in my chest (for now), so you’ll have to settle for this one instead. Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. —R.

Your stomach flipped.

Your heart melted.

And then—

You clutched the letter to your chest.

And let out the most lovesick, disgustingly sweet sigh in existence.

Ronin smirked. "Lemme guess. You love it."

You spun towards him, eyes SPARKLING. "I AM GOING TO MARRY YOU."

Ronin snorted. "Oh? Are you proposing?"

"I MIGHT!"

Ronin cackled. "Damn, sweetheart. Didn’t know a human heart was all it took to make you lose your mind over me."

"RONIN, I ALREADY LOST MY MIND OVER YOU MONTHS AGO."

"That’s fair."

You beamed. "Best Valentine’s Day EVER!"

And Ronin?

He just grinned.

Because really—

Who else but you could make being a serial killer this goddamn romantic?

You held the heart to your chest, rocking slightly on your heels like a child hugging their favorite plushie. But this wasn’t a plushie. This was Herny.

Yes. Herny.

"I’m gonna name him Herny!" you announced cheerfully.

Ronin blinked. "I’m sorry. What?"

You beamed up at him, all sickening sweetness and innocent delight. "The heart! Herny! It feels right, doesn’t it?" You tilted your head, gently patting the still-warm, blood-slick organ. "Herny the heart. He deserves a name. It’s what he would’ve wanted."

Ronin stared. Then, he grinned. "You’re actually insane."

"I PREFER ADORABLY ECCENTRIC!" you chirped, smearing a little more blood across your cheek.

Ronin just snorted, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Alright. Herny it is. So what’s the plan, sweetheart? You keeping him as a pet or something?"

You clasped your hands together. "Oh no, I’m gonna COOK him!"

Ronin choked. "I—what?"

"COOKING, Ronin! It’s an art! I have to do Herny justice! We have to send him off with STYLE!"

You spun around, your blood-streaked hands gesturing with dramatic flair. "Oh! Maybe braised in a red wine reduction? Or slow-roasted with garlic and rosemary? Or—OHH! CANTONESE STYLE!"

Ronin was wheezing. "You’re actually considering recipes right now?"

"OF COURSE!" You turned to him, eyes wide with mock betrayal. "I can’t just EAT Herny raw! That would be barbaric!"

Ronin just laughed. "You do realize you’re still a sweet little cannibal, right?"

"Sweetness is a STATE OF BEING!" you shot back, twirling a bloody strand of hair between your fingers. "One can be both elegant and a devourer of flesh!"

Ronin smirked, amused as hell. "You’re really about to start Gordon Ramsay-ing a dude’s heart, huh?"

"RONIN." You clapped your hands (which, again, were covered in blood). "I take my cooking VERY seriously."

A wet slap of blood hit your own face.

You blinked.

Looked at your hands.

Then at Ronin.

Then back at your hands.

And then—you started laughing.

Ronin watched you, his smirk softening slightly.

God. You were actually fucking adorable.

Here you were, covered in blood, cradling a human heart like a goddamn treasure, talking about cooking it like a five-star meal, and STILL, you managed to be the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

Like a twisted little doll, dipped in crimson, giggling in the middle of an alleyway littered with corpses.

He was obsessed.

And then—you kissed him.

Without warning.

Without hesitation.

You grabbed his collar, pulled him down, and kissed him—deep and desperate.

And oh.

Oh, he tasted it immediately.

The sharp tang of blood.

Metallic. Warm. Iron and copper and something so unmistakably human.

You were practically smothered in it.

Your lips, your hands, your cheeks—all stained red.

And Ronin could taste it all.

You were laughing against his mouth, too.

A sweet, giggly, lovesick little laugh.

Like this wasn’t fucking insane.

Like this was normal.

And maybe it was.

For you. For him.

Ronin’s first instinct was to pull back.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t.

Because this?

This was so much better.

So he let you kiss him.

Let you pull him closer.

Let you smear more blood across his skin as your fingers curled into his hair.

This sweetest of all.

is a sick freak.

#kc #killer chat #killerchat #ronin beaufort #killer chat x reader #killer chat vn #killer chat ronin x reader #killer chat ronin #ronin #kc ronin x reader #kc ronin #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x reader #ronin killer chat

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totalswag · 1 year ago

Text

worthy of love — RAFE CAMERON

authors note something short and cute for you guys. also, rafe deserves to be treated with the love that he desires. he just wants to be understood yall.

paring mean!rafe x soft!reader

summary soft!reader wants to show mean!rafe that he's worthy of love but he pushes reader away until one day he finally knows what love truly feel like.

warnings neglect, feeling unworthy of love, ward being a shitty father, and a lovely happy ending.

Rafe Cameron believed he would never be capable of love in his life.

Raised in a family where love was a rare commodity, Rafe grew up believing that affection, vulnerability was a weakness that should be avoided at all costs. But little did he know that someone was about to turn his life upside down and teach him the true meaning of love.

You.

His father, Ward Cameron, is part of the reason Rafe is the way he is. Ward tells him to man up rather than express his feelings and be vulnerable. Overall, his father has never treated him with the proper care compared to his two younger sisters. This sent Rafe into a downward spiral, leading to a darker path in his life. Rafe held his guard up.

You entered his world like a breath of fresh air, bringing with you a warmth and tenderness he had never felt before. Rafe first rejected your presence, pushing you away with his harsh remarks and cold demeanor. But you saw through his strong facade, understanding the agony and vulnerability that lay underneath the surface.

"Why do you treat me like this? I’m not someone that deserves to be loved."

Rafe was initially perplexed as to why, of all the people on the island, someone as kind and gentle as you would want to be with him.

One of the many things Rafe would tell you when you tried to show him that he’s capable of being loved by someone, he would shut you out immediately when you tried showing him.

People said you were crazy for pursuing Rafe Cameron. His reputation in Kildare is immense. You just chose to ignore what other people had to say because you felt Rafe deserved love.

The first time you heard those words come out of his mouth, your heart broke into a million pieces. Behind all of the roughness, coldness, and unpredictable behavior, he is someone who wants to be loved.

Rafe continued to push you away for the longest time, hoping you would get the hint. Finally, giving in after protracted arguments. For far too long, he had kept his guard up to protect himself. He did not want to feel weak for expressing himself. Rafe noticed how long you stayed by his side.

You gradually began to break down the walls Rafe had placed around his heart. You showed patience and understanding by refusing to give up on him, even when he tried to push you away. Rafe became increasingly drawn to you as time passed, yearning for the love and acceptance that had always escaped him.

Rafe started to trust again as your relationship deepened. He progressively exposed a gentler, softer side of himself, something he had never seen before. He realized there are individuals out there, like you, who care passionately and will be by his side through thick and thin.

All he ever wanted was to feel fully understood and seen. You came into his life when he was in the deepest pain and saved him. You showed he’s worthy of love, compassion, gratitude, and vulnerability are truly like, and there is nothing wrong with it. He transformed into a very different person than anyone could have predicted.

"You're the most amazing person I've ever laid eyes on, baby," Rafe said with a lovely smile on his lips, sliding the front strand of your hair behind your ear as you moved your body closer to his and closed your eyes.

“I love you so much rafey” kissing his bare shoulder a few times.

“And I love you more,”

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writesvani · 3 months ago

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dear me | 02

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): abandonment, unrequited love, emotional pain, jealousy, self-doubt, isolation, neglect, heartache, betrayal, loss of friendship, overwhelming feelings, loneliness

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 4,2k // date: 22nd of March

CHAPTER TWO — It's you – well me again, UGH happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey everyone! holy moly, i am literally sobbing seeing how much support this fic is getting. like, i can’t even. y’all are just chef’s kiss. pls keep reblogging, liking, and sharing the love because i appreciate it more than i could ever express! BUT. and this is a big but (no, not that kind of big butt lol), i’m absolutely OBSESSED with reading your comments. seriously, i live for them. your thoughts, your reactions, your theories, ALL OF IT. i am lurking, waiting to reply and fangirl with you. you can also come talk to me on my blog – my ask box is always open, let’s chat, let’s get unhinged. thank you again for all the love, you’re all amazing, and please never forget, i adore you all. now go comment or i will personally haunt your dreams (jk… or am i?) 💕

— love, vani

You’re not certain about many things in life, but there is one undeniable truth: you are a creature of habit. A prisoner of routine. A slave to the ticking clock.

Everything about your life follows a rhythm—a comforting sequence of events that you know like the back of your hand. The way your mornings unfold, how your afternoons stretch on, and the quiet predictability of your evenings. It’s not just familiarity. It’s safety. A shield against the chaos that could unexpectedly break through.

Since childhood, you’ve held tight to the belief that routine is the antidote to disorder. It was the one thing you could count on, the one thing that offered stability in a world full of unpredictability.

But now?

Now, there’s a disruption. And it’s not a small one. It’s as if the very fabric of your week is being unraveled, thread by thread.

There’s a gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach—a hollow feeling that you can’t shake. It burrows into your thoughts, quietly slipping into the spaces where your peace used to reside. It’s a feeling that’s eating away at the walls you’ve carefully built around yourself. A slow, relentless erosion of the calm you’ve worked so hard to protect.

The worst part? It’s not just the present. It’s everything that’s been hanging over you, lingering like an uninvited guest.

The whole damn week—every second of it—looms in the back of your mind. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself you shouldn’t be thinking about it. It doesn’t matter how many distractions you try to throw at it. The thought still creeps in, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, never letting you rest.

The email.

Not just the email itself, but the fact that it’s coming again.

It’s maddening. The thing that claws at you the most isn’t the dreaded message itself, but the fact that you can’t remember what you wrote in it.

You’ve been writing these emails since you were just a teen. The words, the phrases—they’ve become second nature to you, so familiar that they’ve lost their meaning. But now, now it feels like they’ve become ghosts. You can’t grasp them anymore. It’s as if they were written by someone else, someone you no longer recognize.

Too many things have happened. Too many choices made. Too many pieces of yourself you’ve buried so deep that even you can’t recall them.

Possessed. That’s the only word that could possibly describe what you’re feeling.

You wake up with an unsettling giddiness, the kind that makes your stomach twist, and as soon as Wednesday arrives, it consumes you. A nervous energy builds inside you, bubbling up with every passing minute. You try to focus, to concentrate on the task at hand, but it feels impossible.

At work, you can’t seem to get anything right. The moment you step into the kitchen, disaster strikes. You knock over a pan with a loud clang, the sound echoing like a mistake that can’t be undone. The judgmental glare from your boss stings more than you expect—why does she have to work from home, anyway? You don’t need her disapproval hanging over you.

But the pan is just the beginning. The soup, which you had so carefully planned, boils over on the stove, its aroma turning sharp and unpleasant as it becomes too salty. You have to start over, again, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t get it right.

Then, while washing the dishes, you break not one, not two, but three plates in quick succession. Each crash is like a sharp reminder of how out of control you feel. Your hands shake, your breath quickens, and you nearly cut yourself in the process. Almost.

You know exactly why you’re like this. Why everything feels so off, so wrong. You know it’s not just clumsiness or nerves. It’s because today is Wednesday. The first email came last Wednesday. And that means—

It’s coming. And it’s coming today.

And the anticipation, the weight of it, hangs over you like a dark cloud you can’t escape.

You close the door to your apartment behind you, the soft click of the lock a familiar sound that echoes in the quiet of your space.

Water clings to your skin like an unwanted reminder. Droplets trail their way down your body, dripping messily onto the wooden floor beneath you, leaving small puddles in their wake. Your shoes, heavy with mud, leave their own trail—a mess you’ll have to clean up later.

Your teeth chatter from the cold, and a curse slips past your lips before you can stop it. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut: you’ll be scrubbing this floor again.

"Ugh," you groan, the sound of frustration hanging in the air. You swear to God, you’re going to start carrying an umbrella every day—yes, even when the sun is shining bright.

This morning, though—this morning had been perfect. The lazy rays of sunlight stretched across your room, coaxing you awake with their gentle warmth. It was just warm enough to wear a T-shirt and pants, courtesy of Spring's tender touch. You had woken up to the harmonious melody of birds and nature greeting the new day.

But then, work ended. And as soon as you stepped outside, the heavens opened. The rain came pouring down, without mercy.

You barely had time to brace yourself—a small, five-minute walk from the bus stop to your apartment, and you were drenched. Now, the cold seeps into your bones, creeping up your spine. You can already feel the tightness in your throat, that familiar ache that will make swallowing a painful ordeal, which—coming from a chef—is nothing short of devastating.

And your nose? It’s already starting to run, that disgusting, constant drip of misery. The irritation swells inside of you, a sharp, biting frustration that makes you wish you could just disappear into the warmth of your dreams, away from the cold, the rain, and the never-ending annoyances.

You try to stretch out your shower, clinging to the warmth of the water as it pours over you, trying to let it soothe away the tension of the day. The heat surrounds you, but your mind pulls at you, relentless, reminding you that there’s no escaping what’s coming.

Before you even realize it, the evening slips away from you. Dinner’s a blur. After it, you’ve made your favorite—green tea, comforting and simple—but it’s not enough to calm the storm inside you.

You sink into your couch, the soft fabric wrapping around you like a too-familiar embrace, but it doesn’t quite hold you the way you need. Your laptop rests in your lap, its weight small and familiar, like the way your legs drape over the coffee table in front of you. A simple, normal scene. But nothing feels simple right now.

There’s an unsettling quiet before you break it.

Click.

You open the email.

It feels almost too much to bear, too heavy for the moment. The words on the screen seem to stretch, pulse, and mock you, as if daring you to face whatever’s inside. The thing you've been running from all day. The thing you can’t shake, no matter how hard you try.

And as your eyes fall onto the text, a wave of something tight and cold wraps around your chest, making it harder to breathe.

“Dear me,”

You bite down on your cheek, a small habit that betrays the nervous energy running through you. Your eyes skim lazily over the words on the screen, barely registering the flow of text at first.

“It’s you—well me again, UGH. THIS SHIT CONFUSES ME TOO MUCH BECAUSE LIKE, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO ADDRESS US? SHOULD I USE ME, US, YOU? I’ll probably be using all of those. Anyway, the past week has been the first week of high school, and I LOVED IT.”

A small, almost involuntary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. She loved it. You can feel that warmth in your chest, a tug of nostalgia for the beginning of your high school journey. The days were full of excitement, each one an unknown adventure. You remember how every second of it felt—like you were just waiting for something to change, to begin.

“Anyways, what’s new is I made TWO new friends, their names are Yoongi and Nina.”

Your heart flutters, that familiar warmth surging within you as thoughts of the twins invade your mind. Your chest feels lighter, as if your heartbeat is dancing just a little faster. You remember those first shared glances with them—the way their presence seemed to fill the room, just as it does now.

“THEY’RE TWINS, ISN’T THAT SOO COOOOOL? AND THEY’RE FROM NEW YORK, WHICH HELLO, SINCE WHEN ARE BIG TOWN FOLK MOVING TO THIS LAME CITY?”

The words ring in your mind, playful and free, as you imagine them—their voices, their laughter, the energy they brought with them. You can’t help but smile, the memory of their faces suddenly so vivid, so real.

“They’re kind of shy though—but they sit behind Kook and me, so I finally got them to talk to us yesterday,”

A flash of Yoongi’s young face suddenly strikes you—a brief, sharp image that you can’t shake. You remember him clearly, sitting in the back row, shoulders slouched, his nose buried in a book. The memory is so vivid, like a photo you’ve never forgotten. That was Yoongi. The bookworm. The quiet observer. He was always tucked away in the corner of the classroom, never seeking attention.

You can still see him now, the way his eyes were always lost in the pages of novels, the weight of words pulling him deeper into worlds only he seemed to fully understand. Yoongi wasn’t the kind of person to take up space with noise or drama. He was the kid who avoided the spotlight, who didn’t need the chaos of teenage gossip to exist. Instead, he was happy in the quiet, turning page after page, writing essays that won competitions without ever trying.

And you loved him for that. For the way he could exist without needing to be anything other than himself. The mutual love of books had bonded you two in a way that few others could understand. It was an unspoken connection that stretched back to high school, back to when the two of you would spend hours talking about novels, about the worlds between the pages.

Now, years later, you’re both far from those early days—living in apartments fifteen minutes away from each other, with careers that have shaped who you’ve become. But Yoongi remains a fragment of that high school you—still here, still unchanged in ways that matter. He’s the piece of you that didn’t fade, didn’t leave when everything else seemed to shift. He stayed.

You bite your lip, the weight of those memories pushing you back into your seat. You’re thankful for having the luxury of knowing Yoongi—having him in your life. You’re thankful that he didn’t abandon you.

Your thoughts drift to Nina, her image flashing in your mind with an almost effortless clarity. Nina was always so beautiful, in a way that felt natural, like it came easily to her. From the chestnut strands of her hair, which would catch the sunlight in just the right way, to the lazy hum of green in her eyes—a color that seemed to flicker, almost mischievously. Even though she and Yoongi were twins, they didn’t look alike in the way you would expect. They shared that one thing—the gummy smile, the one that colored both of their faces, but that was where the similarities ended.

Nina was the embodiment of the teenage dream—the one everyone noticed, whether she wanted it or not. Wild. Reckless. Effortlessly captivating. She never had to try, never had to force attention on herself, yet it always found her. Even when she tried to avoid it, when she would feel the heat of all those eyes trained on her, even when her ears would flush with the soft pink of embarrassment, she was always the center of attention.

And it felt so familiar, like deja vu.

Much like Jungkook. So much like Jungkook.

A shiver crawls down your spine at the thought of him. Your body twitches involuntarily, like some cosmic force is urging you to look away, to move on from the screen.

But you can’t.

You simply can’t.

“I don’t know them well enough, but both Kook and I think they’re cool. Well, I mostly talked with Yoongi because he was reading Wuthering Heights AND I NEVER SAW ANYONE, LET ALONE A BOY READING IT? HELLO? 911 I FEEL LIKE FAINTING.”

You laugh softly, the sound escaping you almost involuntarily, and tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear, the familiar gesture one that feels too gentle, too intimate for the moment.

“And Nina is sooooo pretty. I feel like I’ve never met a prettier girl in my life AND she’s kind,” your gaze drifts, and in your mind, you nod at your past self, agreeing with her—yeah, Nina is pretty. She’s sweet too.

“But I think Jungkook thinks she’s pretty too. Which is weird. Lowkey.”

The words slip too easily, but there’s a weight now, settling somewhere deep inside you. Your stomach flips—suddenly queasy, your skin prickling. Nausea spreads through you like a dark cloud, thick and suffocating. The cold that you feel creeping up your spine could be from the chill in the air, or it could be from the words you’re reading. You're not sure which one it is. Maybe it’s both.

This is it. The beginning. The words you’d been dreading, the ones you knew were coming, yet couldn’t prepare for. Reading about Jungkook and Nina. The start of whatever they were. The start of whatever love they shared that grew so greatly.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly feeling the weight of something heavy in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of something real starting. The one thing you’ve feared the most.

Your gaze flickers down to the bottom drawer of your desk, and your heart skips a beat. The envelope. It’s still there, untouched.

The invitation.

The invitation to their wedding.

The wedding Jungkook didn’t tell you about before inviting you.

You try to force yourself to focus on the rest of the email, but the words blur in front of your eyes—nothing seems to matter anymore. Some mention of a fight with your mom over laptop time, a new dish you cooked, but the sentences fall flat, blending together into a haze of indifference. They don’t matter. Not like Yoongi, not like Jungkook, not like Nina. And certainly not like Nina and Jungkook together.

And their wedding.

You can’t shake off the gnawing sense of dread that’s settled deep in your chest, weighing you down. Your stomach twists, heavy and sick with the kind of nausea that feels like a thousand broken shards scraping inside. It's as if someone stuffed it with rocks, cold and jagged, leaving you gasping for air.

You had no idea Jungkook was getting married before that invitation showed up in your mailbox. And it eats away at you, slowly, relentlessly. You hate it.

You tell yourself it’s normal. You two just drifted apart, right? It’s been years. Of course, he didn’t feel the need to tell you something so big. But it still hurts, deep down. It gnaws at you—steals your sleep, pulls you under.

Because years ago, you couldn’t have imagined your best friend getting married and not telling you. It would have been unthinkable, absurd. The younger you would have sworn this was just some terrible, cruel dream. But it isn’t.

It’s real.

To be honest, the shift in your dynamic with Jungkook wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t some abrupt change that left you reeling—it was slow, almost imperceptible, like the tide eroding the shore little by little. Neither of you noticed it at first, and you’re certain that if either of you had, one of you would’ve stopped it.

It all started when you were eighteen. At that point, you knew you didn’t want to go to college. Everyone around you was shocked, confused. Everyone, except for your mom and Jungkook. They understood the real dream—the one you weren’t ready to share with the world. Your summer in Europe. The plan you’d built with your mom to travel and immerse yourself in new cultures, learning recipes from every corner of that continent.

But everyone else? They couldn’t understand. You had always been the perfect student. The one who always did well, excelled. So when you chose to follow something different, they whispered. Lazy. Stupid. Reckless. It didn’t bother you, though. You knew you were doing something others were too afraid to—chasing your dreams, and the thrill of it was enough to drown out their voices.

Jungkook was different. You expected him to do the same—to follow his own path, to go after his dreams, too. But instead, he gave up. He had to.

“I have to go to law school. This drummer thing isn’t gonna pay my bills,” he said one night, voice quiet, almost ashamed. He whispered it after a fight with his father—words laced with a pain you could feel in your bones.

Your heart hurt for him, in a way that felt like it was ripping you open. Because Jungkook didn’t have the luxury of being himself. Not when the weight of his father’s debts was constantly looming over him, threatening to crush him under its heavy burden. He had no choice but to give up the dream that once seemed so bright. And it broke you to watch him do it.

So, you spent the last months of your senior year getting ready for your trip, the one that had been your dream for so long. Meanwhile, Jungkook was buried in his textbooks, his focus unwavering. He wasn’t a natural student, but his determination—his sheer persistence—was something you couldn’t help but admire.

He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. His entire world revolved around those books. You remember just hanging out at his house while he studied, watching him from across the room. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched over the pages, the necks of his textbooks cracked and worn from hours of use. Pens and highlighters were scattered around him, as if chaos had taken over his once organized space. And his face—his beautiful face—was painted with the telltale signs of exhaustion. Dark circles under his eyes, hair falling messily over his forehead. It was then, in that quiet moment, that you first felt the shift.

Then came prom. You were supposed to go with your boyfriend, but right before the event, he broke up with you. You were left standing there, heart in pieces, but Yoongi—always the good friend—was there. He was thinking of skipping prom altogether, but you begged him to take you. You never really saw yourself going alone. Prom had always been something you were excited for. The satin dress, the heels, the makeup, the perfect hair—it was all so meticulously planned in your head, down to the perfect date.

But your dream date wasn’t Yoongi. Not even your ex boyfriend. Your dream date was supposed to be Jungkook. He was taking Nina instead. And even though you tried to push it aside, it hurt. Deeply. So, you begged Yoongi—because you couldn’t let your perfect night die completely, not without something to hold on to. It was the only way you could make the night feel even a little like the one you had imagined.

Nina and Jungkook got together two months before prom, and no one was surprised—not even you. They were always destined to be. The quiet charm they shared, the shyness that somehow made them more magnetic, their popularity, and those soft, knowing glances—they were always a perfect match. Everyone, including you, saw it coming. It was written in the way they were together, how effortlessly they fit into each other's lives. No one doubted it for a second.

And despite the ache that twisted in your chest, despite the quiet pain of seeing them together, you smiled. You smiled because it was what he deserved. It was what you wanted for him—even if it wasn’t you standing next to him. You offered them your support, effortless and kind, even as the weight of your own heartbreak threatened to drown you from the inside out.

You wanted him so much it consumed you, but you kept quiet. You kept silent because you knew deep down that you would never be the one. Not for him. Not in that way. And even though it was tearing you apart, you told yourself it was worth it—because you wanted the best for him. Even if that meant letting him go.

And then came the summer. A season that promised escape, adventure, and a chance to rewrite your story. You spent it immersing yourself in the art of perfecting a croissant in France—its golden, buttery layers a silent testament to the dreams you were chasing. You learned how to make pizza dough in Italy, each knead of the dough a reflection of the foundation you were building for yourself. You basked under the Tuscan sun, feeling its warmth seep into your skin, a quiet comfort in its consistency. You stood in the loud streets of Greece, perfecting gyros with the same passion you had for your craft, and you immersed yourself in the history of the Balkans while sitting on a beach in Croatia. The world was wide, and you were exploring it in a way you had always dreamed of. It was a dream made real—but it never fully filled the hole in your chest.

And Jungkook? Jungkook spent his summer falling in love with Nina. You knew about their secret places, their quiet moments. You knew about the way he looked at her—the same way you used to look at him, the way you still wanted to look at him. He spent the summer laying in the grass with her, the breeze pulling their laughter into the air. They visited hidden beaches in your town, their footprints imprinted on the sand, and he held her close, just as you once imagined he would hold you. He made love to her, touched her, and gave her the things you had always wanted for yourself but would never get.

It hurt, more than you could bear, but you got used to it. It was the kind of pain that didn’t go away, the kind that you learned to live with. You told yourself you would, at least. You had to. You had no other choice. It was the reality of it all—the world that had shifted around you without your permission, without your consent. So, you buried it deep, kept smiling, kept writing to him, kept pretending. Because sometimes, pretending was all you had left.

And then, just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more, life threw you a chance. You were in Montenegro—another place to explore, to escape. It was on a whim, a moment of passion, that you ended up cooking for strangers at a small, bustling seaside restaurant. Someone noticed you. Someone tasted your food and liked it. It was an ordinary day, yet it was the turning point you didn’t see coming. You were offered an opportunity to work as an assistant chef on a yacht.

At first, you hesitated. You had never even imagined such a huge thing. But you always watwd it, so you took it. You grabbed it with both hands, like it was the one thing that could save you from all the lingering emptiness. You had always dreamed of something bigger than what your life had been—the same routine, the same city, the same old connections that kept you tethered to the past. And here it was, an opportunity for growth, for something different.

Your mom traveled with you for the first few months, like a safety net. She was your anchor, your lifeline in the chaos of new beginnings. But she had her own life to return to, and soon, she left. You stayed—alone, scared, but driven. Cooking and cruising around Europe, on a yacht you never thought you’d be on. You cooked for a woman you didn’t know, on a sea that seemed endless. The hours were long, the days blurred together, but you found purpose in it. The work wasn’t easy, but it was yours, and you were making something of yourself.

When you came back, after months of moving from one coastal city to the next, she offered you something real—something solid. She made you her private chef. It wasn’t just a job anymore. It was a new life, a new beginning. You had carved your own place, built a career from scratch, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you had something truly yours.

But even with all this success, all this newness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was missing.

Jungkook went to college. The path you thought you’d walk together diverged, and like so many things in life, the distance grew in small, almost unnoticed increments. The calls, once so frequent, became rare—each word feeling heavier, too shallow to bridge the gap that was silently growing between you. You were busy, too busy building your life, carving a future that you never quite pictured would look like this. He was tired, burnt out from the demands of his studies, struggling to keep up with everything.

You were up during the day, hustling in the kitchen, perfecting your craft, and when the clock hit 10 pm, you collapsed into bed, exhausted from the relentless pace of it all. He was the opposite—up all night, pouring over textbooks, and by the time he called you, you were already asleep. When you reached out to him, he was caught up in his studies.

And somewhere, between the rush of your schedules, the world you shared drifted away, unnoticed. You both tried, maybe, but the threads slipped through your fingers, unraveling, until neither of you recognized the version of each other you were becoming. The late-night calls, the inside jokes, the shared dreams—they faded into the background. The connection you once had felt like a distant echo.

And you never found your way back to each other.

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battleczar · 1 year ago

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The day that straight women stop subjecting female children, female friends, and female relatives to the presence of their male partners in the home is the day they will be able to claim that lesbians have no right to comment on feminist celibacy.

The experience of male violence begins in the crib for most women, including lesbians, and we are deeply harmed by the presence of men in the domestic sphere. I could name a dozen women on radblr who have spoken about being abused or assaulted by the male partner of a woman they lived with.

I feel like there's a massive amount of denial happening with feminist OSA women. Don't we all discuss the way men will wait until after the marriage, the mortgage, the pregnancy, to become controlling? He'll wait until you open a joint checking account, he'll wait until your three-year anniversary, he'll wait until you gain twenty pounds, he'll wait until he gets fired from his job, and there is not a single feminist on this planet who can accurately predict whether or when a man's behavior will turn abusive. There is no level of red flag awareness that can save you when men deliberately hide their true nature and tell you all the things you wanna hear. (And all of these points are discussed and acknowledged by straight/OSA women on radblr regularly.)

So when I, as a lesbian, hear feminist straight/OSA women discussing all of these points about how unpredictable men are and then immediately defending their choice to partner with and live with men, including insistence that lesbians don't have a right to take a stance here, mostly what I hear you saying is "I acknowledge the danger that men pose, I acknowledge that men deliberately hide their intentions, and I am still willing to put myself and every other woman and girl in my life in that danger in order to achieve personal gratification."

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borkthemork · 5 months ago

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I know that the fandom jokes a lot about how much Togami and Kirigiri order Naegi around to explain the clues in the trials, but I absolutely love the way they utilized this during the 4th Trial.

Specifically, in how Kirigiri is able to pack so much humiliation towards Togami without even breaking a sweat.

Togami throughout the game, especially in the Fourth Chapter, has been continuously downplaying the capabilities, lives, and agency of his fellow classmates. He is elitist, he was born into a family where if you don't bite and claw to survive, then you won't win, and believes he got to where he is through sheer cunning, willpower, and cold rationality. The idea of cooperating with the other students was beneath him. The idea of seeing people such as Asahina and Naegi as equals disgusted him due to his perceived differences in their class, capabilities, status, and levels of intellect.

In Trial 2, specifically, we see him attempt to one-up the others regarding being able to showcase how powerful and assured he is as an influential player within the Killing Game. He even used Naegi as a pawn to get him on the trail of his fabricated crime scene, just to see how people respond and to make the game less "predictable" while keeping control on the situation. However...

In that same trial, we see that the moment Naegi was able to uncover something Togami himself couldn't catch, his resolve wavers. He is humiliated, angry at the idea of some commoner, who couldn't even read 11037 as an upside down 'LEON' at the first trial, was able to outsmart him and put them on a new, unexpected path of inquiry all together. We can see that this gets to him after the trial is complete, showcasing how even if externally he looks calm and assured, being put off guard cuts him deep within his pride.

Being outsmarted, taken by surprise, or not given power over a situation frustrates him, and the seeds of that get planted during Chapter Four through multiple characters such as Kirigiri, Asahina, and Naegi.

Keep in mind that during this chapter a few key points happen that set the stage for what's to come. I am talking about Kirigiri's critical comments towards him before the Class Trial, and that Asahina was able to slap and threaten him.

These series of events do four things:

One, Asahina's actions hardened his viewpoint on Asahina as emotionally reckless and stupid, someone who he will underestimate in the later parts of the chapter.

Two, this outburst makes him double down on the idea of emotion as inferior and childish.

Three, Kirigiri's warnings make him believe he can elude betrayal, that he only has to worry about the ones who are already suspicious to him.

Four, due to being humiliated still by Asahina's surprise slap on him, he wants to regain his composure and status again amidst the cast as someone unflappable.

To me, the last point is why Togami himself went to great lengths of drinking most of the poison bottle in front of everyone. It's a way to show how untouchable and smart he is as a player, that he can surprise the others once more and remain unscathed at the very end from thinking many steps ahead of them.

However, this is where Kirigiri's words and actions click into place with humiliating the crap out of him.

When Asahina is interrogated to be lying, Togami starts to lose his resolve. He fell for Asahina's downplaying of her own intelligence and how she made obvious tracks because he believed she didn't have the capabilities to make a cleaner crime scene, and never thought deeply on why personally she would commit murder on her best friend.

He has honed in so much on the idea of killed or be killed, that the obvious contradictions went right under his nose. It didn't help that Naegi had to point this out to him afterwards.

Enter Kirigiri.

Now that Togami has lost his footing with Asahina's reveal, she then tells him that there is new evidence, surprising him once again by adding another unpredictable factor to the trial.

Stacking on to that, she rubs in that he was the one who gave it to her, and that he was too busy acting like a smartass with the bottle that he didn't inspect the evidence closer in the first place.

Since Togami does have some respect for Kirigiri in being capable of deduction and yet sees himself still as one of the best within the group, Kirigiri hones in on this. She adds how she's "amazed" that someone like him would overlook this, adding in a feeling of his intellect and capabilities being looked down upon in disappointment by a semi-peer.

Togami notes this indirectly in his dialogue, but during this scene, Kirigiri is intentionally omitting the answer to the clue also.

Compared to how she omits info from Naegi in past trials due to wanting to observe his capabilities, Kirigiri wants Togami to get desperate in this moment. He is already feeling out of the loop with multiple factors outside of his control, and not being able to think of a proper conclusion on his own due to being put off guard.

Contrasted with his past lectures—about how you can't trust people, and that you have to do things on your own—she now has Togami begging other people for an answer on the situation. To the point where his anger and frustration makes his requests sound childish, as if he's the impatient one compared to everyone else in the room.

To add even more insult to injury, Kirigiri then diverts the answer to Naegi. The person who Togami has mocked multiple times for being a commoner, someone who will never be equal to him, and who he sees as dense as a rock despite acknowledging his past deduction skills.

By doing this Kirigiri puts Togami into a corner where if he truly wants the answer to his question then he has to beg someone who is the complete opposite of everything he defines as a successful person, and you can see Togami processing this for a few seconds before relenting angrily.

In previous sessions, Togami was able to have a say in the trials and even be a massive influence in how the line of inquiries followed through; the moment Kirigiri put Naegi on the spot and gave him the reins, the tide has changed and is now in their hands.

Trial 4 has Naegi and Kirigiri carrying the deduction phase in solving Asahina's betrayal and Oogami's suicide, and doing an amazing job tying up a lot of loose ends in rapid succession much to Togami's bewilderment.

He is completely falling behind, and this makes him even more humiliated and angry as he loses his cool during the second half of the trial.

He yells about Kirigiri giving him loaded questions, about how unfair it is that she knows more than him, basically watching this man go into a tantrum right in front of everyone he's previously mocked for being emotional. It is just an avalanche of continuous pathos triggering the same humiliated feelings with each second he reacts to them.

He has to listen in shock as Asahina is found out to have been the one who betrayed them, and that suicide was the only viable way for the crime scene to occur. Asahina and Oogami took him by surprise, and if it weren't for Naegi and Kirigiri to disprove the former's claims, they all would've been executed. Togami fell for all of it, and gets hit once more with the feeling of being wrong, of losing to people he never expected to best him while Kirigiri continues to refute him without hesitation.

He's then placed in a position where Kirigiri and Naegi have beaten down his arguments well enough for him to dejectedly apologize after yelling, which is huge for someone like him.

The best part about this is that the moment he does this, Togami takes a full backseat to the entire debate as Naegi and Kirigiri interrogate Asahina and reveal the truth over Sakura's death.

He interjects a few times, and he only jumps back into the conversation completely at the finale—all to ask Makoto how he was able to beat him.

And in the end, Kirigiri responds (in frustration, which is hilarious) by telling him the exact reasons why he never was able to solve this case. She didn't even have to go on a huge tangent, all she needed to do is hit him right where it hurts: his pride, his black and white viewpoints, his inability to win, and that he is just as vulnerable and volatile as the rest of the people he looks down upon.

These lines themselves wouldn't have gotten to him before. We have seen how resistant Togami was when the group tried to argue with him over his behaviors, but now, each sentence hits him like a stack of bricks due to being dragged through the mud multiple times all to prove Kirigiri's point that she was right, and that he was wrong.

There is so much humiliation just packed into every single back-and-forth of the trial, you can't help but wince (and cheer) at how effective it was in getting Togami to back down completely.

#danganronpa #trigger happy havoc #byakuya togami #kyoko kirigiri #makoto naegi #aoi asahina #bork speaks #analysis #She just popped off on him #Trial 4 is incredible and I couldn't help wanting to dissect it #DR Post

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gamesetattach · 3 months ago

Text

In Sync - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Reader As up and coming a tennis player this fiery reader is, she needs to become a more well-rounded player to really get up there in the rankings... and her coach has this genius idea for her to get exposure by playing doubles. Even Jannik and his team thinks its genius... so he gets in on it too... And the way it unfolds a surprise to everyone... Uh, also, in this world, non-doubles-focused players playing mixed doesn’t negatively impact the mixed doubles draw or actual players and everything is a beautiful and fair!! Part two, Part three

---

For weeks, you’d been working on your baseline game.

Your coach—Chris, a sharp-eyed former analyst turned player-whisperer—had insisted it was the next step in your evolution. You were already playing top-ten-level tennis, and most of the tour had their eyes on you as the next to tear through the ranks. You’d come to be known for your untouchable net game, your drop shots elusive to even the most formidable of your opponents—always careful, reactive, and unpredictable.

But to truly contend with the best of the best, you needed more firepower from the back of the court. A heavier serve. More control from the baseline.

"You need to flush out the rest of your game," he’d said after your narrow third-round win in Toronto. "Let’s get you in doubles at the next tournament—force you to challenge your reactions off return a bit. Build your movement patterns, and give you more reps on serve under pressure."

You didn’t argue, despite being apprehensive about experimenting in doubles when you never had before. You’d moved up 70 spots in the rankings since working with him—he’d been right about everything so far.

And after your easy agreement, the only next step was to find you a worthy doubles partner. Chris was dead set on scouting a player whose game could push you and complement your strengths, and you knew he was always one to exceed both your expectations.

But there was no way you could have predicted that he’d come back with Jannik Sinner.

---

You were sitting on a bench for practice when Chris entered just slightly late, looking a little stunned.

"Okay, so—this is a little out of left field," he said, handing you a ball can. "I just ran into Darren Cahill—you know? Sinner’s coach?”

You nodded in response. You vaguely remembered the name, but had no idea where your coach was going.

“We worked together at ESPN back in the day. Caught up for a second.” He continued, running a hand through his hair. “I got to explaining the whole doubles plan for you—how it’s meant to help you build your baseline game—and Darren was… Well, let’s say intrigued…"

"...Yeah?" You blinked at him when he trailed off without picking back up. “I don’t get it, is that the story?... Was that him complimenting your coaching method or…?”

“Just listen.” Chris flicked your visor off at your mocking tone. “He said he hadn’t ever thought about doubles as a way to make gameplay more holistic before, and then…”

“Oh my—.” You threw your hands up humorously as he paused yet again. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

He ignored your antics and carried on, apparently deciding that was enough suspense. “And then Sinner walked over and joined. Darren explained the approach to him and they kinda exchanged this look, and then he just—”

Now your coach threw his hands up in the air. You stared up at him, shaking your head in confusion. “He just what, Chris?”

Chris placed his hands on his hips, blowing air from his lips. “He offered. Just like that.”

“... What?” You were still lost. “Offered what? Who did?”

Chris moved to place his hands on your shoulders, bending down slightly. “Jannik Sinner offered. He offered to play as your doubles partner.”

You almost choked.

"Jannik Sinner?” You moved to stand, throwing Chris’s hands off your shoulders. “Jannik fucking Sinner? Number one in the world?"

“Is going to play mixed doubles with you, yes. This coming tournament." Chris nodded at you slowly, like he was still wrapping his head around it himself, and all you could do was stare at him.

"I guess he likes playing doubles, but just doesn’t often get the opportunity. And after, Darren was saying our plan actually could make a lot of sense for Jannik too—his volleys need work in the way your serves and baseline shots do." He offered some sort of explanation, but your mouth was still agape.

"But we’ve never even spoken to each other."

"He knows who you are."

You shook your head, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "He must really want to work on his net game."

Chris chuckled. "So it’s a yes, then?"

“Of course it’s a yes. Let’s do it.”

---

The Canadian Open arrived fast.

D.C. had been a blur. Hot courts, gritty points, and matches stacked back to back—exactly the kind of momentum you needed this time of year. But it had also meant your schedule was packed to the brim. No room for any activities or even thoughts outside of your game play, and so even the anticipation of your impending mixed doubles campaign fell onto the backburner—as it often would for players who focused on singles.

Jannik, on the otherhand, had made a deep run at Wimbledon a couple months before. He’d made it all the way to the final. After all the grass stains and pressure and heartbreak, he’d chosen to rest after, skipping the post-Wimbledon wave most players dived into. No Atlanta. No D.C. Just a full reset.

And the Canadian Open was his return, and it was safe to say the doubles hadn’t really been on his mind up until then either.

So, no, you hadn’t trained together. Even your teams had barely exchanged messages outside of some scheduling logistics and a couple polite acknowledgements. There were no chemistry checks, no practice sets. Not even a five-minute hit around the net.

There just hadn’t been the time.

The mixed doubles partnership very much was—and was always going to be—a massive leap of faith.

---

Match day had its own rhythm. Especially when you had your singles match and a doubles debut to account for.

Your team was already two steps ahead—your coach had coordinated the time slot, your physio had your warm-up planned down to the minute, and someone had already dropped your racquets off for stringing. You’d done your pre-practice mobility in the fitness center, eaten your usual carb-heavy breakfast in the player restaurant, and checked in with your support staff. And Jannik’s team was just as efficient—Simone had confirmed everything with Chris the night before.

So now, for the first time ever, both of your teams were now standing just outside the practice block, together, chatting while the two of you got ready to begin.

When you arrived at the court block for your 45-minute warm up slot—a quick turn around after the singles round you’d won just earlier that morning—you were already a little tight on time and energy. Not tense, exactly, just... worn.

Jannik was already on court when you walked up.

He was shadow-swinging near the baseline, looking well-rested. Shirt fresh, not sweating just yet, only beginning to break in his movements.

He caught your entrance out of the corner of his eye and turned toward you. He gave you a brief nod and smile as you set your stuff down, before his face went back to that famously unreadable expression.

You dropped your bag beside the bench and straightened, suddenly very aware of your own posture. You weren’t usually shy. But this felt different. Jannik wasn’t just any player. And despite your rising success, it was hard not to feel the weight of stepping into his space.

"How are you?" he asked once you made your way, his voice polite and welcoming.

"Good. Sorry I’m a little late, I’ve been running around," you replied, laughing a little at yourself. “How are you doing?”

“No problem—congrats on the win.” He said evenly, shaking your hand after you’d approached, it was firm and not too long. “I’m good, it’s nice to finally meet you."

"Thank you," you said, dropping your hand. "And yes, yeah, same here. Been a long time coming."

He offered a little chuckle in agreement, but a lull in conversation came soon after.

A beat passed, and you pressed your lips into a line at the stiffness.

"Shall we?" You broke the awkward silence with a nod toward the court.

He nodded, comfortable again now that tennis was the topic at hand, and moved to one side. "Let’s warm up groundstrokes first?"

You hummed in agreement, and he started to back up to the baseline while spinning his racket in circles with one hand. You stayed put for a second, flipping your racket into your non-dominant hand to tug a hair tie from your wrist. Then you wedged your racket gently between your thighs as you reached up to pull up your hair, twisting it up quickly, fingers moving on autopilot, elbows lifted high.

The move revealed the curve of your nape and the afternoon light catching on your jawline, and Jannik, still only a few paces away, watched the whole motion unfold like it had caught him mid-step.

His gaze followed the line of movement from behind—the way your thighs held the racket in place and the slow lift of your arms as you gathered your hair, exposing the length of your neck, the quiet strength in your posture. He tracked the moment with an almost unconscious focus, eyes lingering on the curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth as you pulled the tie taut.

His stare wasn’t intrusive, it wasn’t even intentional. He just… he couldn’t seem to turn away.

But when you glanced up and behind, briefly, his eyes darted away like he’d only just realized he’d been looking. He cleared his throat and turned—shaking the image from his head as he gave you space when you walked over to join him on the baseline.

As he suggested, you two started with groundstrokes. Side stepping back and forth down the line as you returned the balls hit by your coaches from the other side of the net. And, even as you moved on to different sequences of the warm up, both you and Jannik worked with and around each other with a certain rigidity.

It wasn’t that either of you were cold to each other, but the quiet between you had a chill to it. Not exactly awkward, either. Just measured and unfamiliar.

You thought you could even feel him holding back—careful in the way he didn’t say too much, didn’t push to make small talk. And you matched his restraint, reigning in your usual forwardness—not wanting to seem overeager or, worse, underprepared.

Yet, somehow it almost felt like, under the surface, there was a spark of something there...

Attraction, yes. On your part towards him, at least. But you always knew that—you'd always been a fan in more ways than one. And so you knew to shake away the thoughts as soon as they came. You couldn’t afford to get distracted and ruin your first impression.

But you could’ve sworn that every time you glanced at where he was standing on court, he was already tracking your movement—you wrote it off as him studying you as a tennis partner, and you tried your best to do the same for him.

You worked through cross-courts, then volleys. Quick transitions at the net. No one said much, but your rhythm was solid. And after a while, you started to learn him and his moves better. Every time he adjusted his swing or repositioned after a rally, you mirrored without thinking. No instruction, just well-timed instinct.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, you started thinking to yourself as the time went on.

When the session wound down, your respective coaches stepped in with clipboards and towels, casually breaking down a few tactical things. Where to serve wide to give you time to rush the net. How to bait a hit without revealing it. Chris spoke mostly to you, Darren and Simone mostly to Jannik—both groups huddled with your respective teams, but not far from each other on court.

As Darren explained something about court positioning, Jannik's eyes drifted. Just momentarily, nothing rude or intentional, because the sight of you standing just slightly staggered behind Simone distracted him. Jannik gazed past Simone’s shoulder to settle on you as you leaned in for Chris’s instruction, towel looped around your neck, hair re-tied up haphazardly and sweat beading at your hairline. You weren’t looking at him, and it was something about that focus of yours that made his falter.

All the while, unbeknownst to either of you, the coaches caught the look, your own coach’s eyes tracking Jannik’s brief glance over. Darren and Simone both turned to follow Jannik’s gaze, flashing a knowing smile to Chris before exchanging a smirk between each other—one of those quiet, veteran acknowledgments that didn’t need words. And as the time for feedback wrapped up, the coaches knocked shoulders about it once more when you and Jannik made your way to the bench for water, with shared half-smiles and a small shake of their heads.

You both sat down on the bench wordlessly, without such cheer, draining your water, catching your breath, bouncing your knees...

And the silence stretched.

His knee brushed yours for a second—subtle, fleeting. Maybe accidental, maybe not. But neither of you moved away. If anything, it felt like he angled a little closer, elbows on knees in a way that made the bench feel smaller. You stole a brief glance at his profile, only to find he was already looking at you. He looked away quickly, but you saw the flush just beneath his ears.

You turned your gaze forward as well and exhaled through your nose, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. And when you reached for your towel again, it was slow and careful, like speeding up might make the moment burst.

Every shift of his body, every inhaled breath—it all felt amplified. He still hadn't said anything, and neither had you. But the charge between you on that bench could only come from the mutual, acute awareness of how close you were sitting—something passing between you in the silence. A low hum neither of you acknowledged, but both of you heard.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, cap pulled low over his brow. You sat upright, towel tucked beneath your chin, the water bottle cooling in your palm, and your arms just barely brushed when he adjusted just slightly to turn his head back to look up at you.

Capping his bottle, he spoke, the first to break the silence. "You played in Washington, no?"

You nodded, a little startled to be addressed amidst the blatant tension. "Yeah. Only finished up three days ago. It was non-stop in D.C."

“I saw you made it to the semis.” He hummed in acknowledgment. "It was a great run, beautiful drop shots.”

You looked at your lap with a bashful smile at his words, mouthing a thank you though no sound came out. It stayed quiet for another beat, and he took the initiative to break it once more.

“This is my first one back, I took some time off after Wimbledon." He said, just because, as if no one had noticed the World No. 1’s brief absence.

"Good call.” You glanced over. "Yeah, that final was... a lot."

He offered a tight smile, and you didn’t press.

Another pause and, for a second, you let yourself really look at him.

He reached up and pulled off his cap, running a hand through his flattened curls to shake them loose as you leaned forward to set his bottle back on the ground between his legs. You watched without meaning to—the slow way his fingers pushed through his hair, the way the curls clung damp to his forehead before falling back into their usual shape.

It should have been a normal thing. Unremarkable. How many times had you watched your peers do the same?

But something about the motion, about the way he did it—something about him. It caught you.

Your eyes traced the line of his cheekbone, the shape of his mouth, the way his shirt clung to his back as he leaned forward. You noticed more than you meant to. Maybe more than you should have.

It was a subtle glance—nothing overt—but when your eyes flicked back to his, you found him already watching you.

That seemed to be a pattern, now.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth flickered upwards, and his gaze glinted like he knew he’d seen more than you meant to reveal.

In an effort not to linger in getting caught, and to move past your subsequent, growing embarrassment, you broke this silence.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," you said, rushed and sheepish. "I know doubles probably wasn't on your radar."

“Ah, of course.” He gave you a crooked smile, and you willed yourself not to look at his lips. “I take it as a privilege. And my team and me—we think it will make improvements for me, too.”

“That’s the plan.” You screwed your own water bottle shut, giving him a smile back with a shrug of your shoulders. “But, I guess we’ll find out later today if it actually works out that way.”

“I guess we will.”

---

The sun had just started to dip behind the stands when you two were up for your first round to begin, and it cast a golden wash over the court as you and Jannik stood behind the entrance gate of the court, waiting for your names to be announced.

Your warm up session with Jannik—your first meeting with Jannik—was only a handful of hours ago and now you were hoping forty minutes of light hitting, a bit of target serving, and the overwhelming tension between you two was enough to carry you through the first round. Doubles may not have been your main priority, and having Jannik beside you might have muddled your head, but that didn’t change the fact that you hated losing. You planned to play to win. You always did.

Jannik stood beside you, bouncing side to side slightly on the balls of his feet. He was focused and calm, and you seemed to absorb his energy without realizing, stretching out your shoulder one last time.

"You ready?" you asked, glancing sideways at him.

He nodded with a smile that widened when he spoke. "We’ll see."

“We’ll see?” You laughed, before turning your head back to face the gate. "That’s convincing."

He let out a breath of a laugh. "I mean... you said it before, at the warmup. We can only find out on the court, no?"

"It’s true." You glance back at him once more. “Even if we don’t manage to sync up, maybe it’ll be a fun disaster.”

You heard him echo your words to himself with a laugh as you stepped forward to exchange a polite nod and handshake with your opponents—a solid pair from France who had already played together before. Jannik joined beside you to do the same, giving them a quick smile and an easy smile, as you continued a little banter with them.

It seemed the energy of doubles was a little lighter than the matches you’d played, but the bleachers surrounding the court still had that electric thrum. You could feel the pulse of the crowd as the walk-out music played, your names echoing through the speakers. The response to Jannik’s name was deafening, and your brows raised a bit when the cheers to yours wasn’t far off. In the time that had passed since this pair up was first established, since your initial disbelief, you’d forgotten how big a deal it was to be playing alongside someone of Jannik’s caliber. He seemed to sense your hesitation, and the resurgence of nerves, and he gave you a small, encouraging glance as you both waved to the fans and stepped onto the court.

Mixed doubles games were almost always played on the smaller courts on any tournament facility, but the sheer volume capable of even the smaller crowd seemed to close around you. All the pre-game procedures passed by like a blur. Jannik had to set a hand on your shoulder after the coin toss to pull you back in. You blinked back up at him before agreeing with his choice, the first service game was to be his.

Despite the serve not being a natural weapon of yours in game, the two of you settled into the match dynamic with surprising ease. You bounced the ball slowly at the baseline, breathing in the buzz of the stadium. On the first point, you landed a sharp kick serve out wide to the deuce side. The return came high and loopy, giving Jannik time to slide left and pounce on it with a clean forehand that thudded just inside the baseline. A one-two punch. Easy. Lucky.

Second point, you sliced the serve into the body. The returner tried to thread it down the middle, but you were already at the net, knees bent, eyes locked. With a firm backhand volley, you angled it short cross-court, well out of reach. You felt the crowd hum as you straightened. Jannik gave a subtle nod. No theatrics, just clear recognition—a stark difference from the usual displays you were known to put on, but typical for Jannik’s quiet celebrations.

At 30–0, the returner adjusted. You mixed in a flatter serve and got back into ready position quickly. The ball came hotter, dipping low. Jannik fell back to the baseline, ready to absorb pace, and you moved forwards to cover the empty front. The rally extended. Jannik played it cool, alternating heavy topspin with flatter drives, moving the opponents side to side. You hovered at the service line, reading their body language. At the first sign of hesitation, you darted in to poach—your signature backhand volley cut across the net to end the point.

And then, 40–0. You stepped up with confidence and tossed your serve high. The return clipped the tape and fell dead.

Game. Jannik and you tapped rackets in an easy and casual congratulations, and you shot a grin at your box as you registered the cheers of your team. Both you and Jannik had managed to turn every one of your serves into a point so far, a feat you were rarely able to do whilst alone—it was one of the weaker aspects of your game. So maybe doubles would help fix that, just as Chris had predicted.

Now the next service game belonged to Jannik and, as expected, his first serve was whipped past like a rocket. The second point, he kicked it out wide, drawing a stretch return that you intercepted cleanly mid-air and angled out of reach. The third went on to be a rally, playing longer this time. You kept tight at the net, as you did best, tracing the ball, ready for any flick or dip. He stayed deep, well behind the baseline, letting his forehand do the work, pushing the opponents until they just couldn’t return anymore. They hit the ball into the net.

Game.

Two games in, and you both knew exactly where to be—playing where you were most comfortable. You up front, cutting, reading, and pressing. And Jannik behind you, steady, strategic, and powerful. Those roles were defined and known, and they kept the rhythm sharp.

But then it was time to turn those roles upside down. After all, that’s what the whole doubles trial was supposed to experiment with anyways.

Your coaches had agreed from the start: this mixed doubles pairing wasn’t just about a fun variety, it was about sharpening your edges. Covering any weaknesses.

You needed more reps at the baseline. Jannik needed to get more comfortable at the net. And this game, with all its speed and improvisation, was proving to be the perfect environment for that.

And so the real fun, the real challenge, began. That had been the whole point, after all.

It was early in the second set when you switched things up for a return game, Chris giving you the signal from the corner of your eyes. You dropped behind the baseline and Jannik crouched forward, shadowing the net.

And, immediately, things got messy.

The first point was a disaster. You were still adjusting to the angle, the depth, the speed of the serve from your new vantage point at the back. It came in flatter and faster than you expected—kicking off the line with a sharp bend that threw your timing. You moved to meet it too late, your weight still mid-transfer, and your strings caught it at an awkward angle. The ball skidded off your racket with a loud, resounding thwack and shot sideways, ricocheting into the sideline signage. A few gasps, and more than a couple laughs came from the crowd. You winced, and your hand came up to cover your mouth as it slowly grew into a disbelieving smile.

Jannik turned, raising an eyebrow over his shoulder with that careful mix of concern and dry humor, his own laughter bubbling underneath. "That was... different."

"Just–uh—” You let out a laugh and waved him off jokingly. “Just give me a second to settle in back here.”

But the next point, the origin of chaos just flipped from you to him. A short return floated to Jannik mid-court. He had time to set up for an easy volley, maybe too much time. He moved in, racket already back and wound up, clearly going for a statement shot. But instead of a measured finish, he flattened the racket and wound up too far. The ball exploded off his strings, he’d struck it with excessive power and it sailed high and long, landing well behind the baseline.

An audible oof rippled through the crowd.

He stood there for a beat, looking at the spot where the ball had disappeared, and then placed a hand on his head in disbelief. He shook his head to himself as he retreated back to position, a smile of mild embarrassment gracing his lips.

"I mean... that was definitely a shot." You called out, biting back a grin. “We’re trying to aim for the inside of the court, remember?”

"Ah, is that why there is a line there?” He looked at you with an exaggerated deadpan before breaking into a wide smile.

But you both shared a chuckle, coming together for a quick fist bump as if to say we’ll get it next time.

And, after a few hiccups, you did.

You both started to find your footing. You knew this was where the growth was meant to happen, well outside your comfort zone. Your coach’s voice echoed in your head, and you reminded yourself to enjoy the chaos—that’s when the good stuff begins.

On return, you lowered your center of gravity, starting to anticipate better. You began using your legs more effectively, letting the ball come to you instead of rushing it. One point, you got just enough on a forehand return to send it deep and off-kilter, and followed it up with a smooth cross-court drive that earned a quiet cheer from your box.

Jannik, in the meantime, let his own instincts adjust as well. Instead of trying to muscle through volleys, he started trusting his hands. He took pace off returns and played them deep with placement rather than force.

And after one particular shot of his, things really started to spark.

It was a brutal rally—long, twisting, each shot heavier than the last. The opponents were relentless, dragging you both side to side, changing pace, slicing low, lobbing high. Jannik stayed patient, blocking at the net with short steps and a lowered center of gravity. You kept feeding balls deep, looping them high to reset until finally, one of their forehands clipped the net cord and sat up just past the service box.

Jannik moved like he’d been waiting for it.

He lunged forward, knees bent, hands soft. The ball was dropping fast, low and spinning, but he met it gently, guiding it over the net with a feathered touch that felt almost impossibly delicate. It bounced just once and curled inward like a magnet to the sideline—the other side didn’t even get a chance to reach for it.

You let out a gasp along with the crowd before they erupted in applause.

Ecstatic after witnessing such a point, you rushed him with full, unfiltered enthusiasm, practically bounding across the service box. Jannik looked up to you just as you reached him and his eyes widened, but he didn’t back away. You half-jumped into him and he let out a surprised laugh—your arms flinging loosely around his neck, racket still in hand. He held you easily, strong hands steadying your back.

The crowd whooped, the energy spiking again. Jannik laughed into the side of your head, the both of you breathless from the exertion. You felt it in his chest. He was just as amped as you were, even if he was better at hiding it.

The embrace lasted a second too long—maybe a few too long—before you remembered yourself. You stepped away with a dazed smile and sudden self-awareness, his cheeks red and your eyes wide.

"Come on," you said, putting an appropriate distance between the two of you again while reaching low to high five his hand that had just pulled away from your waist, your voice a little rough and giddy with passion. "That’s what I’m talking about."

He cleared his throat, but looked down with a crooked grin and a simple shrug. "I learn from you."

“Well you pick things up fast, then.” You couldn’t help but grin at his deflection and sweet humility. “Let’s hope I learn from you, too.”

You returned to your places and, from there, the points got sharper. The initial unsteadiness gave way to grit and feel and, as Jannik improved before everyone’s eyes at the net, you started faring better than okay at the baseline—striking powerful, long shots back to your opponents.

One of the points started with a wide serve that forced you off balance. You rushed back to hit a deep return to just barely stay in the point, and the opponents immediately pounced, turning defense into offense. The rally that followed was a blur of angles and pace—groundstrokes traded with growing ferocity, each shot tightening the margins.

Jannik tracked one down wide on his forehand, slicing it defensively cross-court. You recovered into position just in time to absorb a sharp backhand that skipped off the court, nudging it back with topspin.

And then the lob came.

High, deep, well-placed. Way over Jannik’s head.

But you didn’t hesitate.

Your legs were moving before you could register it. You sprinted back, racquet already raised. The ball dropped low and fast, teasing the baseline. You dropped your weight, coiled, and unleashed a blistering topspin forehand that screamed down the line—a clean winner.

The crowd stilled for a second. And then they were up on their feet, a wave of cheers following.

Jannik turned slowly from the net, lips parted, blinking like he hadn’t quite processed it. His mouth curled into a dopey, stunned grin, and he shook his head slightly, still looking at you like you'd just rewritten all the known laws of physics.

You smiled wide and threw your arms up, pandering the crowd, soaking in their energy as they roared louder.

You made your way up to Jannik to tap rackets, but he reached out a hand instead. Clapping his hand in yours with an impressed shake of his head.

"That—" he started, voice hushed and oozing with admiration, "—was unreal."

And his hand was still on yours, thumb resting lightly against the back of your hand as the buzz of the crowd surged behind you. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did, blinking once like he’d just caught himself, and then the two of you gently pulled apart—both of your quiet laughter and bashful smiles covering a beat of that tenison that seemed ever-present. That chemistry.

And, as the game kept going, it was like it kept growing.

Kept building up between you—something just past the clean points and tight reactions. It was the way your shoulders bumped at changeovers, the glances you traded after surprising yourselves, the glint in your shared smile every time the crowd roared for a point that impressed even the two of you.

You didn’t need the scoreboard to show that you were winning—you could feel it.

When match point landed—a volley from you after a deep return from Jannik that clipped the baseline—the two of you turned into each other immediately, rushing at one another. You met at the middle with a shared high-five that lingered with a brief hand hold, wide grins adorning your faces. A far from flashy celebration, but honest and special.

You were still gushing about the last point with Jannik as you walked over to the net to shake hands with your opponents. He mentioned something about your backhand winner in the second set, and you countered with how outrageous his drop shot had grown to be within the span of a single game. Even the opposing team smiled at your enthusiasm as they waited against the net, and you all nodded warmly as you passed handshakes and congratulations both ways.

And when heading back to the bench, you were both still riding the high. You toweled off, giggling mid-sip of water as Jannik retold his perspective of a particularly ballsy shot of yours—one that whizzed right passed his face. Jannik clutched his ear in jest, miming the speed the ball grazed him with, and you doubled over with laughter at his story and the way he acted out. And at his openness—his humor pleasantly surprising you.

The on-court interviewer found you like that, coming down from the joke, and they shot you both an amused smile before gesturing towards the court. You nodded and followed to the service line, feeling Jannik close behind you as you stepped forward in sync, the energy between you still thrumming.

The first question—and maybe it was to be expected—wasn’t even about the score or the outcome.

"What a match! You two were dynamite out there. What was going on?"

You both opened your mouths to reply at the same time, only to pause, glancing at each other. Jannik gestured for you to go first, a smile playing on his lips.

You grinned at him before turning back towards the mic. "Honestly—well, speaking for myself at least, I guess—I just had so much fun.”

You turned to look up at Jannik, smiling a bit when you saw him watching you and listening with his own smile, before continuing, “I had almost no expectations for doubles—and obviously Jannik and I have never played together—but I really do feel today was one of the most entertaining matches I’ve ever played… and we happened to play pretty well, too, I’d say.”

“And if you’re saying this is one of the most entertaining matches, then it really must be. We all know your matches can be pretty… showy.” The interviewer punctuated his words with a pointed look, and you laughed with an innocent shrug towards the crowd. Next to you, Jannik chuckled along with the audience.

Pointing the mic towards Jannik now, the interviewer turned the question on him. “And Jannik? Was it fun, do you agree? Because the next round will be kind of awkward if you don’t.”

“It was okay...” Jannik laughed, and the stands followed suit as you exaggerated a grimace, though he immediately shook his head, his voice light and easy. “No—I’m just kidding. This was—it was incredibly fun, yes, and we make a good team, obviously. She made it easy to enjoy.”

There was a ripple of cheers from the crowd and you smiled down at your feet, rocking back and forth on your toes as the rest of the interview continued—and all the while, you tried not to fantasize about your next match together.

---

Despite all the build up you’d felt for it, you and Jannik didn’t talk at all before the second round together.

Not because you didn’t want to. Your first game with him—him in general, really—ran through your mind throughout most of your free moments. It’s just that there weren’t very many of those. You hadn’t even run into Jannik in the hallways behind the scenes in the facilities, as you sometimes did before you’d even met him.

Your schedules once tournaments began had little to no give. Advancing in singles while getting through media obligations made things packed enough, and the mixed doubles agenda had to be wedged in whatever small spaces that worked. Just the previous day, the both of you had your respective singles matches, managing wins that left you sore but satisfied.

But that didn’t stop you from reminiscing about that first doubles round in the lead-up to the second, and you found yourself raving about Jannik and the match to your team without meaning to more often than not.

Your coach had clocked it immediately after the first one with Jannik. You’d barely made it into the locker room before launching into your post-match high, recapping every detail—his returns, your volley angles, how you moved together like you'd practiced for months. And even when the day passed, you’d continued to spout details about the surprise of it, about how much fun it was, about him.

"Okay, okay, we get it. He’s perfect." Chris had laughed, holding up both hands. “And we saw the match, remember?”

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. "I’m just saying—we worked together. Like, really worked. That never happens first try... Right?"

"Darren says he’s been saying the exact same thing about you, by the way," Chris once allowed, casually.

"What?” Your head had snapped around. “What did he say? Like, exactly—word for word."

Chris laughed harder. "I don’t know, something about you having ‘insane hands at net' and 'feeling really in sync.'"

You’d tried to play it off with a shrug, but Chris laughed again as you clearly turned away to cover a smile—one you couldn’t get rid of for the rest of the day.

So when you met up with Jannik for the second time, forgoing a warm-up because of your long match earlier that day, you’d beamed at him when you spied him at the end of the tunnel. And this time the walk-out felt easier, though your energy felt almost impossibly elevated from the first time.

"I’m already sore from my match today,” you told him as you zipped off your jacket, turning to send him a quick wink. ”So let’s make it quick?"

He gave you a slow, crooked grin. "You read my mind."

And the match itself felt like a continuation of a rhythm already found. From the moment you stepped onto the court together, there was no need to recalibrate. No awkward stutters, no overlapping spaces. You split the court effortlessly, reading each other's body language with minimal words. He fed the other side with soft volleys and you’d counter any deep hits with skillful flicks and cut angles; with any looping balls hit to either of your forehands being snapped back with a controlled whip of a swing.

The first rally said it all. You served down the T, and before the ball even came back, Jannik was already shifting behind you to cover the open court. You didn’t call it. You didn’t need to. His instincts slotted right into your own, like gears catching mid-spin.

Every shift in positioning came naturally. When you dipped in for the poach, he read it and dropped back. When he slid wide to take a forehand on the run, you angled inward without thinking. It was more than coordination—it read like well-oiled intuition. You knew where he’d be and what he planned to do, and he knew the same of you.

The first set was peppered with plays that felt almost telepathic. On one return game, he slid in for a short volley and you were already crashing the net behind him, catching the reply with another, reaction volley that drew a clean winner. You turned and beamed at him. He just gave a small, satisfied nod, eyes shining, pumping a fist in your direction.

And between points, you murmured adjustments, barely louder than your breath. You stepped toward him, your footsteps soundless on the hardcourt, the heat of your body pulsing with adrenaline. Jannik mirrored you—close, quiet—and the distance shrank until he was right there.

He dipped his head, the curve of his jaw brushing just past your temple. The brim of his cap even casting shade on you. You could see the freckles dotting the higher angles of his face, feel the faint stir of his breath fan across your cheek. The space between you was barely more than that breath, and yet it didn’t feel tight or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like all things outside of you two had suspended, like the rest of the court had gone still.

"On the ad, I’ll go early," you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched yours, close enough for you to see the flecks of amber just beyond the olive green, to notice the furrow between his brows soften.

"I’ve got your wide if they switch it up," he said finally, voice low but not rushed. Really hearing you, really taking you in.

His cheekbone brushed your hairline as he nodded, and neither of you moving until the umpire called time. You stepped back at the same moment, falling back into gameplay like the heat of being near him wasn’t still radiating through your body.

The scoreboard moved quickly from there, the two of you almost dictating every moment. You weren’t just winning points, you were full on orchestrating every back and forth.

When you started serving, you had a hold secured within four points, thanks to your newly developing, reliable spin and Jannik’s court coverage. Then he held with three consecutive winners. By the time you reached the end of the first game, the scoreboard read 6–2, and even your usually well-equipped opponents already looked defeated.

You rested your racket between your knees as you reached for your water. You bumped your shoulder lightly into Jannik’s. "Think we should pretend to struggle? Keep it interesting?"

He chuckled, not even bothering to reply and just shaking his head with a faint, fond smile your way before you both stepped back on court—the second set flying by even faster.

The two of you leaned into the rhythm—Jannik creeping forward more often, surprising the opponents with well-timed net rushes, while you settled at the baseline with a new level of confidence. Your returns had weight, purpose. Power you hadn’t quite gotten to before. He caught onto your shifting stance and adjusted his movement accordingly. It wasn’t just some subliminal communication anymore, or silent chemistry—it was trust.

Midway through the set, your opponents tried to lob you both. Jannik was already backpedaling by the time you shouted "yours” and he snatched it out of the air with a running overhead smash that kissed the back of the line. You laughed in delight from the service line, already moving forward for the next point.

In another moment ,a wide serve from the opponents sent Jannik sprawling out of position. Without missing a beat, you slid cross-court to cover, skidding to pick up the return with a forehand slice, and transitioned forward immediately, as if daring them to pass you. They tried and failed, the ball slinging into the net right in front of you.

And when Jannik finally recovered to join you at the net, he bumped your shoulder, grinning. "You don’t even need me."

"Not true.” You spun your racket in one hand with a cheeky smile. “I just like showing off."

He moved to serve for match point after that, passing you to get to the baseline, and you were still smiling.

"You want a trick shot?" he asked crossed you, while you got down to crouch at the net.

“I think we’ve made enough of those.” You grinned up at him. "I want the point."

He chuckled into his nod, walking over to the ball kid and bouncing the ball with a smile still on his face. And the final point came fast—a second serve kicker from him, a shaky return, and you intercepting mid-air with a crisp backhand volley that landed just inside the tramline.

You quickly exchanged polite words with your opponent before turning to the crowd with both arms raised, basking in the cheer that followed. Spinning on your heel, you flashed a grin toward Jannik and motioned for him to join in the celebration. He chuckled under his breath and followed you toward center court, mimicking your energy with a looser, almost shy sort of smile.

The crowd loved it. They weren’t used to seeing Jannik so animated—his usual composure being quiet and almost clinical even in his victories. But beside you, he let himself laugh, let himself be pulled into your exuberance.

You grabbed his wrist and raised both your arms together, laughing when that earned an even louder wave of applause.

"See how much they love it when you humor me," you teased, barely loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. He leaned in to hear you properly, his ear by your lips.

"You’re dangerous," he replied, shaking his head before rising back the his full height, but the warmth in his voice undercut any protest.

---

Even amidst that mixed doubles excitement, your singles performances’ still stunned.

You were pushing through the draw with confidence, finding your rhythm early in matches and closing them out with textbook precision—implementing improvements prompted by your doubles matches almost immediately. A straight-sets win over a top-seeded player in the second round had been the talk of your section of the draw. Commentators noted how your net game had somehow grown even more exact, and how your footwork had never looked sharper. You’d even been serving better, hitting your spots with a newfound aggression no one missed, and stepping into returns with a calm that belied the stakes.

In short, it seemed your game was peaking—and the growth didn’t look like it’d be slowing down soon.

Jannik, as expected, was cruising through the rounds. He hadn’t dropped a set yet, and his movements like liquid gold—each point played with the economy and edge of someone fully locked in. His confidence radiated, though his demeanor remained as steady as ever. People had referred to him as the favorite to win before the tournament had even begun, and he never batted an eye at the pressure.

But it seemed no matter how much you both achieved individually, the press couldn’t help but circle back to your unique, out-of-nowhere doubles pairing.

At your post-match press panel following your third-round singles win, a reporter shifted the topic to discuss Jannik towards the end. "Obviously another great performance today against Zheng. We’ve observed a lot of progression in your game since playing at the Toronto, and you’ve said previously that you attribute a lot of that to your doubles campaign with Jannik Sinner—Can you talk a bit about what’s made that pairing work so well so quickly?"

You shifted in your seat, already smiling at the mention of his name. "I think it’s been a fun and light new thing, first and foremost. And, of course we’re both super competitive, but we’re also kind of opposites on court in terms of energy and skill. So it… I don’t know, it just balances well. He’s calm, and I’m..."

"Expressive," someone from the room offered, calling out from the sea of journalists, and the room chuckled.

“Yeah, that.” You laughed. "But no, seriously—he’s just a smart player. He’s the number one for a reason, and I really feel playing with him has pushed me to improve.”

The reporter nodded when you wrapped up your answer, thanking you as they passed the mic on for the next question. “Like you say, you and Sinner have a great dynamic on court. What did the preparation leading up to you two playing together look like?”

You laughed to yourself, sipping some water before twisting the mic to sit in front of your mouth again. “There literally was none. Absolute zero preparation—we met the day of our first match, actually.”

“How would you explain the success of the partnership, then?” The reporter followed up with a laugh.

“I honestly don’t know.” You paused for a moment, looking down to think. “I mean... Like I said, Jannik’s a very good player. He’s very intuitive, he’s learned how to play with me very quickly... He feels me out especially well, and knows just when to go hard and soft, and—”

You stop when a ripple of laughter passed over the reporters, and freeze when you hear what they did in what you said .

"On the ball," you said quickly, hands raised in mock defense before covering your delayed, mortified expression. "Hard and soft on the ball—and on court. Obviously."

“You also said he ‘feels you out well’?” One of the journalists you were more familiar with called out with a smile. The laughter only continued and you buried your face in your hands for a second more before looking up again, cheeks warm but smiling.

"Oh god… No one quote any of that, okay?" You shook your head to yourself, uncapping your water to chug more water than you needed. “Uh, next question?”

Another reporter stepped up, mercifully offering you some sweet relief. “You seem to switch from your usual area of comfort when playing doubles, with you back at the baseline and Sinner up at the net—that’s not Sinner’s speciality either, how does that feel?”

“It feels great—uncomfortable at first, but ultimately great, yeah.” You nodded. “We started playing in our comfort zones the first game, but I think where we really got excited is when we flipped. Obviously, Jannik is really good at hitting it from the back, so I like having him behind me, but—”

You pause when a loud, forced cough from somewhere in the back broke your train of thought, and the loaded silence in the crowd that sat after it was deafening. Soon after, it broke when concealed chuckles slowly started popping up around the room.

You look around in confusion, before rerunning what you’d just said to yourself. And, as soon as you got it, you placed your head in your hands—feeling a sense deja vú all too soon.

“Wow. I’m just saying everything wrong today, aren’t I?” You moved your palms to press into your eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “Either that, or this is just a room of some very perverted journalists—god.”

They all only increased their laughter at that, and you joined in good-naturedly, though you were already dreading what was to come as soon as you stepped out of the conference room…

And, just as you predicted, the reaction was exactly what you'd expected—and kind of feared.

It started with one clip, and within the day it spiraled into compilations, reaction videos, slowed-down edits with swapping between the you and Jannik behind dramatic and sensual music, “hard and soft” trending on Twitter with replies that racked up dozens of likes before you could even blink. It seemed everywhere you turned, there were those lines followed by your face of realization and subsequent embarrassment.

When your team met you in the cafeteria for a meal, it was like they’d been rehearsing the line for hours just to recite it from memory. They teased you endlessly.

"You realize it's going to be on a t-shirt by next week, right?" your physio said, grinning as he plated some pasta from the buffet.

"And it’s gonna be on posters at your next match," Chris jumped in, barely looking up from his tray. "Front row. Full of glitter..."

"Screaming hard and soft at the top of their lungs," your trainer added, and nearly choking from failing to hold in their laughter.

You groaned, dragging your hoodie up over your head. "I hate all of you."

"You love us," your physio sing-songed. "Just not as much as the way Sinner feels you out, apparently."

"... It’s obvious in the full context that I’m talking about our game style.” You glared at her from the side of your hood. “It wasn’t even that bad… Right?”

"Of course not," Chris nodded solemnly. "Classic tennis terminology. In fact, I think we should start using it in practice. Next drill, I’m going to call it out so you can mix up your pace: go hard and soft, hard and soft—"

“Oh my god,” You tossed a napkin at him. “Stop, I’m begging you.”

And when your team continued to giggle, you flicked bits of your rice towards them, but you couldn’t help but smile at their enjoyment, despite your sincere and growing regret at what had left your mouth at the panel. You shook your head to yourself, shoveling your food with unnecessary aggression.

After a brief reprise in teasing, when everyone put their heads down to eat and fuel up, you broke the silence and brought it back up yourself. “You guys don’t think he’s seen it… do you?”

They exchanged a look, but your trainer spoke up after dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I mean, maybe. But would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” You set your tray down. “Yes. One hundred percent, yes. It would be... It took him a second to warm up to me, and I just know it’ll go back to being awkward if he heard.”

“I don’t know, kid.” Chris said, shaking his head at your irrational worry. “I feel like he took to you pretty fast.”

“It was pretty stiff in the beginning. I broke through to him by some miracle, I don’t know.” Now it was your turn to shake your head. “I feel like he could think I overstepped and act all distant—and, honestly, I might be awkward, because I have no idea—no idea—how he’s taking it… If he saw it, that is, which…”

You trailed off, lips pressing together in wary disbelief as you replayed the scenario you imagined was his reaction as you and your team stood up to leave. Because, as happy as the public was to run with the suggestive comment, there was a side of tennis fans that was always quick to say you were too much. And now, after the press conference, those same people had taken to saying your words were vulgar and violating—despite clearly being a mistake. What should have been a funny mistake, too.

Even with all your years of learning to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder if Jannik would agree with them...

Your physio threw an arm around you, sensing your spiral. “It could be a little awkward, yeah, but so what? You’re both adults and professionals. It shouldn’t matter.”

You nodded, knowing they should have been right, and your trainer chimed in. “Yeah, so what? You don’t even have to see him after a few days—doubles will wrap up by the end of the week.”

“...Right.” You said, yet somehow the words were far from comforting.

---

Part two, Part three

Made reader a dramatic over-thinker, and I actually think that it's a vicious and common and underrated combo so... Wasn't initially planning to make this one angsty, and it's lowkey not even going to be, but it kind of just happened this way. It's just the way this dear reader is, okay?

Also, I hella glazed both reader and jannik's game play here, sorry. They're overpowered, yes, maybe, but let them live!! In this fantasy world and the real one, Sinner is king…

Wasn't planning on making this two parts, but it's literally so effing long already for no reason that I was like: it's for the best. So long that i didn't super edit btw

So stay tuned til tmr for the ending!

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