#it was quick and painless though

[juliaboudewijn]

My new personal headcanon is that Sloane names Amber Mavis her archnemesis, despite the fact that Amber is dead and Sloane's probably never even met her (not even back in Tyrrendor before Amber joined the quadrant). This may or may not be related to finding out about Dain's history with Amber. This definitely includes dedicating 'Better Than Revenge' by Taylor Swift to Amber during karaoke in some modern Empyrean universe. This also includes things like:

Sloane: I'll tell the next person I send to Malek to hunt her soul down and terrorize her for all eternity.

Dain: *mutters* Yeah, right... because that's a healthy coping mechanism... *out loud* And eh... why would they even do that for you?

Sloane: Because I will have gifted them with a quick and painless death instead of a slow and suffering one.

Dain: Of course you have...

[sodapopcurtis-dx-asks]

Go down to the drive-in tonight. I hear that cheerleader is gon' be there! 'Nd she really wants to talk to you. ;)

XOXO!

Soda giggled to himself, teetering a bit in his stool as he stimmed playfully and turned side to side.

Hah! Well, let her know that if she's just wanting to play, I'm all here for it!

I'll be there as per-usual. I'll be keeping an eye out!

[gurorori]

umm re: prev post i will say it anyway since this is a safe space...

[guitarhero-3]

my grandma is about to die but at least i caught a shiny rowlet today

[thistlerock]

The Bad Kids Are Funny because they're all fairly violent and get really aggro really quickly (hey that's what you get for making a highly competent adventuring party a bunch of teenagers who don't go to therapy) but then Riz is somehow just two steps above everyone else and they barely acknowledge it. Fury of the Ball is the most wonderful thing.

The "face" of their party around school would probably be like Fig or Fabian, maybe Gorgug. Wow they're so strong aha. Hey who do you think is the most brutal, probably the half-orc barbarian who seems to mostly repress his rage until it's time to throw down right? Right?? No it's the little guy in the corner. Yeah, the one who just hid in the shadows and now you can't see him anymore. Yeah, he shot a pixie's fingers off one by one to get information, yeah, he ate a live dragon, yeah, he offered to tear someone's eye out for his best friend, yeah, he said the words "make sure his head is cut off so he can't be revivified" about another student. Yeah, he's a fucking goblin and so unapologetic about it at this point.

I always imagine his "fury" (which is a goblin trait which implies Sklonda has it too btw, never forget) being like oughhh pupils blown so wide, hair standing up, hissing claws out, kill maim stab. Just for a few seconds. You can elect to use it after hitting, I imagine him sinking his sword into a big meaty enemy and going "hm wow this guy's pretty tough. I need him dead though. Needs to die." and he twists the blade puts his whole weight in it and just drags it down no matter what's in the way. It HAS to be so gross and brutal every time and his friends are just like oh there he goes, the Ball cleaning up again.

Especially fun with the Kipperlilly thing. Oh two rogues fighting without sneak attack, that's gotta be a slow careful battle where they chip away at each other. Oh she does like seven damage rushing past him, oh he's gonna do the same wait never mind he uses his fury he stabbed her SO badly. No rogue finesse no show about it just the intent to kill. Kid with traumatic past does in fact end up fucked and it isn't actually fun or quirky or interesting, who would have thought. Shoutout to hold person over the lava that goes disgustingly hard and is also so gruesome, imagine being paralysed and watching yourself fall into a pit that will burn you alive.

The thing with classic rogues is that you're "dead before you know you're being attacked" and it's "quick and easy and possibly painless" but if Riz kills you it's gonna hurt. You're gonna know and it's gonna hurt but hey high chance you don't get to do anything about it still. Phenomenal character.

[shock]

i want to hold my tongue and not share the depth of my opinions about the two-headed cow but it upsets me so much every time i see it, i really do hate the narrative of 'rooting for' an animal like this to live despite it being unable (and will be unable, for its entire life) to do the most basic of things life has to offer, even breathing, eating, moving, to prioritize the savior myth that everything can and should be saved, that every living creature should be treated this way as though its not one of the greatest mercies that we as humans have the ability to enact a quick and painless alternative to a slow and miserable life that ends in slow and miserable death on our livestock when they can't advocate for themselves, the ability we have as humans to see the research and make a prognosis and decide that the spectacle is not worth the extended misery, but this life is worth the dignity of a peaceful death we have the capacity to grant

because there is a difference between helping a baby animal in the first legs of life knowing it has a chance to have a quality of life worth fighting for, not a life doomed to be painful that we KNOW is painful knowing all that we know about animals who come with this specific type of physical abnormality, what we see on the surface is only a fraction of much more malformation and deterioration on the inside that we can't just decide is not happening because they 'look' fine, and what we see on the surface is already a life from start to finish without any experience an animal like this should have by virtue of being alive, with no life at all and no understanding of why it is going through this

the assumption that there is no suffering despite eating, breathing, moving never something that this baby will be able to do unassisted, despite knowing the longest a two-headed cow has ever survived was not even a year and a half and that record hasn't been broken in over thirty years, that's not even a quarter, an 8th, a 12th, a 15th of a cow's normal lifespan, and doubtfully much of that was pleasant or comfortable, and even if this cow does get to the point of being able to stand on its own, we can't ever know the full range of agony this animal is going through, all we know is there is and there will be agony, and we need to not see life as inherently successful or painless just because something is going in one end and coming out the other, that isn't what defines an animal's quality of life to me

the two-headed calf poem is beautiful to me because it's a miracle that something so rare (luckily) and so doomed could see one extraordinary thing before passing. the sky ceases to be beautiful when forced to live every day for the sake of social media's voyeurism, it makes me so sad that someone who raises livestock would put public attention over their duty to their animals ☹️

[1x1x1x1x1x1x1x1]

killer doctor!reader perhaps,,, like reader is a well-known doctor who is nice and kind, but when they were forsaken, the spectre made them think the survivors are sick/infected, so they want to 'cure' them. by the way, their way of killing is just,,, gentle and painless, like a quick death.

(+ a point if reader is blind or mute because idk i just feel like it xd)

hopefully this makes sense! feel free to ignore this <3

HII!! this is such a fun request and i hope i did it with what you had in mind!!

(this is gonna be x killers since you didnt specify if you want it to be the survivors, killers or both

i might make a part 2 with the survivors if this goes well!!)

.ᐟ.ᐟ possible OOC and spelling mistakes (im too lazy to reread.)

anyways ENJOY! coughs,,,,,, lobotomy

Killers × Doctor!Killer!Reader

1×1×1×1｡𖦹°‧

The spawn of hatred,, i think you know how this one goes huh?

The first time she saw you, he thought you were no threat and harmless,

You proved that wrong after your first match. That made her spiral a bit

She DOES wish you wouldn't go so easy on them though,, especially on a certaint someone. He thinks they don't deserve any mercy, but oh well.

You have helped him bandage some nasty slash wounds a few times, shes thankful, but nobody will waterboard that information out of them.

They know the Spectre made you see something else, twisting your percieving of this world and the survivors, but its not like he's gonna try to wake you up or something like that. She knows that won't work.

Found this out because everytime he tried talking to you, you just kinda... stared at them. Nothing else. Not like she's seen you talk too.

John Doeִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

well he's.. something.

He looks at your gameplay from time to time, thinking about what he feels about this, about you.

The little of what he has of his counciousness left tells him that you are/were a doctor? 'Well thats nice' is the only thing that comes to mind before it being pretty much empty again

You have patched him up a few times after a nasty round, getting stunned, punched and backstabbed way too many times.

You guys did have some nice/friendly interactions together, its just that he forgot about them.

forsaken!Jason𓌏་༘࿐

what a guy amirite..

since (IF) youre both mute, you guys can practically speak without words

Actions speak louder than words after all i guess!

Speaking of actions, you have helped him multiple times after a round, and he has thanked you multiple times.

Loves spectating you when youre the killer, one of his favorite activities to pass time. Although he too thinks youre going too easy on them.

C00lkidd.✶ ⋆ (PLANTONIC!!)

LOVES your whole 'doctor' theme

He WILL make you play pretend with him, with him as the patient.

Also really likes spectating you!! Although he doesnt see you 'killing' the survivors, just a quick nap

draws you, so much. You have a whole wall dedicated to them in your cabin.

Noli-.ᐟ.ᐟ

The absolute FIRST thing he does when you spawn in for the first time is make fun of how you dress, probably why you disliked him at first.

He does eventually act 'nicer' (if you can even call it that)

He is most definetly impressed by how quick you can server-wipe and how good you look during it,, wait who said that.

He immediately catches himself off guard after thinking about how well youre doing in the round.

This also means that from now on when you help him after a round, he will NOT be able to stay still,,

So now he IS a bit less of a jerk, but still taunts you. Like a LOT

Playing random sound effects, etc etc.

Hes an asshole, but he can be sweet.

extra!!

Mafioso🂱⚔

Ohh this guy

Hes really fond of you, mostly for helping his guys a few times with some nasty wounds.

Youre the first person they come to (and the only one they can now, since they've been forsakend.)

He appreciates how quick you get things done, no stretching out the killing part. Just quick and painless

Theres just something about you that just drives him closer

Ah, and he doesnt mind you being mute at all! He can understand most physical cues that you give him

okay so this is like,, pretty short. and there defo are some spelling mistakes but i just want to get this out lol

ty for reading!!

[batlovebites]

Thinking about how the beasts would deal with a mortal partner's mortality catching up to them. Here's some quick thoughts on that.

Content Warning: death (via old age or sickness) and murder (because these guys do not handle it well.)

Shadow Milk seems like the one who deals with the idea of his partner's mortality the best, up until his partner is on death's door- if its sickness, he'll stop at nothing to find a way to cure it. If its age, though...

I think he'd try to find a way to make his partner immortal, too. But when that fails, I think he'd immortalize them as a puppet. Its not the real them, no, but its them from before age started to take them from him. Its them in whatever the 'best' period of their life was.

After they pass he uses it to cope but he has to control the simulacrum's actions so it actually just makes him feel worse because its obviously not them. It looks like what they looked like at one point, it acts how he remembers them acting, but how he remembers them isn't the same as how they actually were. But he doesn't stop because he'd rather try to convince himself of the lie they're still around than live with the truth that they're gone.

The illusion/puppet he makes progressively becomes less and less convincing as his memories are altered and exaggerated with time and repetition. In their absence, Shadow Milk starts to glorify them in his memory, completely disregarding any of their flaws or negative aspects that made them an actual full person; Which then makes the puppet act progressively less and less how they actually did.

Eventually probably disregards the simulacrum as its no longer even slightly convincing. But sometimes, when he thinks about them again and his heart starts aching, he conjures it up again to try to live the lie that they're still here again, just for a little bit longer. It always falls apart again, but there's brief moments where he can almost convince himself, so he keeps doing it.

Burning Spice is. Complicated! Would also want to make his partner immortal probably, but if that's proven to be impossible... I think he 'mercy' kills them, before age can affect them too much. When their hands start shaking, their memory begins to slip, their body slowly turning to dust beneath them, so slow they can hardly tell its happening- but Burning Spice has seen time claim a hundred thousand lives before, and can see it happening to them all too clearly.

Burning Spice doesn't want to let time take his partner from him, so he does it himself. Having control over their demise makes him feel better about it, if only slightly. Doesn't let them know its going to happen, because he wants their last memory of him to be pleasant. Just embraces them- and then promptly snaps their neck. Quick. Painless. Over before they could ever even know it happened.

He does view it as an actual mercy in a way, but its mostly a matter of him needing to feel like he was in control of when and how they died as opposed to them being taken from him. Change and destruction is his domain, he does not like it when those things are happening beyond his control, so he takes control of the situation himself.

Burning Spice is also quick to redirect any other emotion into anger because that's easier to manage, so the stages of grief he goes through are all just filtered directly into Anger and used as fuel to destroy more things. No one else would even be able to tell he's mourning at all, but deep down, he is, even though he doesn't want to. He's seen this happen over and over again, it shouldn't affect him anymore. He's angry at himself for letting it affect him. For letting himself grow attached to something- someone- he knew would be nothing but ash beneath his feet within a century in the first place. And yet...

Mystic Flour would perhaps put some effort in looking into how to make her partner immortal, just so that they could see everything else be reduced to flour with her before they both also were reduced to nothing. But she's not too torn up about it if unable to.

She starts to treat her aging partner as if they were already dead at a certain point, which certainly doesn't feel great for them. Comforting them about their inevitable and rapidly approaching fate is not a very nice thing to hear when they are currently still alive, probably have at least a few years of life left in them, and would probably like to enjoy those last few years rather than just think about their approaching death the whole time.

If their old age comes with any particularly high amounts of pain or memory loss, she's likely to speed up the process as a 'mercy'; Inflicting them with the Pale Ailment, which kills them within the day.

The whole day she holds and comforts them until they are reduced to flour, telling them soon they will feel nothing- no joy, yes, but also no pain. That there's nothing to fear. She sits there for a little longer after they're gone, still speaking comfort. Then she gets up and leaves; She feels nothing about it. Nothing at all.

Yet... a part of her, buried deep under layers of apathy, does wish they had lasted longer. Been at her side to see the rest of the world be reduced to flour first. Oh well.

Also, while I can't give proper thoughts until she's released, I think Eternal Sugar would probably Sleeping-Beauty her partner. Lock them in an eternal rest where they're basically dead, but their body does not age or rot further, and they're technically still breathing, so its like they're still there with her! (<- Coping extremely hard.)

[shushmal]

Eddie sits and watches Steve’s kitchen clock slowly count closer and closer to their movie time—closer, then past. It’s 30 minutes gone from showtime when he hears the bathroom door upstairs close and shut, and Steve’s bedroom door quietly doing the same.

Wincing, Eddie counts down slowly from 100, lets Steve wallow for a bit, before he gets down from his stool to head up.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, sitting beside the lump under Steve’s blankets. The lump does not reply. “Baby, you okay?”

“No,” it whines, and Eddie’s glad Steve has shoved his head under his pillow because Eddie can’t help cracking a smile. “I’m dying, and I’m a shitty boyfriend, and you’re going to dump me.”

Eddie scoffs. “The day I dump you is the day you send me to the funny farm,” he says, mock serious. “You do shit a lot though, babydoll.”

Steve whines louder. “It’s not fair! You eat expired hotdogs! Raw! Straight from the fridge!!”

“Guts of steel, Stevie! Your upper middle class suburban tummy would shrivel and die in the face of things I’ve eaten.”

“It’s shriveled and died already, thanks.”

Eddie laughs, and rubs his hand along Steve’s arm. He knows better than touching him anywhere else when Steve’s stomach is upset. But the fact that he’s in bed, under the covers, must mean the worst is over.

“You want me to get you anything?”

“New organs and a surgeon to put them in.”

“I was thinking more like water? Toast? Pepto?”

“A quick and painless death?”

“I’m afraid I can only offer you kisses and cuddles when you feel up for it. And the aforementioned consumable items.”

Steve’s head comes out from under the pillow and he squints at Eddie. His hair is standing up in wild spikes, and Eddie chews his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“Who the fuck says shit like aforementioned, you absolute dork.”

“You love me,” Eddie says, grinning.

Wrinkling his nose, Steve sighs, flopping back down on the bed. “I guess,” he admits, looking up at Eddie through his lashes with a little, miserable smile, and taking Eddie’s breath away. Even when he’s miserable and whiny, Steve remains the prettiest person Eddie’s ever had the luck to lay eyes on. “I guess I’ll take a water. And a kiss, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Eddie grins, leaning down. “Anything for you, princess.”

[crimsoncandy04]

Have u ever thought of Scara w tentacles😳 like he was an experiment and we are the one in charged of cater for him, then one day he escape and take us with him to breed cause' he really likes us... Idk if it's possible but might lay eggs for him. Please try writing it one day!! Tysm for those fics u feed uso(≧▽≦)o

I should really check my inbox more often than I do. This is literally such a hot idea.

(also just a heads up, I'm absolutely blasted right now while writing this so if it's not perfect I'm so sorry. Cannabis gummies are a double edged sword for me. On one hand I get the BEST ideas to write but then on the other I forget how words work)

Hope you like it;)

You had seen some weird stuff in your 25 years. It was expected though. You WERE working for the fatui and under one of the more deranged harbingers known for fucked up experimentation too.

However, being put in charge of one of the less important projects involving the sixth harbinger had proven to be more than you were prepared to handle.

A LOT more.

You had no idea why he allowed this to happen or if it was just a bizarre side effect of another failed experiment. But one thing was for certain, the sixth harbinger had been altered physical and now needed to be restrained at all costs. He had actual tentacles growing from his back. Like REAL ones. And for some reason they seemed to have minds of their own at times.

Thrashing around and hitting the thick glass of the containment room as if trying to break out while the young man at their base sat on the cold concrete ground and refused to look at you each time you went over to slide him food through a small opening in the wall that your hand could barely fit through.

You weren't important enough to know the details of what went on in your boss's lab but you had to admit that the sentient tendrils were a bit pretty to look at.

They were a deep indigo. Almost black with small barely discernable silver accents along the sides.

They appeared almost metallic in the right lighting and you had to make yourself look away and stop staring sometimes because you didn't want to be rude.

You were here to complete a job and that was all.

Until the night everything went to shit of course.

You were summoned sometime after midnight along with two other subordinates to check the lab for accidents after a security alarm was triggered for unknown reasons.

You rushed in and immediately you felt your blood go cold at the sight before you.

He had escaped.

Shattered glass lay at your feet as well as blood presumably from the guard who was now nowhere to be seen and most certainly dead.

You heard a yell from the room next to you.

"Stay here!" The other man with you insisted as he drew his gun and took off after the source of the cry.

You didn't need to be told twice.

Because right now you were confused but also rightfully scared.

What happened to the sixth harbinger? He never once gave you reason to believe he was distressed or restless before. He never even spoke to you when you fed him and checked the condition of his holding room.

Did you perhaps miss something?

What caused him to suddenly lash out and attack the guard?

And most importantly what happened to-

*PLOP*

You hear something hit the ground next to you and slowly turn your head to look.

You shriek.

On the ground next to you was the decapitated head of the subordinate who had just left to search for the other man.

You immediately tried to run but were stopped in your tracks as something wrapped around your waist and hoisted you into the air.

You tremble and go silent. Preparing for the worst when you look down and meet eyes with the sixth harbinger.

One of his many new appendages coiled around your middle and rendering you helpless as you silently prayed to every archon you could remember that if you were to die here it would be quick and painless.

He narrows his eyes up at you.

"You. You didn't want to try killing me as well?"

You struggle to answer as you shake violently.

"No sir. I see you nearly every day. I assumed something was wrong and that you were seeking help. I didn't feel like it was right to murder you."

"Are you scared?"

You felt your heart race.

Something about his tone seemed off. Different.

Did he...enjoy the fact that you were clearly terrified?

You closed your eyes and sighed.

Alright.

Every life had its end. This was surely yours.

Don't think about it. Go to your safe place Y/N.

You suddenly feel more tentacles slither around your arms and legs.

You immediately open your eyes as you feel them spread your knees apart.

What the FUCK!?

There's a chuckle from underneath you.

"I must admit... I am enjoying your terror immensely."

Obviously.

You feel an indigo tendril slowly slide up your shirt and wiggle underneath your bra. coiling around one of your breasts and squeezing it roughly as you feel your cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. It was cold and slimy but thanks to what you assumed was the natural power of the young man before you, the tentacles emitted a gentle electro current throughout their entire lengths and the sensation caused the muscles in your limbs and stomach to relax unwillingly as you were fondled.

The entire stimulation was now sending jolts of unwilling arousal through you. Scaramouche's eyes darken as he feels your nipple stiffen against one of his slick, muscular coils which had wrapped itself tightly around one of your tits and was now rubbing its head against your delicate peak. Making you struggle to stay quiet.

"Your body is betraying you. How does it feel existing in such a delicate and worthless form? I'm not even trying yet-."

Another tendril snakes up your thigh, sliding beneath your skirt, the cool slickness a shock against your bare skin as you didn't expect this so quickly. It inches higher, brushing against your clothed sex.

Scaramouche chuckles darkly at your soft whimpers then, his voice a sinful caress in your aroused mind as you're made to enjoy this against your will.

"I can still feel you with these. You're so wet already. Does it feel good being teased in such a disgraceful manner? Or were you always this much of a slut?"

He grins wickedly, a predatory gleam in his indigo eyes. The tendrils tighten their grip, squeezing and kneading your most sensitive places, stoking the fire within your core. The air crackles with his power and reeks of your excitement.

A small tentacle hooks into the waistband of your panties and suddenly rips them off completely, baring your glistening sex to the cool air. Another one quickly begins to rub against your slick folds, teasing your wet entrance.

"What a cute little hole~ hmm. I wonder what would happen if I-"

The thick tentacle at your entrance instantly rams itself inside in one painful push, stretching your tight pussy and curling in to rub against your sweet spot as it began to thrust quickly. You could only gasp and cry out as you felt another tentacle slither up your thigh and rub your clit at the same time.

Your eyes widened.

It hurt yet it felt like you had ascended to Celestia all at once.

You force yourself to cry out before you went insane.

"S-Scara! Please! It's too big! You're... stretching me!"

Scaramouche smirks up at your quivering body as he feels your tight walls clenching desperately around his invading tendril. He grinds it deeper, relishing your breathy moans and gasps, the electric current making your body shudder with every caress and thrust.

"Too big? Ha. Your greedy little cunt is taking every inch like it was made for it. Like it was made for me."

He pulls back slightly, then slams the tentacle in deeper. The wet squelching sounds of the violation fill the room, mingling with your increasingly wanton moans and whimpers.

"Listen to yourself, enjoying the feeling of being so ruthlessly defiled. You can't deny your true nature Y/N. You're a weak and disposable creature. I've seen how you go out of your way to try and care about me. How you act so..."selfless" and "considerate" when forced to tend to me knowing damn well it was all only to delude yourself into believing you were making a difference. Tell me, was it tiring?"

Tendrils squeeze your breasts harder, the electric shocks making your nipples stiffen into aching peaks. Another then pushes into your mouth, silencing your cries and leaving you gasping around the slick intrusion.

"It must have been exhausting. Pretending like you actually cared so much. Did you enjoy your little charade? Was it nice pretending like you weren't worth less than the dirt on my shoes because you were "helping "?"

Scaramouche's voice is a dark, lustful growl as he crosses his arms and continues to watch as his tentacles ruin you. The tendril pistoning into your cunt speeds up, the electric shocks growing stronger, pushing you closer and closer to a reluctant release.

"Come for me, Y/N. Come on my tentacles like the wanton slut you are. You wanted something like this right? To be seen and "loved"? Well let go then."

As Scara speaks, another tentacle snakes down to your puckered rear entrance. It teases the tight ring of muscle, the electric current making it relax. Slowly it pushes inside, stretching your virgin hole around the slick invader.

"Such a tight little asshole... I will enjoy breaking this in as well. You'll be my perfect little fuck toy, ready and eager for me at all times. How does that sound?"

The tentacle in your mouth begins fucking deeper into your throat, making you gag and choke a little. The one in your ass pushes deeper, stretching you impossibly further now as everything borders on pleasure and pain now in an overwhelming way.

"That's it, just like that. Take it all. Take every inch, every inch of my desire. You'll learn to crave this, to need this, to be nothing but a set of holes for me to fill and use. I'll give you a purpose. A reason to exist. Just like you always wanted."

Scaramouche's eyes blaze with sadistic lust as he watches you try to writhe and struggle, your body shaking with unwanted pleasure, your mind clouding with shame and need. He knows he has you now, knows that he can shape you, mold you, ruin you for all others.

And it's driving him insane.

You had caught his attention long ago but of course you were too stupid to notice. You always thought his tentacles were just being "aggressive". No. He had been trying to get you to say something to him. But every time you just stared at him, gave him a stupid little tray of food that he didn't even need. And then just left.

You couldn't blame him for getting a little frustrated and impatient. You had practically forced him to make the first move here.

A couple of minutes went by and suddenly you feel something else being stuffed into your stretched cunt alongside the enormous tentacle already buried inside.

Two smaller and practically microscopic sized tentacles wiggle in and begin to tease your cervix opening. Slowly coaxing their way into your womb as you feel yourself climaxing from the intrusion.

The tentacles writhe and squirm in your womb, painting your inner walls with their slick, tingling essence.

You suddenly feel a deep pressure as something is pumped directly into your womb. You wince and cum again as Scara begins to forcibly impregnates you with his offspring yet instead of your earlier nervousness or shame, you now feel oddly at ease. As if your new reality finally set in for you.

It was kinda enjoyable.

Scaramouche chuckles darkly as he feels your womb trying instinctively to reject his eggs. But the tendrils hold fast, forcing the small yet soft jelly-like lavender eggs deeper, stretching your most intimate space to its limits.

You had finally accepted your place it seemed. Utilizing your body's full potential from here would be far more easy with you now more willing to endure the process and transformation.

The tendrils continue their relentless assault, pumping more and more of the eggs into you, each one a cruel mockery of a seed, a promise of the countless times he will fill you after this as well. You had one purpose now. To be used, bred like a bitch in heat. All for the singular goal of birthing a new army for Scaramouche and his future plans.

You were important for this reason alone.

"Welcome to your new life, mortal. Welcome to eternity as my personal fuck toy, my breeding bitch, my eternal plaything. And you will love every moment of it. I promise."

A few hours pass and your belly swells quickly. During this short incubation period Scara manages to stretch your holes even further almost to the point of beyond recognition. Three tentacles now thrusted in and out of your ruined asshole and Scara had decided to reposition you both to keep an eye on you and to jam another thick tentacle deep into your pussy and continue to ravage it while he silently marveled at your swollen belly from where he now stood over you.

His hands roam possessively over the stretched skin of your stomach. He can feel the eggs he's planted inside you, each one a testament to his dark triumph, a promise of the future that he envisioned where he was untouchable by absolutely anyone. God or human alike.

"Look at you, already so round and full. And this is only the beginning, my dear. I will fill you again and again, until you know nothing but the feeling of carrying my offspring."

He leans down, his lips brushing against the taut skin of your stomach, his voice a dark, mocking murmur.

"Such an easy bitch to breed, so quick to take my eggs, to let them take root inside you. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were meant to be my incubator, my vessel. And now, here you are, already looking like a proper mother~"

The tentacles continue their relentless assault, stretching you impossibly further, The one now sucking on your clit pulses in time with your racing heartbeat, pushing you to yet another orgasm.

More tendrils move to your heavy, aching breasts again, squeezing and kneading the swollen flesh. They latch onto your nipples, suckling greedily, the electric currents making milk drip faster as it's quickly consumed.

More time goes by. You aren't sure how much exactly but then.

You feel movement in your belly and an uncomfortable shift as the eggs begin to hatch within you. The tentacles in your pussy immediately slide free and smaller ones seize your battered lips before rudely pulling on them to reveal your now loose and sloppy canal in its entirety.

Within seconds a small writhing indigo tentacle pushes its way out of your cervix and begins its descent.

Scaramouche's eyes widen with a fevered, manic light as he watches the first of his offspring emerge and fall to the floor with a small thud. He leans in closer, his breath coming faster as he watches the next little and writhing indigo tentacle push its way out, covered in fluids and its own natural secretions, a grotesque parody of a newborn.

"Look at that... your womb was actually able to grow these things without issue, your body has given life to my creation. I knew I made no mistake when I chose you for this."

The tentacles in your ass begins to writhe and pulse at that moment, easily pulling free from your body to make room for more of the "children " to emerge. Within seconds they start slipping out of your abused holes like nightmarish serpents and forming a horrific pile beneath your deflated body. Their movements are jerky and erratic, their beautiful flesh glistening in the dim light as they slowly start to slither up your legs in search of the warmth they once knew moments ago.

"Such a good mother, so efficient in your purpose. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were meant for this. And now, look at you... a true incubator, an ideal vessel for what is to come."

Scaramouche reaches down, his fingers brushing against the writhing mass of tentacles, stroking them like a proud parent would a newborn. They pulse and twitch at his touch, as if recognizing their creator, their master.

"They will be the first of many, the vanguard of a new age, a new era of power and dominance."

Your belly continues to churn from inside, more of the eggs hatching, more of the small tentacle creatures slipping out to join their brethren. The floor quickly fills with their jerking, twisting forms, a nightmarish scene.

Scaramouche's maniacal laughter then rings out, echoing off the walls, a sound of pure, unhinged joy at his dark triumph. He knows that he has won. Because with this plan now in action, no one would be able to oppose him for long.

And the world would be his for the taking.

[seospicybin]

TILL DEATH DO US PART.

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Synopsis: You and Minho head to a cabin for a weekend getaway but beneath the seemingly normal relationship, both harbor dark secrets and hidden desires to end the marriage by any means necessary. (13,1k words)

Author's note: Happy birthday to the poster boy to my spooky Halloween fics, Lee Know 🦇

Content warning: Violence, graphic imagery, blood, toxic romance. Readers discretion is advised!

Minho wants to kill you.

He’s reached the point where he can no longer tolerate you. You've crossed the line of things you shouldn’t do and checked off every item that finally leads him to this decision: he wants to kill you. He carefully crafts a plan, asking himself all the basic questions.

What? A plan to kill you.

Minho has been holding back his rage, but it keeps mounting and mounting. He believes that ending your life will release it all, finally bringing him peace. He thinks of it as a purge, sending you to your demise to purify his soul.

Who? It’s you.

You'll be the victim of his plan. His wife, the one he no longer wants to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. But the ‘till death do us part’—he’ll gladly do that himself, with his own bare hands.

And it’s him who's going to kill you.

Minho considered hiring a contract killer—it would’ve been easy, and he could have kept his hands clean. But the little compassion he has left for you tells him this needs to be done personally, and in private. No one has to know the terrible things you've done to make him want to kill you.

As a husband, the least he can do is protect your dignity as his wife.

And as a killer, he’ll try to make it quick and painless.

When? This weekend.

Last night, before bed, he told you he wanted to spend the weekend together. You didn’t ask why, just agreed right away. You needed time away to memorize and practice your lines for the short film you’ll be starring in at the end of the month.

Minho has barely begun but his plan is already in motion.

-

Minho sees you lugging a duffel bag in one hand and your purse in the other. Without hesitation, he strides over to help.

“Let me take that,” he offers, snatching the duffel from your hand.

You flash him a smile and plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

While you settle into the car, Minho places your duffel in the trunk next to his own bag. He unzips his bag briefly to double-check the contents: all the tools he needs for the weekend—sharp, heavy, and metallic—gleam in the sunlight as it hits them. He zips it up and slams the trunk shut, ready for the three-hour drive ahead.

You, already comfortable in the passenger seat, put on your sunglasses and prop your feet against the dashboard. Flipping through the script in your lap, you chew gum obnoxiously, popping bubbles every few minutes, each burst louder than the last.

“There are snacks in the backseat,” Minho says, hoping to distract you from the gum.

You turn just enough to see the stash of chips, drinks, and bottles of wine. Supplies he bought for the weekend in the cabin. Without much interest, you go back to reading.

“I bought your favorite,” he tries again.

“I concentrate better when I’m chewing gum,” you respond flatly, flipping the page.

Minho grits his teeth but stays silent. You hear the scoff he doesn’t manage to suppress.

Dropping your feet to the floor, you snap the script closed, marking your place with a finger. Turning toward him slightly, you say, “It’s scientifically proven that chewing gum improves concentration in visual memory tasks. Surprised you didn’t know that, being a doctor and all.”

Though you aren’t looking, he knows you're wearing that condescending smile, the one that implies you’re smarter than him. It’s a look he’s grown used to over the years, but today it grates more than ever.

Minho’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He fights the urge to jerk the wheel into a tree—just one hard turn would wipe that smug grin off your face. But no, that’s too messy and he’s not ready to blow his plan just yet.

He inhales deeply to steady his nerves. “What kind of movie are you working on this time?” he asks, pretending to show interest.

You raise a brow at his sudden curiosity but answer anyway. “It’s a thriller.”

“What’s it about?” Minho presses, not because he cares, but because he needs to keep you talking. Anything to shut you up about the gum.

“A girl gets kidnapped and held in a basement,” you explain briefly, scribbling notes in your script.

Minho forces himself to feign interest. "And what’s the catch?"

You plainly chuckle. "Like I’m going to spoil it for you."

"Because I probably won’t get to see it anyway," he retorts with a laugh, the irony not lost on him—after all, you won’t be around to finish it.

You sigh but eventually give in. "The girl tries to make her captor fall in love with her."

Minho holds back a laugh. He already knows it's going to be another bad movie. Lucky for you, he’ll be saving you from further embarrassment.

"Let me guess. You’re going to get naked again?" he asks, sneering.

Your deep, frustrated sigh is all the confirmation he needs. “So what if I am? It’s my body.”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the road. “Sure, but haven’t you done it enough already? That’s like what… your fifth movie in a row?”

Your pencil scratches violently across the page. “Are you bored of my tits now?”

Minho stays silent, gripping the wheel tighter. Your next comment stings more than you know.

“Remember when you used to be obsessed with them? Oh, wait—when was the last time you even touched me?” You sneer, adding a little “tch” at the end of your sentence that makes his blood boil.

He once again pictures slamming on the brakes, imagining your pencil impaled your eye. But no. He breathes deeply and reminds himself that you’ll be gone soon enough.

“I need to pee,” you grumble, shifting in your seat.

“We’re almost there. Hold it,” he snaps, not caring about your discomfort.

“I'll pee in the car then,” you retort, already unbuttoning your jeans.

With an exasperated sigh, Minho jerks the car into a sudden U-turn, sending your head against the window. He pulls into a gas station, parking roughly by the entrance.

“Go ahead. Do your business.”

You storm out of the car, slamming the door behind you as you head inside. After a few minutes, Minho watches as you return from the restroom, only to stop and flirt with the cashier.

He taps the steering wheel impatiently, his eyes narrowing as he sees you and the cashier sharing a laugh. His patience runs thin, and before long, he exits the car, marching over to you.

"Let’s go," he growls, grabbing your hand.

You pull away, smirking. "Let him guess first."

"Guess what?"

The cashier laughs, clearly amused. "Trying to guess which movie I’ve seen her in," he explains.

You lean against the counter, offering the man a flirty smile. "I’ll give you a hint. It has something to do with the color blue."

Minho’s eyes darken, his anger bubbling beneath the surface, he knows exactly that you’re doing this just to annoy him.

The man’s face lights up as he gets the answer, "Blue Daisy!"

You clap softly and smile brightly, "That’s right! What did you think of my tits in that movie?"

The cashier falters, his smile faltering as he glances nervously at Minho. "Pardon?"

"Oh, come on. There's a scene where I take off my bathrobe," you tease, toying with the lighters on the counter.

"They’re... nice," the man replies and then looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

You sigh dramatically, glancing at Minho as you say, "Apparently, my husband doesn’t think so."

The cashier looks at Minho in disbelief. "You’re married?"

"Unfortunately, yes," you answer with a fake, sad smile.

Minho takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure, he grabs you hand tighter and asks, "Are you done?"

You yank your hand away and brush past him, your shoulder grazing his as you head back to the car.

Just a few more hours, he reminds himself. Soon, it’ll all be over.

-

Now that you've known the who, the what and the when. The next question is where?

The cabin looms in the distance, nestled deep within the woods by the lake. As he gets out the car, Minho takes in the familiar sight—the water reflecting the afternoon sun, the towering trees surrounding the cabin, the peace and quiet. It’s secluded, far from the rest of the world.

You get out of the car and head straight for the trunk to collect your things.

"I’ll take the bags inside," Minho says, rushing over before you can lift the trunk lid, "Just grab the groceries from the backseat "

Shrugging, you open the back door and gather the bags of groceries, holding them against your chest. You don’t ask questions, not when you’ve been here so many times before. You punch in the code to retrieve the key from the safety box, opening the cabin door with ease.

Minho stands by the car for a moment, breathing in the last of the summer air before the season shifts. He pauses, scanning the quiet surroundings, appreciating how isolated it all feels.

No neighbors. No signal. Just the lake, the trees, and the silence.

It’s perfect.

-

Minho drags all of your things and his inside, then drops them in the living room. He’s greeted by the musty air of a cabin that hasn’t been lived in for over a month, and the dusty framed photos on top of the fireplace—his family, his parents, a childhood snapshot, and one of the two of you spending a week here for an extra honeymoon.

He remembers taking the picture with his phone, the two of you looking so happy lying in the hammock together, your heads resting against each other. Your hair was still its natural color back then, before you bleached it for the movie role.

What he doesn’t remember is how in love he was—why he decided to marry you. His eyes, once filled with affection, now only see hatred and resentment, two black orbs filled with void.

The sound of rustling plastic snaps him out of his thoughts, and his gaze shifts to your figure in the kitchen, tossing expired food into a trash bag.

Before you can notice, Minho silently takes the small duffel bag into the basement, placing it next to the cupboard where the hunting rifles are stored.

When he returns, you’re still in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. He gathers the remaining bags to take upstairs, but as his foot lands on the first step, you call for him.

“Are you going to cook dinner?” you ask, filling a pitcher with tap water.

“Yes. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he replies without looking.

Minho drops everything in the corner of the bedroom, noticing your makeup bag already by the sink in the bathroom. He changes his clothes quickly before heading back downstairs to cook, just like he promised. He starts preparing dinner, laying out the ingredients on the counter. While seasoning the tenderloins with salt and pepper, he watches you chop vegetables at the other end.

“You have to cut them thinner,” he says.

“What difference does it make?” you mutter, ignoring him.

Minho carefully lays the tenderloins on the hot pan, the meat sizzling as it hits the metal. “Watch the meat,” he says, swapping tasks with you and taking over the vegetable chopping.

He notices you eye roll as you reluctantly take his place by the stove. After a while, you attempt to flip the steaks and he quickly stops you.

“It’s not ready yet!” he snaps.

You immediately throw your hands up in defeat while still holding the wooden spatula in one, “You know what? I’ll just wait at the table, drinking wine,” you say, this time making no effort to hide your eye roll.

Since the sun hasn’t fully set yet, you suggest dining on the back patio, where the sunset offers its best view, even though the air is getting cooler.

It’s always been like this—sitting far apart, the space between you thick with dead air. You both eat in silence, sipping your wine.

Minho remembers that tonight possibly will be your last so he decides to start a conversation.

“How’s the script going?” he asks, wiping the sauce off his plate with the last piece of meat.

“Going well,” you reply curtly, licking your lips.

Minho leans back in his chair. “Who’s that guy… the one helping with your acting?”

You pull your jacket tighter against the cool wind. “Ryan?”

“Yeah, him,” Minho says, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re not working with him for your next role?”

“He’s busy with other things,” you answer, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Minho stabs a piece of carrot with his fork. “So, you’re not the only one he’s… working with?”

You stop eating abruptly and look at him, “Pardon?”

“He’s working with other actors too, right?”

“Well, yeah, it’s his job,” you reply, more casually this time.

As the last rays of sunlight hit you, casting a golden glow like a halo, Minho feels a pang of something. Sadness, maybe. He’s certain it’ll be the last time he sees you on this light so he takes it all in.

Soon, you catch him staring. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he simply answers with a cryptic smile.

Your eyes meet for a moment and Minho searches for something in your gaze, some lingering emotion, but the gaze doesn't last long enough for him to know for sure as you look away.

After dinner, you both sit in the living room, playing a quiet game of chess. The ticking of the old clock fills the silence as Minho watches you fall into the trap he’s set. It’s ironically fitting, like you’re handing him your life, allowing him to end it with a simple move of the black knight.

“I won,” he says, a faint smile of triumph on his lips.

You don’t respond but instead, draining your wine in one gulp. “I’m tired,” you sigh.

As Minho packs away the chess pieces, he throws a smug comment your way. “You always get tired when you lose.”

You ignore him, heading to the kitchen to leave your glass in the sink and head upstairs.

Once you're out of sight, Minho makes another trip to the basement, unlocking the cupboard with the hidden key. Inside, he finds the hunting rifle. It’s been a while, but he still remembers how to use it.

Loading two shells into the chamber, he clicks it shut and for a second, he feels tempted to fire a shot just for the thrill, but that would ruin the surprise so he tucks the rifle back into the cupboard and turns off the lights as he heads upstairs.

When he gets to the bedroom, the bed is empty. He hears the water running—you're probably halfway through your skincare routine. He changes into sleepwear and lies down, charging his phone even though the reception is useless here.

The rustling of leaves outside is the only sound he's hearing until Minho begins to drift off. Just then, he feels a kiss on his cheek.

His eyes flutter open, and he finds you leaning over him, your lips brushing against his. The kiss is long and lingering, your hand gently cradling his face.

When you pull back, you smile softly. “Goodnight, honey.”

For a moment, Minho says nothing, watching as you turn and lie down, your back to him. A strange feeling twists in his chest—a hesitation he hasn’t felt in a long time. The kiss... something about it felt different.

He shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as suspicion creeps in. Was it genuine, or was it part of your own plan? For a second, he wavers, doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Could you really be so oblivious to what’s coming? Or are you hiding something, just like him? He clenches his jaw, forcing the thought away.

It’s too late for second-guessing now. Still, as he stares at your back, he can’t shake the lingering sense that maybe, just maybe, you're not as unsuspecting as you seem.

-

The next day, the cabin is flooded with golden rays as the sun rises high in the sky. Minho stands by the kitchen window, washing the breakfast dishes, his eyes following you as you sway gently in the hammock, engrossed in your script.

He finishes quickly and heads to the back door, pausing in the doorway as he calls your name.

You turn your head slightly. “What?”

“I’m going for a walk around the lake. You coming?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. It’s just for show, a part of the performance, to keep suspicion at bay.

“No, thank you,” you reply, turning your attention back to the script.

Perfect. It’s exactly the answer he wanted. Everything is going according to plan.

As he steps outside, Minho's eyes dart back toward the hammock, checking to see if you’re watching. From a distance, he can still see the top of your head peeking over the edge, unmoving. Satisfied, he walks toward the shed, retrieving a small bag before starting his trek around the lake.

As he jogs along the edge of the water, he scans the ground for the right kind of rock—one heavy enough for what he needs. He finds it near the water’s edge, half-covered in moss. It’s heavier than he expected, and he has to flip it over with his foot before using both hands to hoist it into the bag.

His eyes drift back to the cabin, paranoid that you might somehow be following him. But no, you’re still in the hammock, or at least it seems that way.

He drags the bag back to the shed and hides it behind a stack of old tires. Everything is in place. Just one more thing to prepare—but he realizes he forgot his car keys.

The whole morning slips by as he meticulously works on his plan and by the time he returns to the house, the hammock is empty, swaying lightly in the breeze. Your script book is left behind, pages fluttering in the wind.

Minho’s chest tightens with unease. He steps cautiously toward the front door, his senses heightened. “Honey?” he calls out, but there’s no reply.

He steps inside, the air thick with tension. “Honey?” he repeats, louder this time, his voice echoing in the silence.

In the kitchen, he spots you standing behind the island, your back to him.

“Honey?” he says again, his tone more uncertain now.

You turn slowly, and that’s when he sees it—the gleam of a knife in your hand. The blade catches the light, sending a sharp reflection into his eyes.

A jolt of panic surges through him. His plan was flawless. But somehow, he hadn’t accounted for this—the possibility that you knew. And if you knew, he was already doomed.

He swallows hard, trying to think of something to say. “What are you doing?”

Without a word, you turn back to the counter, your hands moving in a way he can’t fully see. He takes a cautious step back, bracing himself for a sudden attack.

But instead, you turn around holding a head of lettuce. “I’m making sandwiches for lunch,” you say innocently, setting the vegetable down on the chopping board with a loud thud.

Relief floods through him, and he lets out a low breath, clearing his throat to mask his moment of weakness. “Sounds good,” he comments, though his voice lacks conviction.

You calmly slice the lettuce, your knife moving with unsettling precision. “Were you looking for me?”

The question jolts him, reminding him of his real purpose. “Uh… yeah, I was looking for my car keys,” he says quickly, scrambling for an excuse. “I left my charger in the glove box.”

You glance up from the chopping board, still holding the knife in one hand. “You can use mine. It’s upstairs by the bedside table.”

There’s something in your smile—a strange, almost sinister edge that makes his skin crawl. Like you know something he doesn’t.

“No, I’ll use mine. It’s more convenient,” he says, forcing a polite smile, though inside, every instinct tells him to leave. Now.

You hold his gaze for a moment too long before turning to the fridge. “It’s on the hook next to the boat keys,” you reply, slicing open a pack of bacon with a swift flick of the knife.

“Thanks,” he mutters, backing away.

He doesn’t waste another second. Grabbing the car keys, he heads for the door, but then you call his name, stopping him in his tracks. He turns, his heart thudding in his chest. You stand in the middle of the room, a strange smile playing on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Lunch will be ready soon,” you say, still smiling that unsettling smile.

Minho nods, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that lingers. He hasn’t seen you smile this much in a long time, and it’s not even noon yet. It’s unnerving, like you’re doing it to make him feel guilty. Like you’re daring him to go through with his plan.

-

Minho decides to proceed with caution.

The little smile you gave him earlier is enough to put him on edge, so he takes a seat on the stool, eyes fixed on you as you meticulously prepare his sandwich. You slice it in half and place it in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate to eat it, knowing that he hasn’t taken his eyes off the process. This way, he’s sure you haven’t tampered with his lunch.

"Good?" you ask, watching him closely.

He chews, waiting for any signs of something off in his body, but nothing happens.

"It’s good," he replies, nodding.

You smile, then sip your orange juice, making a little gasp of satisfaction. "Orange juice?" you offer, holding up the pitcher.

"Sure," he says.

You get a clean glass from the cabinet, which checks off another one of his worries. He saw you drink from the same juice, and the glass is fresh. No reason to suspect anything, right? Maybe you’re still unaware, and things are still going according to his plan.

"You’re not eating?" he asks, testing the waters.

You finish your glass and shake your head. "I’m still full from the smoothie I had earlier."

You walk over, placing a hand on his shoulder, then gliding it to the back of his neck, massaging gently. "I’m going to take a long bath," you say, smiling down at him.

"Okay," he mutters, looking up.

You lean down, brushing your lips against his in a brief kiss. "Enjoy your lunch."

This is the perfect opportunity.

Minho only manages to finish half of the sandwich before draining his glass of orange juice, feeling a bit parched from all the work he’s been doing since the morning. He heads down to the basement, ripping open a bag full of tools. He picks the hammer, gripping it tightly in his right hand.

As he makes his way upstairs, he marvels at how smoothly everything is going. If he manages to bash your head in the bathroom, he doesn't need to worry about the mess. The only challenge is getting your body downstairs, but that’s a problem for after.

Right now, all he has to do is get in there and deliver the fatal blow.

But as he climbs the final stairs, his vision blurs, and his limbs grow heavy. He tries to shake it off, widening his eyes and slapping his cheek to wake himself up. It must be the adrenaline, right? That’s why he feels so lightheaded.

He reaches the bathroom, hearing the water running and your soft humming. The door is left ajar, steam wafting out. Minho peeks in and sees you sitting on the edge of the tub, still in your bathrobe, one side slipping off your shoulder.

Slowly, he pushes the door open just enough to slip inside. The sink is cluttered with your things—makeup, a toothbrush, and what he assumes is some spilled powder from your makeup routine.

Confident you can’t see him through the fogged mirror, he raises the hammer above his head, ready to strike. Suddenly, his legs give out, and he stumbles backward, the hammer slipping from his grasp, then clatters to the floor.

You whip your head around, startled, and see him crumpling against the bathroom wall. Squatting down in front of him, you say softly, "Honey?"

Minho fights to open his eyes, but his body is shutting down against his will. "I’m—I…" he stammers.

You lean in, your forehead resting gently against his as you sigh. "Shh… it’s okay," you murmur, stroking his hair.

With one hand cupping his face, you look into his eyes, a sinister glint now replacing the warmth. "Just go to sleep," you say softly, your voice almost soothing.

Minho’s vision starts to fade, but he sees it in your eyes. You did this. "You—"

Before he can finish, everything goes black.

-

The sound of a knife scraping against the surface of a plate jolts Minho awake in the worst possible way.

Disoriented, he squints his eyes and realizes he's downstairs, seated at the dining table. You're sitting across from him, chewing on a piece of meat with a soft groan.

"I think I flipped it too early again," you mumble, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

You look up from your food and gasp when you notice he's awake, "Honey!"

Grabbing the bottle of wine, you pour it into his glass, the intoxicating scent of it filling the room. "I'm sorry I started dinner without you."

Minho tries to move his hands but can't. He glances down to find them tied to the chair.

"Ah! Let me help you with that," you say, standing beside him as you unfold a napkin and spread it over his lap. You kiss him on the cheek, wiping away the lipstick mark with your thumb after.

"How was your nap?" You ask once you're settled back to your seat.

Minho glares, his nostrils flaring with the rage boiling inside him. He curses himself for letting his guard down, for believing things were going his way when they never did. Shaking the fog from his head, he focuses on you.

"Sleeping pills, huh?" His voice drips with disdain, realizing too late that the white powder he'd seen earlier wasn’t makeup—it was the remnants of crushed sleeping pills.

You don't answer, just sip your wine with a satisfied smile.

Minho scoffs, tossing his head back. "How clever!"

Refilling your glass, you raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"It wasn't the sandwich, not the juice..." He lets out a bitter laugh. "It was the glass."

You clink your wine glass against his with a smirk. "Almost got caught there, didn’t I?"

"So, you know," he mutters.

You set your glass down and rest your hands on the table, an innocent grin spreading across your face. "Know what?"

Minho’s dark eyes remain fixed on you, simmering with fury.

"I'll let you have your dinner later," you say, pushing his untouched plate to the side, clearing the center of the table.

You retrieve something from the chair beside you—a hammer. The same hammer he’d planned to use on you. You place it on the table between you both.

"Are you asking if I knew you were going to use this to smash my head in?"

Minho’s gaze flickers between the hammer and you.

You chuckle mockingly, hand pressed against your chest. "Thank God the pills kicked in just in time!"

Though not surprised, Minho wonders if you’ve uncovered his entire plan. As if reading his mind, you bend down and drag a duffel bag onto the table with a loud thud.

"Or are you asking if I knew about this?" you ask, emptying the contents—rope, duct tape, a blade, a wrench, a saw, and an axe—spreading them across the table like hardware on display.

Sitting back down, you examine the tools with a smile. "You’re thorough, I’ll give you that."

"You know I never do things half-heartedly," he replies, voice laced with sarcasm.

Your laughter echoes around the room. "And look what I found," you say, lifting his hunting rifle, pointing it directly at him with your finger hovers dangerously close to the trigger. "It’s loaded."

Minho’s calm exterior falters. He knows all too well that he loaded that rifle himself. How fitting it would be for him to die by his own hand.

"BANG!" You shout, trying to startle him, but he doesn't flinch.

Your laughter fades as you lower the rifle, setting it aside. You cross your arms, eyes studying him intently and he can sense the curiosity swirling in your mind.

"Go ahead," he taunts, leaning forward as much as he can. "Ask your question."

You trace the rim of your wine glass with your finger. "So, that's the plan? To kill me?"

He tilts his head, eyes burning with intensity. "Yes."

"Let's say you manage to knock me out with the hammer..." You cut a piece of meat and continue eating. "What happens next?"

Minho stays silent, watching as you play this little guessing game.

You raise a hand before he can speak. "Wait, wait, wait, let me guess."

You chew faster, sipping your wine between thoughts and begin guessing his whole plan. "You wouldn’t kill me with the hammer—too messy. Too much work. And definitely not upstairs. It would be a hassle dragging my body down."

You glance at the ropes on the table and continue, "You’d tie me up once I was unconscious. Then, once secured, you’d get to work."

Your hand hovers over the tools spread on the table. "As for the weapon of choice..." You pick up the blade, testing its sharp edge with a playful gasp. "Ouch. This would’ve made it fun for you."

Minho’s lips twitch into a small, sinister smile.

"But no," you continue, setting the blade down and then you point at the rifle. "You’d use this. Quick. Easy."

"Exactly," he admits, slightly impressed by how well you know him.

Your eyes drift toward the saw next as you continue talking. "And the saws... well, those would be for afterward. To dismember me, right? You’d chop me into little pieces and dump me in the lake."

Minho raises an eyebrow, impressed. You got most of it right. The how.

"Did I guess correctly?" you ask, tilting your head.

He nods slowly in approval. "I’d applaud, but..." he glances at his tied hands.

You clink your glass with his. "See? I’ve learned a lot in our marriage."

As you sip your wine, he asks the one question still lingering in the space between. "Aren’t you going to ask why?"

You pause mid-sip, placing your glass down before pulling a handgun from your bag.

Minho’s breath catches in his throat. You want him dead just as much as he wants you gone.

"Because we hate each other enough to kill," you say, placing the gun next to your plate. But you rummage in your bag again and pull out a letter—divorce papers. Sliding them toward him, you add, "Or, we could avoid the drama. Sign this, and I’m gone. Forever."

Without hesitation, Minho shakes his head. Strongly refuses to do it any other way.

"Why not?" you ask, brows furrowed.

"I need to kill you," he says, voice unwavering.

You burst out laughing. "You hold that many grudges, huh?"

He doesn’t answer. His silence speaks volumes.

Sighing, you try to reason again. "I’ll disappear. You won’t even know I exist."

Minho leans forward, his voice a low growl. "I have to be the one to do it."

You shiver despite yourself. His intensity is chilling, but you remind yourself that he’s tied up, unable to do anything.

"You're a doctor, Minho. You know you're supposed to save life not—"

"I have to kill you," he cuts you off, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with determination.

Realizing there's no convincing him, you slide the gun back into your bag and put it on your lap. "I don't care if you sign the papers or not."

You take your wedding ring off and put it on top of the papers, making a bold statement. You stand, walking to his chair and then leaning close to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Good luck with everything," you whisper, knowing those words will provoke him further.

As you head for the door, bag slung over your shoulder, he calls after you. His voice echoing against the eerie silence.

"I’ll find you... and I’ll kill you," he screams as he fights his way out of the bind. "Do you fucking hear me?"

As you set one foot out of the door, Minho screams one last time, "IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU, NO ONE CAN!"

You break into a run toward the car and with your heart pounding, you shove the key into the ignition and twist it, the car sputtering to life. Relief floods your body for a moment as the engine hums beneath you, and you slam your foot on the gas.

The car lurches forward, gravel crunching under the tires as you speed away from the cabin. But the relief is short-lived.

After just a few yards, the engine sputters and dies. Panic grips you as the car slows to a stop, and your hands tremble as you frantically try to restart it. You twist the key over and over, forcing the ignition, but the engine won’t turn over.

“Come on… come on!” you mutter desperately, glancing into the rearview mirror, afraid that Minho somehow break away and chase after you.

You continue to restart the car engine but it still won't turn on, you slam your hands on the steering wheel out of frustration and reorganize your breath to let your brain able to work.

With your brain is well oxygenated, you start checking the car and that's when you see the gas gauge and the needle points to the E. Fuck! Minho must have drained the tank empty.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" You continuously scream in dread now but the real dread is glancing through rearview mirror and see the cabin door is open.

That’s when you see him.

Minho is storming out of the cabin, rifle in hand, his face a mask of cold determination. Your blood turns to ice. He’s coming for you, and you have no time.

"Shit!" you curse under your breath, your breath quickening. Abandoning the car, you fling the door open and bolt into the woods, legs trembling as you stumble over roots and uneven ground.

The sound of the rifle cracks through the air. You gasp, ducking as the bullet strikes a tree near you, splintering bark and sending shrapnel flying. Your heart nearly stops.

You pick up the pace, adrenaline coursing through your veins, but the forest floor is unforgiving. Your foot catches on something—a root, a rock, you don't know—and you crash to the ground with a hard thud, pain shooting through your body.

Before you can scramble back to your feet, Minho is already there. His heavy footsteps pound against the earth as he catches up, his presence looming over you. You try to crawl away, your muscles screaming, but his hands grab you from behind, yanking you around with brutal force.

“Got you,” he growls, his voice cold and menacing.

You barely have time to scream before his hands are wrapped around your neck, squeezing with a vicious intent. Your hands fly to his wrists, clawing and yanking at them, but he's too strong.

"Don’t worry, honey. I'm not going to kill you just yet."

He tightens his grip, cutting off your air supply. Panic floods your body as your vision begins to blur, your strength draining away with each passing second.

"I'm just going to stop the blood flow to the brain through constriction of the carotid arteries and..."

You kick, aimlessly hitting him, your movements growing weaker as the world around you starts to fade.

Minho’s face is the last thing you see before the darkness consumes you entirely.

-

A gasp escapes your lips as you regain consciousness, immediately followed by a coughing fit.

Disoriented and lightheaded, you try to sit up, only to realize your hands and feet are bound to the bed. The ropes burn against your skin as you thrash in place, but you’re held fast. Helplessly stuck, you let out a loud scream, frustration boiling over as your cries for help go unanswered.

"Is that the best you can do?"

Your head snaps to the side, eyes wide, to see Minho leering at you from across the room.

He’s rummaging through a duffel bag, calm as ever, his dark eyes glinting with malice. You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and only a rough cough escapes your lips.

Minho pulls something from his bag—a small, rectangular box. It looks like a jewelry box, but the careful way he places it beside your body tells you it contains something far from precious.

He stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at you with a mocking grin. "Comfortable?"

Your fury flares. You swallow hard, forcing your voice to work. "You should have told me you were into bondage," you sneer, eyes narrowing.

His laugh is deep, amused by your defiance. Without warning, he climbs onto the bed and sits between your open legs, his gaze locked with yours, making it impossible to escape his predatory stare. "Let’s make you even more comfortable," he says, a sinister smile creeping across his face.

With deliberate slowness, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of scissors. He places them on the bed next to the mysterious box, letting you get a good look, as if daring you to figure out his next move.

A slow sigh escapes his lips as his hand reaches for your face, fingers slipping into your hair. For a moment, you think he’s going to cut it, but instead, he brushes your damp hair to the side and he also wipes the sweat from your neck with the back of his hand.

"It’s hot, yeah?" he murmurs.

"Isn’t that why you married me? Because I’m hot," you bite back, glaring at him with all the hatred you can muster.

Minho laughs again, this time brushing more strands of hair away from your sweaty forehead. "A part of it, yeah," he shamelessly admits.

"What about the rest of it?" you ask, surprising yourself with your curiosity. You’ve never asked him that before; romance was never a part of your relationship.

Nothing about your marriage was romantic, not even from the start. One day, he asked you to marry him, and you said yes. No questions, no love stories. Just a quiet agreement. But over time, things soured, leading to this moment of bitter hostility.

"Do you really want to know?" Minho asks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours, his hand resting beside your head on the mattress.

"You’re going to kill me anyway, so why not?" you reply, a daring smile playing on your lips.

For a long moment, he simply stares at you, his knuckle lightly tracing the curve of your face. His eyes darken, as if he’s about to reveal something, but then he pulls away abruptly.

"You always make me forget what I’m about to do," he says, picking up the scissors again.

Your heart rate slows as he holds the scissors, doing nothing but staring at them, lost in thought. His eyes flicker to you, then to your chest, where he presses the flat edge of the scissors. You can feel the cold metal through your clothes, making the weight of the moment unbearable.

You believe his final weapon of choice is inside the box so the sight of the scissors doesn’t scare you. You suspect he’s just toying with you, testing your fear.

Suddenly, Minho drags the scissors up your chest until they reach the base of your throat. The metal’s coldness makes you instinctively gulp, your breath hitching in your throat. But you refuse to break. Your gaze meets his, unwavering, even though you know exactly what he intends to do.

Unexpectedly, Minho laughs again, pulling the scissors away from your throat. "This is why I married you," he says, placing a hand on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart.

"You’re so calm," he muses, dragging the scissors lower, stopping at your thigh. He slides the hem of your dress between the blades. "Way too calm."

In one swift motion, he cuts through the fabric of your dress, the blades slicing up to your chest in one clean stroke. You stop breathing for a second, the fear catching up to you, but you don’t let it show.

"And for a while, I was grateful to have you as a wife," he says coldly.

He moves the scissors to the side, cutting through the sleeves of your dress, leaving you in nothing but your damp underwear. You can’t tell if the sweat is from the stifling heat or the tension building inside you.

"But nothing good lasts, right?" he says, tossing the scissors and the torn dress to the floor.

Your heart skips a beat as his fingers ghost over your bare stomach, barely touching, but sending a shiver through your body.

"I’ll give you a chance to admit it yourself," he whispers, squeezing your hip.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you refuse to give in. You won’t hand him that satisfaction. "I have nothing to say to you."

Minho expected that response. He’s always loved your rebellious streak. With a shrug, he turns to the mysterious box beside you. He picks it up, opens it, and without showing you the contents, he says, "Maybe this will help carve the truth out of you."

Your heart races with anticipation, both curious and terrified. His eyes sparkle as he pulls the object from the box like a prized possession.

It’s a scalpel.

Not just any scalpel—a tool Minho is all too familiar with. He’s been using it for years in his line of work as a doctor, his hand accustomed to it, it's technically a part of his hand.

You let out a dark, low laugh, impressed by his choice of weapon. Not letting the fear take over you and give him the satisfaction.

"You think this is funny?" He asks, his voice low and dangerous, the scalpel gleaming in the dim light. His eyes narrow as he watches you closely, waiting for a reaction.

You suppress another laugh, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you. "I guess I always knew you'd find a way to cut me out of your life, but this is a little dramatic, don't you think?" You flash a bitter smile, masking the terror rising in your throat.

Minho’s lips curl into a slow, sinister smile. "Oh, this isn’t about cutting you out. Not yet, at least." He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as the scalpel hovers near your collarbone. The cold metal grazes your skin, a teasing pressure that sends a shiver down your spine.

You pull at the ropes again, frustration and helplessness bubbling to the surface. Your skin stings from the friction, but you know it’s useless. He tied the knots too well. Still, you refuse to show fear.

"You really think this will make me tell you what you want to hear?" Your voice is hoarse, but there’s defiance in your tone.

Minho chuckles darkly, sliding the scalpel down the center of your chest, just grazing your skin enough to leave a faint trail without cutting. His eyes follow the path of the blade with eerie calmness.

"You’re tougher than I expected. I like that." His gaze locks onto yours again, and there’s a chilling coldness in his eyes that makes your blood run cold. "But everyone has their breaking point."

He drags the scalpel lower, letting it dance across your stomach, teasing the edge of your hip. You can’t help the sharp intake of breath as the blade comes dangerously close to cutting through your skin. Every muscle in your body tenses, waiting for the inevitable pain.

"You’re hiding something," he says, his voice a near-whisper now, filled with a quiet intensity. "You’ve always been so calm, so composed. It made me wonder, what are you hiding beneath that exterior? What is it you think I don’t know?"

He pauses, his fingers tracing the path of the scalpel with a feather-light touch, as if he’s savoring this moment. His eyes glitter with amusement as he watches your face, waiting for the fear to slip through your mask.

"You don’t scare me," you say, though the waver in your voice betrays you.

Minho’s grin widens, and he brings the scalpel up to your throat, just pressing the flat of the blade against your skin, reminding you of how sharp it is. "Maybe not yet," he replies. "But that will change."

His hand moves slowly, deliberately, the scalpel brushing your skin as he leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I’m going to carve out every lie you’ve ever told me, every secret you’ve hidden."

The scalpel flicks across your skin, leaving a shallow scratch, just enough to sting. "Let’s start with why you tried to run," he says, his voice a dangerous whisper.

The blade trails down your chest again, teasing but not yet cutting deep enough to cause real pain. "You’ve been planning this, haven’t you? Just waiting for the right moment to escape."

Your mind races, trying to stay ahead of him, but his control over the situation is suffocating. "What makes you think I’ve been planning anything?" you manage to ask, though the tremble in your voice betrays the fear creeping into your chest.

Minho smirks, enjoying the game. "Because I know you," he murmurs. "I’ve watched you. You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been distancing yourself? The way you look at me like you’re just waiting for me to make a mistake."

He presses the scalpel a little harder against your skin, and you wince. "I’m not going to let you slip away so easily," he says, his voice dripping with menace. "So why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’ve been hiding?"

You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a confession. "I have nothing to hide from you," you say, though every instinct in your body is screaming that he’s already too close to the truth.

Minho’s expression darkens. He moves the scalpel down again, this time slicing through the thin fabric of your underwear. You flinch as the cold air hits your bare skin, but you refuse to give him the reaction he’s looking for.

"Last chance," he warns, the scalpel glinting in the dim light. "Why Ryan?"

So this is the why.

Your heart stutters, your body stiffening at the mention of the name. Of course, he knows. He’s always known. But now, it’s out in the open, and there's nowhere to hide. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay composed even as the truth hangs dangerously between you.

Minho shifts, bringing the scalpel up to your throat again, applying just enough pressure for you to feel it, the sharp edge threatening to break skin.

"You really thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?" His tone is calm, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is palpable. "You thought you could sneak around, play your little games with him, and I’d be none the wiser."

Your throat tightens, and you struggle to breathe through the panic rising in your chest.

He presses the blade down, just enough to make your pulse quicken. "Why him?" Minho asks again, his voice quieter, almost a whisper now. "Why Ryan?"

"I—" you start, but your voice cracks, your throat dry. You don’t even know what to say, how to explain something that’s so tangled in layers of resentment, anger, and escape. Instead, you try to hold on to the composure you’ve managed to keep for this long. "It wasn’t—"

Minho cuts you off with a bitter laugh, pulling the scalpel back but keeping it poised, ready. "Don’t bother lying," he says, his eyes dark with fury. "I already know everything. I just want to hear it from you."

He sits back slightly, still straddling you, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of chilling intensity. The blade dances over your skin, teasing but not yet cutting.

"Why?" he asks again, softer this time. "What did you think Ryan could give you that I couldn’t?"

Your mind races, heart pounding. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of your truth, but there’s no way out. His patience is wearing thin, and you can see it in the way his grip tightens on the scalpel, his jaw clenching as he waits for your answer.

"It wasn’t about him," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t know if this will calm him or enrage him further, but it’s all you can offer. "It was never about him."

He tilts his head, watching you closely. "Then what was it about, huh?" His voice sharpens, cutting through the air like the blade in his hand.

You flinch at the venom in his words, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand," you say quietly, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes despite your best efforts to stay strong.

Minho’s face hardens, and he slides the scalpel down your body, stopping just above your abdomen, his fingers tracing the line of your skin with a maddening slowness. "Then make me understand." His voice is dangerous, low and threatening.

His grip on your throat tightens, and the blade slides down to your chest again, this time pressing harder, enough to draw a thin line of blood. You gasp, the sting sharp and sudden.

Minho watches the blood bead up, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "I said make me understand why you betrayed me."

Before you can utter a word, the door to the cabin bursts open. Ryan stands in the doorway, his face a mix of shock and fury as he takes in the scene—the scalpel pressed dangerously close to your throat, Minho’s body straddling yours, and the faint line of blood on your chest.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ryan’s voice echoes through the cabin, and in a blur, he charges at Minho.

Minho barely has time to react before Ryan slams into him, knocking him off of you. The scalpel clatters to the floor as Minho is thrown back, struggling to regain his balance. Ryan swings a hard punch, landing square on Minho’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward. You scramble up from the floor, gasping for air, as the two men break into a full-on fight.

Ryan manages another punch, harder this time, knocking Minho to the ground. Minho’s body slumps for a moment, and Ryan quickly grabs the scissors lying on the bed, cutting the ropes free from your hands and feet. He helps you get up and grabs your arm, pulling you toward the stairs.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice low and frantic. “We have to go—now.”

You follow him downstairs, still in shock, the adrenaline pumping through your veins as he grabs his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

“I came as fast as I could when I got your message,” he says, his eyes scanning your face, full of concern. “Are you okay? Did he—”

But before he can finish, there’s a sound behind you—a violent thud. You both turn just in time to see Minho launching himself at Ryan from the top of the stairs.

Minho slams into him with terrifying force, sending the two men crashing to the floor in a violent heap. They grapple, fists flying, legs kicking, as they roll across the floor, locked in a brutal fight for dominance.

Ryan struggles beneath Minho’s weight, his eyes locking on the rifle resting against the wall near the sofa. He looks at you, desperation in his gaze, and subtly gestures toward it.

"The gun," he pants between blows. "Shoot him. Now!"

Your heart pounds in your chest as you rush to grab the rifle. Your hands shake as you lift it, your finger sliding onto the trigger. The weight of the weapon feels surreal in your hands, the cold steel pressing against your skin as you aim it at Minho, who is now pinning Ryan to the ground. The two men are still wrestling, but you have a clear shot.

“Do it!” Ryan yells, gasping for breath as Minho’s hands tighten around his throat.

Tears blur your vision, your breath coming in ragged sobs as you hold the rifle steady. Minho’s eyes catch yours, wild and unrelenting, and in that split second, everything seems to freeze. Your finger starts to push down on the trigger, your mind spinning with the weight of the decision.

“Why?” you scream at Minho, your voice breaking with emotion. "Why did you ever doubt me? Why couldn’t you trust that I loved you?"

Minho’s gaze softens for a fraction of a second, his grip loosening ever so slightly on Ryan’s throat. “You call this love?” he spits back, his voice hoarse but filled with pain.

Your finger trembles, hovering on the trigger, and you’re on the verge of pulling it—when something inside you snaps. In one swift motion, you shift your aim, your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

The gun goes off.

The shot rings out, echoing through the cabin as the bullet rips through the air—and buries itself in Ryan’s skull, right between his eyes. His body goes limp instantly, his hands falling away from Minho as he collapses to the floor, lifeless.

You drop the rifle, your whole body trembling, tears streaming down your face. You can’t stop sobbing, can’t even catch your breath as you take a shaky step toward him and ask, “Is that enough to show how much I love you?”

-

The silence that follows is deafening.

Minho looks at you, his chest heaving, covered in Ryan’s blood, shock registering in his eyes. After a moment, he gets up from the floor, calm and composed, as if the violent act that just transpired hadn't fazed him at all. He walks over to you without a word, his footsteps barely audible in the heavy silence.

From the dining table, he picks up a napkin, its soft fabric starkly contrasting with the blood staining your trembling hands. Gently, he wipes the blood droplets away, his touch careful, almost delicate.

“I cheated on you because—” your voice breaks as the words leave your lips, trembling under the weight of your sobs. “Because I wanted to know if you still care.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes. You watch as he moves across the room, grabbing a jacket from the coat rack. He replaces Ryan’s jacket—the one draped loosely over your shoulders—with his own. His movements are methodical, yet somehow tender, like he’s dressing you for something far more intimate than this horrific moment. You stand frozen, the tears streaming down your face, helpless in your grief and confusion.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, the sobs making your chest heave.

Minho zips up the jacket, making sure it fits snugly around you, before pulling you close. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, his lips meet yours in a tender kiss, one that reminds you of the warmth you used to find in him. Even with his blood-streaked face, you can see that familiar, intense gaze—the warmth you had longed for finally returning to his eyes.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his hand cradling your face with a kind of reverence, “and if I can’t have you, no one can.”

His lips crash against yours again, this time harder, deeper, and with a hunger that ignites something dangerous inside you. His voice, dripping with possessiveness, makes your heart pound in a way that both terrifies and excites you.

“You’re mine,” he says, the words claiming you with an unyielding finality.

And it’s that very possessiveness that pulls you deeper into him. It’s why you married him in the first place—because Minho doesn’t just love; he consumes. His love is fierce, intense, teetering on the edge of madness, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. You crave it, need it, and right now, it feels like it’s the only thing grounding you in this twisted reality.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, nodding as if you’re sealing your fate with those words.

The two of you kiss again, and this time, it feels like everything is falling back into place, like the chaotic balance of your marriage has been restored. The blood, the violence, the madness—it all shifts back to where it belongs, the perfect equilibrium of your dark, twisted love.

For a moment, the chaos of what you’ve done slips away, and you both stand in eerie stillness, as if nothing happened.

However, the sight of the body lying lifeless on the floor snaps you back to reality.

Minho silently moves to pick up Ryan’s jacket, using it to cover the gaping wound on his head, though the blood has already soaked into the rug. Without a word, he starts dragging the body onto the rug, and you, numb and dazed, help him. Together, you roll the body into it, cocooning Ryan in the bloodstained fabric.

"Go get the body bag from the basement," Minho tells you, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion.

Your legs feel heavy as you make your way down to the basement, retrieving the thick, black bag. The two of you struggle to maneuver Ryan’s body into it, your hands slipping on the slick fabric as you zip it up.

The weight of what you’ve done sinks in deeper with each passing second, but you push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. Together, you drag the body outside into the dark night. The only sounds are the rhythmic scrape of the bag against the ground and the low rustle of wind in the trees.

Minho busies himself with the boat, the mechanical hum of the engine cutting through the stillness. You clamber onto the boat, watching him as he grabs the large rock he collected earlier—the weight that will ensure the body stays submerged beneath the water, lost to the lake’s depths.

Once everything is set, he starts the boat, and it moves silently over the water, cutting through the eerie calm of the night. You sit in the cold air, the distant shore shrinking as he drives far enough from land.

Finally, he stops, and you both work in grim silence to lift the heavy body bag over the edge. The splash echoes in the darkness as it hits the water, and for a brief moment, the sound lingers, unsettling and hollow.

You and Minho stay there, eyes locked on the spot where the bag submerged, waiting, watching. The bubbles rise to the surface, swirling for a few moments before fading away into the night. The water smooths out, becoming calm once more, its surface reflecting the endless stretch of the night sky above.

Nothing comes back up. Only silence, only stillness.

-

With the body gone, there’s no time to waste.

Minho doesn’t say a word as he moves toward Ryan’s car, his movements swift and calculated. You watch as he wipes the door handles, steering wheel, and gear shift clean of fingerprints before driving it to the edge of the river.

The car slowly inches forward, and as it begins to roll into the water, you stand at a distance, watching the lake swallow it whole, the final glint of metal disappearing beneath the surface. The water ripples for a moment before settling back into silence, leaving no trace of the vehicle behind.

You head back to the cabin to tackle your part. The living room feels eerily quiet, haunted by the chaos that took place just hours ago. You move quickly, gathering the objects that were stained with Ryan’s blood: the napkin, the rug, anything he touched.

With methodical precision, you scrub the floor clean, the sound of the rag scraping against the wood filling the room. You make sure to use bleach, wiping down every surface, making sure no bloodstains or lingering scent remains. The stinging smell of bleach replaces the coppery odor of blood, and you inhale deeply, feeling the chemical burn in your lungs.

When the room looks spotless, you gather the last of the evidence: your clothes, Minho’s bloodstained clothes, and the tools he brought. All of it goes into a large bag—anything that could tie either of you to what happened. Together, you make your way into the woods, where the night feels darker, heavier, as if nature itself is holding its breath.

Minho starts the fire, the flames flickering to life and casting a soft, orange glow over the trees. The bag is heavy as you both throw it onto the growing blaze, the crackling of burning fabric and wood filling the air. You watch as the fire consumes everything, turning it into ash and smoke. The smell of burning evidence—your clothes, Ryan’s blood, every trace of him—rises with the heat, drifting into the night sky.

Minho grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. There’s a quiet intimacy in the way you stand there, side by side, watching as the fire devours the last remnants of the crime. The warmth of his hand grounds you as the flames burn higher, until all that’s left are glowing embers and ash, scattering into the wind.

There’s nothing left now. No evidence. No trace. Just the two of you and the darkened woods.

-

The sun is slowly rising on the horizon when you walk back to the cabin

The final task is washing away the evidence from your bodies. You and Minho share the shower, alternating turns under the warm water as it washes off the blood and dirt clinging to your skin. At times, you help each other scrub, his hands trailing over the places where bruises and cuts mar your flesh.

There’s a quiet intimacy in the way you tend to each other, rinsing away the aftermath of the night before.

Once you're out of the shower and standing in front of the mirror, you notice the injuries. There’s a bruise blooming around your neck from where Minho had choked you, a thin cut across your chest from his scalpel, rope bruns on both wrists and ankles, and scrapes on your knees from tripping in the woods. The marks are raw, reminders of the violence that had passed between you.

“Come, sit.” Minho’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You turn to see him sitting on the bed, first aid kit in hand, his eyes already fixed on your wounds.

You obey, sitting beside him as he opens the kit. His fingers graze your skin as he pulls the robe open, exposing the cut on your chest. The light touch sends a shiver down your spine.

Minho leans in, studying the wound with careful attention before smoothing ointment onto it. You wince as it stings, and he immediately blows cool air on it to soothe the burn.

He moves to your knees next, his hands gentle as he applies more ointment and covers the scrapes with band-aids. His gaze lingers longer on the bruise around your neck, his fingers softly pressing against the swollen skin.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is softer now, a hint of worry in his tone.

“Not really,” you lie, and then it's your turn to ask about the bruise blooming on his jaw from Ryan’s punch, "How about it?"

He catches your hand and kisses it. "I'm okay."

Satisfied with your answer, he puts the first aid kit aside. His hair is damp, tousled as he pushes it back, and when his eyes meet yours again, there’s something dangerous and tender in his gaze.

“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” you ask with a sly smile, teasing him.

His lips curl into a smile, and before you know it, his hands are on your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddle him, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your robe.

“Want me to kiss it better?” he murmurs, his voice low, his brown eyes fiery as they lock on yours.

“Yes,” you whisper, your hands resting on his shoulders, needing his touch.

Minho leans in, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on the bandaged cut on your chest. His lips linger, and you feel the heat of the kiss searing into your skin. He doesn’t stop there, parting the robe further to press fluttering kisses along your collarbone, down to your breasts.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer as he buries his face between your breasts. He’s kissing, licking, and sucking your skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail in its wake. He takes his time with you, his fingers joining in, rolling and rubbing your nipples between them until they harden under his touch.

You tug at his hair, watching him, entranced by the way his mouth worships your flesh. His lips part with a soft pop as he releases your nipple, leaving it wet with his saliva.

“I’m obsessed,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your sternum. “I’ll always be obsessed with your body.”

He doesn’t need to say it—you can feel it in every touch, every kiss. His admiration for your body is palpable, his gaze lingering on your skin as though he can’t get enough. Your heart races, your desire growing hotter with each second that passes.

“Want you, Minho,” you moan breathlessly, your hands tightening on his shoulders. “I want you so much.”

Minho needs no further encouragement. He lays you back on the same bed where he tortured you earlier, his body moving over yours with a desperate hunger.

When he enters you, the intensity of his thrusts takes your breath away. His eyes flicker between watching his cock slide in and out of you and studying your face, seeking your reactions with every movement.

He slows down suddenly, leaning down to kiss you deeply, pulling away only when you’re gasping for air. He presses his forehead against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours.

“Are you mine?” His voice is rough, commanding.

You nod quickly, barely able to speak.

His fingers graze your lips. “Words.”

“I am yours,” you say, your voice trembling with need.

A dark grin spreads across his face, and he kisses you again, more urgently this time. “That’s right. You’re mine.”

Minho resumes his thrusts, picking up the pace. One hand moves to wrap around your neck, squeezing slowly, cutting off just enough air to blur the line between pleasure and pain. His thrusts don’t falter as his grip tightens, his voice a dark whisper in your ear.

“You’re mine. All mine. Only mine.”

Your vision swims, the pressure on your windpipe mixing with the waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You look into his eyes, and what you see there—lust, love, madness—sends you over the edge.

Both of you reach your peak together, bodies trembling as the release washes over you in shuddering waves.

When it’s over, Minho collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that makes your heart stutter.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin. His hand rests over your chest, right where your heart beats wildly.

Then, his voice drops, a dark promise in his words. “I want to cut you open and climb inside, so we can become one—forever.”

Anyone else would think it was madness, but to you, it’s just Minho. It’s the way he loves you—raw, obsessive, and unrelenting. And you love him for it, for every twisted piece of him that’s unlike any man you’ve ever known.

“And I would die for you,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with the weight of it. “Kill for you. I love you.”

It has always been your wish to be loved to the point of madness and Minho made that come true for you.

-

You wake to sunlight spilling through the cracks in the curtains, the warmth coaxing you from the comfort of sleep. The bed feels impossibly soft, but the familiar ache in your muscles reminds you of everything that happened the night before. Slowly, you stretch, your body protesting as you roll onto your side, blinking into the brightness.

The cabin is silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves outside and the occasional chirp of birds. You glance at the clock on the bedside table—it’s already late morning. You sit up, pulling the robe tightly around your body as you swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Your eyes fall on the small bandages Minho placed on your wounds last night. They’re a stark contrast to the serene morning around you, a reminder of the intensity that’s always lurking beneath the surface. But that’s how it is with Minho—love and danger, pleasure and pain, always intertwined.

The smell of food drifts up from downstairs, making your stomach growl. Minho must be downstairs.

You pad softly down the stairs, your bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. As you step into the kitchen, you find Minho at the stove, the light from the window framing him in a soft glow. He’s already dressed in a white shirt that accentuate his broad shoulders and there’s a calmness in the way he moves as he plates food.

He turns, a warm smile spreading across his face when he sees you.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, his voice smooth and gentle, as if the events of last night were a distant memory.

“Morning,” you reply, still groggy as you walk toward him.

You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his chest, breathing him in. His arms immediately encircle you, pulling you close as his lips press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You slept in,” he teases, one hand coming up to brush your hair away from your face.

“I needed it,” you murmur, tilting your head up to look at him.

His gaze is tender, and there’s something disarming about the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world. He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss, slow and sweet.

The world outside feels far away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you—wrapped in each other, the chaos of your love quiet for once.

Minho pulls back, his thumb lightly tracing your lower lip. “I made lunch. Thought you’d be hungry.”

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I'm famished.”

He cups your face, kissing you again, this time deeper, more lingering. You melt into him, your hands finding their way into his hair, tugging gently as his lips claim yours. It’s moments like this that make you feel utterly consumed by him.

When you finally break apart, both of you slightly breathless, Minho rests his forehead against yours. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you close.

“How about we go for a ride on the boat today?” he suggests, his voice low. “It’s a beautiful day.”

You look up at him, your mind still foggy from the kiss. “A boat ride?”

He nods, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Yeah. The lake’s calm, the sun’s out. We could use some fresh air.”

The thought of spending the day out on the water with Minho, with nothing but the peacefulness of the lake around you, sounds perfect. You can already imagine the cool breeze against your skin, the way the sunlight will dance across the surface of the water.

“I’d love that,” you say softly, leaning into his touch.

Minho’s eyes glint with satisfaction, and he presses one last kiss to your lips before stepping back to finish preparing lunch. “But first, finish your food.”

As you sit down to the table, Minho places a plate in front of you, the meal simple but delicious. You eat in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging soft smiles and touches, your hands brushing across the table as if neither of you can stand to be apart for long.

For the first time, the two of you are connected in a whole new level that it feels like nothing can tear you and Minho apart anymore.

-

The boat glides across the tranquil waters, the rhythmic sound of the oars slicing through the lake the only disturbance in the otherwise still air. The sun hangs high above, casting a shimmering path of light across the surface, making it look like a trail of gold leading them deeper into the heart of the lake.

You sit facing Minho, watching the muscles in his arms flex and contract as he rows, his gaze fixed on the water, intense and focused. There’s something serene about this moment, a rare softness between the two of you. It feels almost surreal, considering what happened just last night.

Last night, when this very lake was a silent witness to the horror you both created. Now, it feels like a different place—calm, almost idyllic. But the memory is still there, just beneath the surface, lingering like a dark shadow that no amount of sunlight can chase away.

Minho slows the boat as you reach the middle of the lake, his eyes shifting to meet yours. There’s a glint of something unreadable in them, a darkness that always simmers just beneath his surface. It’s the very same darkness that pulled you in, binding you to him in ways that go beyond love. It’s obsession, need, and something far more dangerous.

He lets go of the oars and shifts closer, his knees brushing against yours as he reaches out, his hand sliding into his pocket. You tilt your head, watching curiously as he pulls out something small and shiny.

Your breath catches when you realize what it is. Your wedding ring.

Minho holds it up between his fingers, the gold band catching the sunlight. You stare at it, your heart pounding as memories of your vows come flooding back. The promises you made to each other, promises that were shattered and reforged into something far more twisted and unbreakable.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Minho murmurs, his voice low and soft.

There’s a tenderness in his gaze that disarms you, makes you feel as if he’s peeling back every layer of yourself and looking straight into your soul.

He takes your left hand, his touch featherlight as he slides the ring back onto your finger. You shiver at the sensation, your eyes locked onto his as he recites the very vow you spoke on your wedding day.

“In sickness and in health…” he begins, his voice barely a whisper but strong, his gaze unwavering. “For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer…”

You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribcage. There’s an odd sense of finality in his tone, as if he’s sealing not just a promise but something darker—a pact, a blood oath that binds you together not just in love, but in sin.

“...Till death do us part,” he finishes, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, where the ring now rests again, a symbol of everything you are to each other.

You draw in a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat. “Till death do us part,” you repeat, your voice just as soft, but the weight of the vow feels heavier now, burdened by all the blood and secrets you share.

Minho’s eyes light up at your response, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the still air.

“We’re bound again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “In life, in death, in everything. You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine,” you whisper back, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. There’s a fierceness in your words, a possessiveness that matches his own. Because you are each other’s, wholly and completely, in ways that no one else could ever understand.

Minho cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you—soft at first, almost reverent. But then it deepens, turning into something desperate and consuming. You can feel the intensity in every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours.

It’s not just love; it’s hunger, an insatiable need to claim and be claimed.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless. Minho rests his forehead against yours again, his fingers threading through your hair.

“With you, I’m never alone,” he whispers, his voice raw and honest in a way that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re the only one who understands me, the only one who’ll stay.”

“And I will,” you reply, your fingers tightening around his, “Always.”

Minho’s smile is small but genuine, and for a moment, he looks almost boyish, the hard edges of his face softened by the sunlight filtering through the trees around the lake. He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes dark and intense as they lock onto yours.

“We’re more than just lovers now,” he murmurs, his voice low.

Your gaze shifts to the water surrounding the boat, to the spot where Ryan’s body lies hidden beneath the surface. A chill runs down your spine, but it’s not fear—it’s the thrill of what you’ve become together. Bound by love, by blood, by the darkness that twists through both of your souls.

You softly nod in agreement as you turn back to him and with that, the two of you are bound once more—not just by the ring now resting on your finger, but by the weight of the secret that lies at the bottom of the lake. It’s your bond, your burden, and in a twisted way, it’s also your triumph.

Because what you have with Minho isn’t normal, and it isn’t sane. It’s dark and consuming and entirely your own. It’s a love that defies all reason, a connection that can’t be broken, no matter how much blood is spilled.

After all, when love is not madness it is not love.

-

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[lustlovehart]

I was skimming your monster hunter reader posts, and now I’m curious. Reaper Idia seems to kind of waffle between wanting reader to die so they can be together and not wanting reader to die? If that’s the case, how would he react if he ever had to collect the reader’s soul after a monster hunting job gone wrong? Would he be upset, or would he be relieved he doesn’t have to share anymore? Thanks!

Cw: Death, Obsession/Posession

I’m actually glad someone noticed it!! I make some (not all of them, a lot of the cast genuinely believe you being a monster is best and don’t feel guilty at all) of them experience some sort of guilt for wanting MH!Reader to be a monster, but ultimately, they mostly lean towards it being the best outcome.

Deuce and Silver are the few who don’t think it is, but go along with everyone elses decision. And of course Rollo vehemently disagrees.

But, Idia is the only one whose opinion goes back and forth all the time. On one hand, death is brutal, whether quick and painless or long and excruciating, when you’re dead it’s all the same, cruel. But, he’s never known the souls he collects, not on a personal level anyway. He knows that death itself is supposedly a depressing topic in the human world, but it’s his whole life, so it doesn’t bother him. But then you come along… and his views have a swaying opinion.

He doesn’t won’t you to die in pain, but neither does he want you to die painlessly and wake up in the after-life in despair over your sudden death. He doesn’t want that at all… But in the after-life, with him forever… He knows he’s a hypocrite for saying death is cruel, and then secretly wishing to not let you pass on.

Having eternity with you, his favorite person— no… being in existence is a dream. But a person after death, is different from when they were alive… which…

Which is why when he as to collect your soul, he feels so conflicted.

When you look down at your body in your new transparent form, you’re in shock. Everyone is when it happens, he’s witnessed it thousands of times. This is the only time he’ll comfort someone over it though. His hand on your shoulder, letting you slump against him at your despair. It starts with sorrow until he’s guiding you on. You both watch as the monsters gather around, attempting to collect a soul that’s being held by Idia.

Maybe that’s why he quickly took hold of you, so they couldn’t bring you back… Maybe…

You watch Rollo's face when he receives through letter from the monsters themselves of your passing. It’s Grim, the way he falls in on himself like he’s lost everything. But to be fair, Idia knows that he has lost it all, because Rollo’s everything is holding hands with him right now. He stops you from attempting to comfort him, he won’t see or hear any of it anyway. (No… the truth is if you do, you might stay a ghost here forever, and he… doesn't want that.)

When you’ve walked through the entirety of your life, and the moment to pass on has finally come, you smile at him.

But Idia’s not smiling.

When you leave, the light is sliced, Idias head rested on your shoulder as he apologizes.

“I… don’t want that.”

Summary: He starts conflicted with having you live and die when you’re alive. When you finally do die, he’ll feel incredibly sorry for your loss… but it’ll ultimately be overpowered by his love for you when you move. That same love will be what has you spending an eternity in his world.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Muscle Memory : Chapter Three

Pairing: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS Restaurant Owner Bucky Barnes x Cardiac Surgeon Female Reader Alternate Universe

Summary: In a town that never forgets , she thought she could hide the bruises behind a perfect smile and life. But someone from her past sees too much—and remembers everything. sorry its so vague just don't want to give too much away!

Word Count: 3.8k+

Chapter Warnings: Domestic Violence (never bucky to reader)! , mentions of: surgery , hospital/doctors , bruises , injury , abuse , depression , self doubt , blood , anxiety , Ft: Peter Parker , OC Tyler (readers fiancé)

Authors Note: SURPRISE ditched my usual posting schedule and chapter three is hereeee i really think you all will enjoy this chapter!! next chapter shows Buckys life and a look into his feelings and POV heheh let the rollercoaster beginnnnn Also i'm mainly focusing on my series right now instead of my lots of oneshots and I have another series in the works right after this on is finished! eeeee!

Series Masterlist

<- previous chapter - next chapter ->

The harsh , bright glow of the operating room lights was a heavy contrast to the shadows lingering inside Y/N. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she placed the final suture inside , her focus absolute and her stitching , perfect. 

The rhythmic constant beeping of the monitors was like a metronome , steady and grounding.

She carefully finished and checked the closure one last time , her gloved fingers pressing lightly against the patient’s skin. 

“Forceps ,” she murmured to the scrub nurse , who handed her the tool without hesitation. 

Her team moved like a well-oiled machine , everyone anticipating the next step she makes , waiting for her instruction.

The patient’s vitals were clear and stable. Alive.

The incision site was cleaned up , her stitches neat and precise as she checked over them one last time. 

She let out a small breath of relief happy with work.

“Great work , Dr. Y/N,” her resident said from across the table. “Another successful vascular repair.”

“Thanks ,” she replied , voice steady even though her heart was still racing and coming down from the high. “It was a tricky case , but I’m glad we caught it early.”

The resident gave a small nod agreeing , eyes crinkling with pride behind the surgical mask. “Finish it all up and meet me in the lounge when you’re done. We’ll go over the next few cases for tomorrow.”

“Will do,” she said , exhaling a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She finished completely with care , then gave the patient’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered , though the patient couldn’t hear her , currently still sedated and peaceful. 

Sometimes , most of the time she said it more for herself than for them. 

The post-op debrief was thankfully quick and painless. 

She stripped off her blue latex gloves and paper gown , dropping them into the biohazard bin before scrubbing her hands once more. 

The warm water and antiseptic clear soap was another comforting thing for her , a ritual she’d repeated so many times. Another rare safe constant in her life.

Walking out in the white hallway , she ran into Martha , one of the senior residents she’d become friends with during her short time here at this hospital. 

She had that easy motherly type grin that made people feel at ease , Y/N gave her a tired but kind intended smile in return. 

“Hey, Dr. Y/N ,” Martha said. “Nice save in there. I was watching from the gallery—a perfect textbook vascular control.” 

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear that fell from her tied up bun. “Thank you. Yeah , that one had me sweating for just a minute.”

She chuckled. “You? Please. You’re a steady rock in there. I wish I could be that collected under pressure , especially when it turns into a non-routine procedure.”

She shrugged. “You’re getting there. It’s all about practice.” 

They walked down the hallway together, past a couple of nurses chatting near the buzzing station. Jamie flipped through a tablet , checking off and updating her many post-op notes. 

“So,” she said, glancing over at her. “Tomorrow’s going to be another busy one. You’re on that complex ortho case with Dr. Lee, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And then the transplant consult on zoom for that case in Michigan after that. It’s going to be a long day.” 

She whistled. “Dang , You’re a perfect machine , Y/N , you sure you don't have a metal arm or cyborg brain hidden from all of us?”

She forced a small laugh , though inside she felt anything but laughing.

Martha turned to her, setting down her tablet , expression softening as she reached out to touch her elbow. 

“Hey… can I ask you something? Off the record and not hospital related.”

“Sure,” she said , adjusting her posture slightly , sitting up straight.

Martha gestured to her own face , a crease forming in her brow. 

“I… I couldn’t help but notice , there’s something on your jaw. Is that…?”

She stiffened automatically , her heart skipping a beat.

 She reached up instinctively , her fingers grazing the edge of a fading bruise. 

Despite the heavy layer of makeup she’d carefully applied that morning, the sweat from her day started to wipe it away and it began to peek through now.

“Oh—uh, yeah,” she stammered , her voice carefully overly casual. 

“It’s nothing. I… hit my face on the medicine cabinet door in my bathroom last night. Total klutz moment.” she said, huffing a laugh rolling her eyes at the memory.

A lie.

Martha's eyes narrowed just a little , forehead creasing slightly. 

“That’s a pretty bad spot for a door. Are you sure you're okay?”

“It’s fine,” she cut in , a little too quickly. “Really, Martha . I was just tired and not paying attention , it will go away , I'm all good.”

She didn’t look convinced , but she gave her a slow nod. 

“Okay. Just… if you ever need to talk , you know where to find me , right?”

She forced a bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “To talk about how much of a klutz I am? But thanks.”

The hallway suddenly felt too bright , too exposed. She shifted her weight from foot to foot under Martha’s eyes ,  fingers fidgeting with the hem of her scrub top.

“Hey , I’m going to head to the lounge ,” Martha said,  in a gentle tone. “But… if you ever need to get out of here for a minute , coffee’s on me.”

“Thanks,” she repeated , and she meant it. 

She always appreciated her kindness—she was one of the few who noticed the little things , though she never pushed anyone to talk about them.

Martha gave Y/N one last smile , then turned and walked away , the door to the lounge swinging shut behind her.

Y/N exhaled shakily , feeling the tension in her shoulders all the way down to her tingling fingertips.

She couldn’t stand here any longer , not with the bruise so close to the surface in a place where more people could see it. 

She felt it throbbing under the thin layer of makeup like a mark permanently brand on her soft skin , a secret she couldn’t let anyone else see or know.

What would they think of her , a successful heart surgeon , healing and repairing everyone around her and then getting her own shattered and broken at home almost everyday.

She shook her head pushing the thought deep down.

Turning on her heels with a squeak of her shoes on the nylon floor , she murmured something about needing the restroom to any passing nurse who happened to hear her , then quickly ducked into the nearest bathroom. 

The door locked and clicked shut behind her , muffling the gentle hum of hospital life outside.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her breath catching in her throat.

The bathroom had slowly become a sanctuary to her , her home away from home , her safe place. A place in the hospital with no prying eyes or people wanting answers from her.

Its cracked white and gray linoleum floors and faint scent of bleach and antiseptics are a small comfort compared to the chaos of the operating rooms and waiting areas.

She leaned slightly forward over the sink , eyes locked on the reflection looking back in the mirror. 

The girl staring back at her looked… tired–exhausted. 

She was frayed around the edges.

Letting out a slow deep breath she was focusing on the bruise along her jaw bone. It wasn’t as dark as yesterday , but no amount of concealer could erase it wholly and completely. 

She dabbed carefully with a sponge she brought in her bag on mornings like this just in case  , and began laying the foundation and color corrector in layers until the shape of his fingerprints was just a ghost beneath her skin.

A soft knock at the door startled her. “Sorry Dr. L/N , didn't mean to scare you” A nurse walked in. “It's alright Hadley , what do you need?” She answered while hastily picking up her makeup , tossing it haphazardly in the bag.

“Dr. Kim wanted to see you about the patient in three. His blood pressure is high again and his wife has questions about recovery.”

She blinked at herself, shoulders tightening snapping back to her job mindset. “Alright thank you for relaying the message i'll be there shortly, ” she called , voice smooth and steady, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

She gave her reflection a final glance before walking out —eyes bright but wary , lips curved in a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

She’d perfected this mask a long time ago.

Just another day , she thought , walking out and across the halls into room number three. 

“Hi, I'm Dr. Y/L/N , I heard you had some questions for me?” she said with a smile. 

Another day.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The hallways of the hospital buzz with busy hardworking people moving from one task to the next , the air filled with the low murmur of voices and beeps from machines and the rhythmic squeak of shoes on polished flooring as the rush is in full flow. 

Y/N moved through it all with practiced ease—dodging gurneys and wheelchairs , scanning charts handed to her , offering quiet reassurances in the hall and sweet greetings passing fellow doctors and hospital staff.

To her every patient was another small universe , each with their own fears , pain and obstacles.

She liked that—being needed , being able to fix other peoples worries and problems.

Being able to focus on someone else's life , even if only for a few minutes at a time with consultations or spending hours mid-surgery , she craved that distraction but one that also healed in the process.

She’d grown good at wearing that gentle smile and kind voice like armor. 

Sometimes it almost felt real.

Almost. 

Till she was drug right back to hell the moment she smelled the whiskey or heard the car door slam too hard after or before work.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

A few hours after the late morning rush , she found herself in the staff lounge again , stripping off her surgical cap and rubbing a hand through her hair and her fingers pressing into her temples. 

Her cheeks pink ; flushed from the heat of hours standing in the OR , her hair sticking to her neck and forehead. 

She leaned back against the counter next to the ancient coffee pot , letting the air of the A/C cool her skin. 

She could almost pretend she was just another surgeon , exhausted but content , and ready to go home. 

She sat up stretching and started gathering her charts walking through the halls with her intern for the month , Peter. 

Today she was showing him how to edit a chart and put in notes and log vitals post-op.

As they rounded the wide curve of the 1st floor hallway , Peter spoke up and asked a question about where to add a new note about the recent surgery schedule change for the next day  , pointing at the paper chart but she didn't hear him.

All she heard in that moment was a low , familiar voice from the lobby desk , edged with warmth and breathy laughter.

“…yes ma'am , Sam Wilson asked me to deliver this to room 504 it's his Aunt ,” the voice was saying.

Her head snapped up harshly. 

She turned , heart speeding in her chest , eyes wide , and peered around the corner into the lobby.

And she was met with exactly who she thought and hoped she heard. Bucky.

He stood at the reception desk , leaning in with a crooked smile. His hair was styled perfectly up , the ends curling slightly. He wore a worn leather jacket over a soft henley , sleeves pushed up slightly. And In his hands was two brown paper bags and a bouquet of pink flowers.

For a second , she felt like the ground had shifted beneath her feet.

“Dr. Y/L/N….did you hear my question?”

 Shoot , she forgot about Peter! 

She quickly answered his question and told him to go ahead and have lunch. 

Peter nodded, glancing at the man she had her eyes locked on and left , pulling out his phone almost immediately texting his fellow interns.

Y/N did her best to flatten her mused hair and took a deep breath walking towards the desk.

“Bucky?” she called out , her voice catching just a little.

He turned at the sound of her voice , blue eyes widening in surprise before a slow , warm smile curved his lips.

“Hey , doll,” he said , and God the nickname was a soft echo of a different time— a secret only they shared.

It made her knees buckle but she continued and stepped forward , pressing her charts to her chest instinctively. 

She could feel her pulse in her neck pounding , but it wasn't out of fear but a flicker of safety that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” she asked , a little breathless.

He lifted one of the paper bags a little. “Sam’s aunt just got cleared to eat after her surgery,” he explained , his voice calm and easy. 

“I thought I’d bring her something better than the cafeteria , nothing they got here is any good. No offense.” he said smiling at the end.

“None taken,” she replied , her laugh light and real despite everything tucked inside.

He tilted his head , studying her face. 

“You look good,” he said softly. “A little tired , but good.”

She flushed , tucking a strand of hair that had fallen behind her ear. “It’s… it’s been a busy morning. But good. Yeah , I love it , you know.”

He shifted his weight , his fingers drumming lightly on the paper bag. “Wanda said you were running the department , couldn’t believe it at first. But… it suits you , I mean the white coat and everything.”

She swallowed , heat creeping up her neck.

She did a cute little turn showing off the white coat. “I know, pretty official huh? You think it fits me?” she asked , smiling truly wanting his opinion.

For a moment , everything else seemed to fade—the beeping of monitors , the chatter of nurses and families. 

It was just the two of them , suspended in a moment that felt achingly familiar as he watched her.

“Doll , you're living your dream you wanted since we were kids , you were made for this , of course it suits you” He said , voice dropping a little laced with something she couldn't quite place.

That nickname again. 

He was going to be the death of her if he kept that up.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The moment stretched a little longer , quiet and comfortable , like slipping right back into an old rhythm.

They chatted softly , catching up in small bits and pieces , the little details of their lives , weaving a delicate thread between them.

“Still got your truck?” she asked , remembering the way when they were not running from something he used to take her riding through the winding back roads just to feel the wind on her face.

He grinned, that boyish flash of teeth burned happily in her memories and the same one she missed all too well. “Of course. She’s temperamental , but I can’t give her up.”

She laughed. “Sounds familiar.”

He smirked , shaking his head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

If only you knew , she thought. 

If only he could see the bruises beneath the carefully applied makeup , the way her shoulders tensed every time someone raised their voice.

She escaped one situation just to fall back into the next. Hasn't changed since they were kids. 

Just at the hands of a different person.

Their conversation continued to just flow effortlessly—talks of mutual friends , stories of Sam’s endless antics nowadays , and little memories that bubbled up like warm spring water.

She glanced at the flowers Bucky held , he noticed and brought them up to their faces—a small bunch of pink lilies and tiny babies breath mixed in throughout.

 “They're Sam’s aunts favorites,” he said. “I figured she could use a little color in her room.”

“They’re beautiful ,” she murmured , her fingers brushing the soft petals. “You’ve always known how to make people smile on their worst days.”

He shrugged, a touch of sheepishness in his eyes. “Just trying to help. You know how it is.”

Yeah , she thought. I do. Because she’d seen him do it a thousand times—patching up her own bruised knees , and of course offering warm hugs when the world felt too harsh and too cold.. 

He’d always been that way. And she was beaming knowing he's still that same boy she lov…cared for deeply , inside.

She didn’t want the moment to end between them. But the hospital never slept , and the hands of the clock marched on not caring of who or what begged it to slow or stop. Life is resuming right back to its pace.

She reached for her phone to check the time—almost 2:00pm . She had to observe a surgery at 3:30pm , and then a consult waiting for her at 4. 

She sighed , already feeling the weight of it all pressing down again.

Just as she was about to excuse herself , her phone buzzed in her hand.

She glanced at the screen and felt her stomach twist.

Tyler <3 

She really needed to change the contact name.

“Sorry it's Tyler ,” she showed him the contact glowing on her screen , stepping back a little as she answered. 

“Hey Babe ,  I’m just finishing up with rounds.” she cringed using the name but she couldn't let anyone, not even Bucky suspect they weren't a happy in love couple.

“Where are you?” Tyler’s voice was calm , but there was an edge to it that made her chest tighten. “I’m outside. Need to switch cars with you.” he continued.

She frowned. “Oh. Okay, I’ll be right there.”

She hung up , turning back to Bucky with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Tyler wants to switch cars , he needs the car ,  I guess I’ll have to grab lunch on the go.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

“I… no.” She offered a small shrug , trying to keep it light. “Like I said, busy morning.”

“Doll,” he said softly , and the word felt like a balm against the raw edges of her heart. He reached next to him grabbing the second brown paper bag. 

“Take this. I brought it for myself but I'll grab something on the way back to the restaurant , it's that grilled chicken salad you ordered the other day.”

“I can’t—”

“Please,” he cut in , his voice gentle but insistent. “I’d feel better knowing you actually got something in you.”

She hesitated , her fingers brushing the edge of the bag. 

She should say no–

But the kindness in his eyes , the warmth of it… it was too much to resist.

“Thank you,” she whispered , taking the bag carefully. 

Their fingers brushed , and for a moment , the world went quiet yet again.

She was tucking the bag under her arm when she saw Tyler marching in.

He was striding across the lobby , tall and immaculately put together—his dark slacks crisp , his dress shirt rolled to the elbows to reveal tan forearms. 

His jaw was set , his eyes sharp as they swept over her and Bucky.

She felt her stomach clench , a flicker of unease twisting through her gut.

“Hey,” she said brightly as he reached her side. “Just grabbing some food.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed for a split second before he smiled , all white bleached teeth and easy charm. “Yeah? Looked like you were having quite the chat.”

She forced an awkward laugh. “Just catching up. Bucky was dropping off food for a patient and had some extra for me.”

“Mm,” Tyler said , his gaze sliding from her to Bucky and back again. He leaned in , brushing a kiss against her temple all for show.

 “We should go ahead and do this quickly. Don’t want to keep you from your surgery.”

She nodded , her fingers tightening around the paper bag. “Yeah. Just needed to get something to eat”

Bucky shifted , his hands sliding into the pockets of his pants. 

“Good seeing you , doll, ” he said , his voice soft. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” he gave a stiff nod at Tyler.

“I will,” she promised, her throat tight. She watched as he stepped back, his smile gentle but his eyes… his eyes were searching , as if he could see all the things she was trying so desperately to hide.

He lifted a hand in a wave as he turned to go , the late afternoon sun catching the edge of his brown almost carmel hair. 

She watched him cross the parking lot , watched the way his shoulders squared against the world.

He paused at his truck , turning back to catch her gaze one last time. He lifted a hand again waving , and she felt her heart catch in her throat.

She waved back , a small smile on her lips.

She turned to Tyler then, slipping her hand into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Like her pulse wasn’t roaring in her ears at the contact.

“Let’s get to the cafeteria,” she said softly.

He squeezed her fingers , his smile easy , happy she was back in his grip. 

But she felt the steel beneath it , the way his hand tightened just a little too hard.

As they walked away together—her hand in his , the scent of Bucky’s flowers he brought was still clinging to her skin. 

Tyler’s fingers tightened around hers , the pressure pulling her back to the present. 

She turned to look at him, and he was already watching her—brown eyes sharp and assessing.

“What was that about?” he asked , his tone light , but she could hear the darkness beneath it.

“Just saying hi ,” she said quickly, her voice carefully even. “Like i said he was dropping off food for a patient.”

“Mm,” Tyler hummed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Looked like more than just saying hi to an old friend to me.”

She swallowed. “It wasn’t.”

He watched her for a moment longer, then his smile widened, all warmth and easy charm. 

A play.

“Good. Let’s go grab something to eat, yeah? You’ve got that surgery soon , and I'm starving. Had meetings back to back.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, slipping her hand more firmly into his. “Let’s go.”

They walked together into the elevator, hitting the button to the fourth floor , her fingers still wrapped in his slightly twitching wanting escape—his grip was harsh enough to remind her who she belonged to.

She stood idle as the elevator started ascending , but in her racing mind Bucky's final wave and smile lingered , smokey taking up her thoughts.

But as Tyler’s hand guided her toward the cafeteria doors feeling the warm sun on her face from the window lined hallways  , she felt the usual chill settle back into her bones.

And she knew that no matter how bright the sun was , the shadows weren’t done with her yet.

-end

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[igorluvr]

hi hi!! I saw that ur requests r open and I'd like a reader x platonic!thanos group

What if reader is the oldest child from a giant family so when they enter squid game they basically befriend the Thanos group and starts taking care of them!! like giving food and water or stopping fights

thankiuu!!

'THE GREATEST | platonic!thanosgroup x reader

PAIRING: platonic!thanosgroup x reader

SYNOPSIS: "made it all look painless, man am i the greatest?"; being from a particularly big family, you grew to love taking care of others. luckily for you, your group needed lots of guidance.

CONTENT: anxiety, gyeong-su erasure sorryy, petty ass arguments

AUTHORS NOTE: i hope u like this !!! once again its kinda short sorryyyy

word count: [1.4k]

YOUR team was nothing short of a disaster. Of course, you loved them, but their immaturity was exhausting. Half the group lacked common sense, while the other half seemed too lost in their own worlds to care. Fortunately, you had experience managing chaos and knew just how to handle the situation.

Growing up as the oldest in a large family, you practically took on the role of a third parent. When your mom was sick or dad was at work, it was your responsibility to step in and keep everything together. Even though you often complained about it, you wouldn't change those experiences for the world.

Taking care of your siblings shaped you into who you are today. You matured quickly, learning when to speak up and how to look after those around you. A deep-rooted instinct to protect and support others became part of your identity.

Meeting this group felt perfect for you. Without your guidance, they’d be lost. You loved looking out for them, even if there were many times that made you long for a little more maturity. Unfortunately, you knew those moments of calm and composure were nothing but hopeless dreams.

"Shut up, bitch." came a sharp voice, snatching you away from your thoughts.

You turned to see Nam-gyu, who had a notorious habit of throwing around insults without thinking. Thankfully, he hadn’t directed any at you personally. Sensing that the exchange could escalate, you quickly stepped in.

"Hey, no. We're not doing this. What happened?" you asked, surveying the group. They just stared blankly, not a thought in their mind. Se-mi chuckled softly and looked away, giving away that she was the one he’d yelled at.

Nam-gyu was the first to speak up. "This whore got smart with me. I was just telling Min-su to count the players, then she had to get in the way of our conversation.”

“Y’know it wasn’t much of a conversation to begin with. You were ordering him around like a puppy” Se-mi interrupted, annoyance creeping into her voice. The two of them had a thing for starting arguments, given their short tempers and quick tongues. Still, you felt it was necessary to listen to both sides, no matter how petty the situation was.

"You're the one who started it by calling me stupid!" Nam-gyu shot back, his voice rising as he sat up straighter. You shot him a warning glare, urging him to diffuse the situation.

"I didn’t say you were stupid, I asked if you were. But now I think you might actually be…" Se-mi added, infuriating him further. Nam-gyu sprang to his feet, ready to lash out, but you swiftly stepped between them, pushing him back down.

You swallowed your frustration and forced a smile, determined to maintain some kind of peace. "You both just misunderstood each other, simple as that. I would say to put this behind you, but we both know that's not happening... so apologize, both of you."

Se-mi scrunched her face in disbelief. "Why do I have to apologize? He’s just a whiny tweaker I swear" she muttered, the last part barely audible. You knew her words rang true, but he would never apologize unless she did first.

"Fine, I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t trying to call you stupid." Se-mi admitted, tone forced. Turning to Nam-gyu, you waited expectantly for his response.

"Sorry too, I guess," he shrugged, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Neither apology sounded genuine, but it was better than nothing.

You smiled sweetly at both of them and returned to your spot, relieved that the argument had been defused—at least for now. It was always a hassle to keep them from fighting, but it was a small price to pay that came with being associated to them.

After an uneventful hour filled with silly conversations and occasional naps, it was finally time to eat. It seemed that each passing day, the meals grew lower in quality. You considered bringing it up, but you knew that everyone had enough to deal with already.

Instead, you made sure the group lined up closely together to receive their food, one by one. You could barely call it a meal, but it was enough to get by.

"This isn’t even enough food for a baby, what do they expect us to do with this?" Nam-gyu complained, his relentless negativity shining.

“It’s enough to make it through the night. Better than nothing, right?” you countered with an encouraging smile. He lazily shrugged in response, groaning as he took a bite of the pastry.

Averting your gaze, you noticed Thanos hadn’t touched his food at all. He sat there, staring blankly into the distance. His pupils were dilated, and his mouth hung open in a daze. Rolling your eyes at his ignorance, you knew he still needed to eat, regardless of the drugs clouding his mind.

“Hey, Thanos. You should hurry and eat," you said gently, tapping him on the shoulder. Slowly, his attention turned to you, his eyes still glazed over.

“Nah. Not hungry,” he replied, his voice heavy with drowsiness. Your heart ached. You knew the substances were a coping mechanism for everything going on. You wanted to steer him away from them, but that was well out of your control.

You regarded him with sympathetic eyes, genuinely worried for his health. "Okay, but at least try to eat a little. You might not feel hungry now, but you definitely will in the middle of the night."

He squinted at you, the weight of your words seeming to register slowly. The silence hung heavily between you until he finally spoke.

"Alright, can I get your milk?" he asked nonchalantly. Surprised of the sudden change of mind, you handed over your carton without hesitation, being grateful he was putting effort into looking after himself.

The others continued to eat at their own pace, and a sense of relief washed over you at the sight of them all managing to stay healthy. Gathering all the empty containers and dirty utensils, you returned to your bunks to find a heartwarming scene unfolding before you.

Thanos and Nam-gyu were huddled together in one bunk, gossiping about someone; a pregnant girl and her boyfriend. Meanwhile, Min-su and Se-mi huddled in the bunk below, laughing about something you couldn’t quite make out.

Watching them bond brought a smile to your face. Sure, there were bad days, but moments like these made it all worth it. Suddenly, you heard someone call your name from above.

Looking up, your eyes met with Thanos’. “C’mere, need your opinion on something,” he said. You knew it would likely be stupid, but you had nothing else to do. Climbing up to their bunk, you sat criss-crossed and paid full attention to them.

“See them?” Thanos said, pointing to a couple nearby. One with bangs and a baby bump, the other taller with a slight bruise on his face. You nodded, urging them to continue.

“You think they’re a thing? They’re arguing, maybe he knocked up another girl too,” Nam-gyu inspected. Looking at them in confusion, you were unsure why they told you to come up just to ask that.

“You’re good at reading people, can you tell?” Thanos leaned in closer, his curiosity obvious. Observing the couple, you came to a quick conclusion.

“They’re probably arguing because he wants to spend his money on bitcoin instead of her baby. I mean, isn’t that the dude that made you go in debt?” They both stared harder, eyes blowing wide in realization.

Their faces twisted into frowns of anger, and you quickly recognized that they had been unaware of who that was. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch” Thanos snarled, jumping out of the bed and darting toward the couple.

Before you could process what was happening, you chased after him, attempting to stop him before he made a grave mistake. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you searched his eyes, pleading him to calm down. His expression softened slightly as he muttered a curse under his breath and slumped back to his bunk.

Eventually, everything died down and it was time to go to sleep. You always stayed up longer than everyone else, just to be sure nothing irregular occurred during the night. Usually you were the only one up, but that wasn’t the case this time.

Behind you, a small voice called your name. You turned to see Min-su staring up at you, his eyes glossy and low with fear. Instantly, your mood shifted from agitation to concern. He looked so scared.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, the worry evident in your tone. You quickly observed that Min-su suffered from severe anxiety throughout your days of knowing him, often staring into space rather than drifting off to sleep. The fact that he spoke up made your heart race.

“I can’t sleep. I’m scared,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear. You rubbed his shoulder gently in an attempt to comfort him. “Scared of what?” you asked softly.

He hesitated before answering, “I- I don’t want to keep playing these games. But I don’t want Thanos or Nam-gyu to be mad at me.” His confession hit hard. You knew how much they pressured him to play ‘one more game’

Your heart softened at his vulnerability, searching for the right words. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. They’re both blown out of this world with drugs, so anything they say is probably bad advice.”

Min-su gave a tentative smile at your encouragement. “Don’t think about it too much, get some sleep so you can have energy for tomorrow, okay?” you added, hoping to give him a sense of security. After thanking you, he climbed back into his bed with a shy grin.

As you settled into your own bunk, you felt the familiar quietness swallow you. You were used to these moments of stillness, you found comfort in it rather than uncertainty. The quietness rocked you to sleep, preparing you for the days to come.

[magical-regical]

Night Blooming Flowers

A Leona Kingscholar x f!yuu fic

Word count: 1273

(ok I know I usually do gn!yuu but this one's for me especially, capiche?)

The incident at Styx didn't leave many people unscathed and even though the majority of those involved made a full recovery, a certain prefect wasn't so lucky.

She didn't realize it until it was over. She just saw Grim being flung off of Ortho's shoulder and Vil trying desperately to grab him while also holding on to Idia. Her body moved before her mind and she barely had time to shout at Rook to keep her afloat before her body was free-falling through the air, one arm outstretched to grab the direbeast's paw.

She remembered holding Grim against her chest and the sudden change in momentum knocking the wind out of her chest. She remembered solid ground beneath her feet, people talking, getting on to a plane, and the sound of someone wailing until they touched down in the NRC sports field. It wasn't until Deuce shouted,

"Yuu, your face!"

that got her body out of auto-pilot. She moved to lift her right arm to touch her face when she realized she'd lost all feeling in said arm.

There was nothing to be done. Lilia surmised that because she had absolutely zero magic in her there wasn't anything stopping the underworld from directly draining the life from her cells and no room for magic to restore it either.

Now she's lying there in her room for the n-th sleepless night, her entire right forearm replaced by a styx-made prosthetic. The amputation procedure was unbelievably quick and painless and the top-of-the-line prosthetic that responded to her brain's signals just as well as her real arm would made the rehabilitation period practically negligible. No, that wasn't the problem. The problem was on her head, literally. The underworld had killed off some of the cells in her face and hair. The doctors were able to prevent the cells from going necrotic but you could still tell where they were from the white tips of hair and patches of skin on her face.

After tossing and turning for who knows how long she gave up and got out of bed. Not wanting to wake Grim who was snoring peacefully on his side of the bed, she left the room, closing the door as quietly as possible.

She walked with no particular destination until she reached the botanical gardens, which had been perfectly restored in record time thanks to the diligent efforts of the Shrouds. She was making her way through the temperate zone of the garden towards the subtropical zone where most of the night-blooming flowers grew when she stepped on a strange branch.

"I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose."

She jumped like a cat seeing a cucumber. Leona's tail retreated towards him as he sat up, letting out a yawn,

"What are you even doing here at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Leona growled, "I was sleeping, obviously. Until I was so rudely woken up."

"Well pardon me your highness." She said while rolling her eyes, "Please forgive this peasant's transgression and go back to your peaceful slumber."

She turned to walk away when Leona called out to them. When she turned around the lion was on his feet, his face a mixture of annoyance and something else she couldn't make out in the dark.

"You never answered my question."

"I couldn't sleep." she sighed, "and there are flowers in here that only bloom at night."

She tried not to stare as Leona approached her. Bathed in the moonlight like this, she was reminded that the lazy lion she has a crush on was actually a prince. A part of her wanted to run away but her feet stayed rooted in place, all she could do was try not to make eye contact until he was stood right in front of her.

She didn't see the way his eyes drifted to her forearm nor the pained expression that clouded his face for a split second.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"No. It did the first few days but not anymore. It's like I never lost it really. These on the other hand..." Her hand reached up to touch one of the white patches on her skin.

"I mean they don't hurt but... they look kind of grisly don't they?" She said while letting out a dry chuckle.

A silence fell between the two of them. Neither one really knew what to do. Leona was the first to speak up,

"Ipomoea alba"

She looked up at him in confusion. Leona just kept going as he started to walk, leading her towards the subtropical zone.

"Agave amica, Zaluzianskya ovata, Gardenia jasminoides. You don't even know the names of the flowers you're going to see?" his tone was playful but not mocking.

He explained how most night-blooming flowers are white because they don't 'waste' resources to color their petals instead, their only goal is to reflect the light of the moon.

"Where are you going with this?" she asked.

They stopped in front of one of the blooming gardenia bushes. Leona let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair as he turned to face them again, "Do I have to spell it out for you? You're like those flowers. You didn't waste any of your resources and had one goal, to save that weasel. These marks—" his hand reached out, hovering just above her cheek, "—are just proof that you succeeded."

Every word he said was steeped in his unshakeable confidence. As if the patches on her cheeks couldn't possibly stand for anything else. Maybe it was that confidence that made her grab his hand and press it against her face.

"Thanks, Leona." she muttered, closing her eyes.

"Hey, look at me." He gently tapped a finger against her cheek, making her open her eyes again, "I want to kiss you. May I?"

He could feel her blush through his gloves. She gave him a shy nod but that wasn't enough to satisfy the lion prince,

"No. I need to hear you say it."

Of course he did. She was currently face to face with one of the princes of the Sunset Savannah and if she couldn't hold her ground, she would surely be devoured. So she swallowed her embarrassment and, for the first time that night, looked him straight in the eye,

"You may, Leona Kingscholar."

He smiled, "That's my girl."

Then he closed the gap between them. The kiss was filled with feelings that no longer needed to be spoken out loud. When they broke away Leona kept his forehead pressed against hers, one of his hands tangling itself in her hair.

"I love you." she said, her gaze once again filled with that spark that had the audacity to twist his arm into helping her with her plan lest she made a racket in front of his room for the rest of the year.

He couldn't help but laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the empty garden.

"Took you long enough." He said, pressing another kiss on to her cheek.

"Stay at Savanaclaw with me tonight?" he mumbled.

"I'd love to but I can't. Grim would freak out if I just disappeared like that."

"Damn weasel..." he growled, burying his head into the crook of her neck. "Fine."

But despite saying that, he didn't let go of her. Instead, he picked her up and took her back to his usual nap spot before getting comfortable on her chest.

"Leona, I said—"

"I heard what you said." He huffed, "You'll be back in Ramshackle before the sun rises, I promise. For now just, stay here with me. Okay?"

She sighed, using her left hand to stroke his ears while the other one rested on the small of his back, "Alright."

A/N

Surprise! You thought you were reading a normal fluffy fic but it is actually! Thinly veiled OC lore! Now you are forced to look at my yuusona!

Pre-book 6 (L) and post-book 6 (R)

Her name's Oyuki McGuffin. She's 18 y/o and would like a nap.

Current concern: Does a potion count as soup?

Ok that's all I wanted to say. Thank you have a nice day.

[telamonisms]

1x1x1x1 x reader..general fluff hcs.. I'm stavrign... reader can be a killr or a survivor any is fine.. there's not enough 1x content

✦I have to agree with you anon, there isn't nearly enough content of 1x, for this, reader is a Survivor.

✦GENERAL FLUFF HEADCANONS WITH 1X1X1X1✦

✦You were convinced that something had to be wrong with you to watch her slaughter all your team mates and still feel so curiously drawn to her that you didn't even try to run. 1x herself agrees.

✦But it was exactly this which had her feel curious about you in turn. He'd at first written it off as you being so terrified you'd ended up paralyzed by the fear. When you kept doing it though, he began to doubt.

✦"You. Why do you not run in terror at the sight of me, weak one?" Had been the words which started it all. Their downfall if you may.

✦When you explained that you were curious about them, they didn't exactly know how to react or process it and just killed you. Oh well there's always next time!

✦Said next time you had a far better luck, able to strike up a somewhat calm conversation with him, asking questions that he'd in turn answer.

✦Until you asked why she seemed to be so against Shedletsky. The Mass Infection that ended you was, at least, mercifully quick.

✦Time to retry! You apologized in case you'd hit a sore spot and she went off. You hadn't expected a trauma dump from the 1x1x1x1 but you kept quiet and listened, thinking through it all about how despite the anger in their words and voice, you could feel how much they needed to let it all out.

✦By the time she was done, the round came to an end, needless to say, now you were pissed with Shedletsky and the next time you encountered 1x in a round you spent your time shit talking him.

✦Something bloomed within 1x's chest that day and from then on he seemed to be far more merciful to you, either avoiding you until you were the last one standing, or straight up fully sparing your life and instead talking more with you.

✦While at it, you also noticed how he seemed to look more towards getting to have conversations with you.

✦One day you asked her why. Why was it that she spared you so, that she seemed to enjoy your talks, that she, when not sparing you, made sure that your death was quick and painless. You told her that it almost seemed like she didn't hate you.

✦"I don't." Came out her answer and you were confused, but isn't she the Creation of Hatred? Shedletsky's hate personified?

✦He explained that "personified" is the keyword, hate is not all he feels, not all he is. Much like with Chance's dog motifs, I could go on a deep dive about how 1x doesn't just feel hate, but for the sake of the headcanons staying on topic, I'll only do so on a separate post if anyone wishes me to.

✦Ever since then, you two have grown closer and closer. You hesitate to put a name to what you two have, but you do kmow that you enjoy eachother's company and care for and cherish one another.

✦Maybe, just maybe, if you all manage to make it out of this realm, there wouldn't be any reason to not keep seeing eachother, spending time with eachother, no longer limited by an artificial timer marking the end of a round, perhaps you two would spend hours or even days in eachother's company.

✦I thank you for this lovely request and I do hope it is a good read. 1x1x1x1 alongside Chance are two of the characters I feel the strongest about. Especially with how much mischaracterization they both get put through and how much of their nuance people take away from.