#masterlist of ranking and reviews

[kiwriteswords]

Hello could I please request a fic where maybe the team doesnt like reader at first?

Winning Over the Kids [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 4.5k|| AN: Thank you for the request; I love seeing all of them come in <3 Feedback is also always welcomed! xx

Tags/Warnings: implied age-gap, reader is a forensic psychologist, no use of y/n, secret relationship, team dislikes reader at first, protective Hotch, no mention of Jack--so up to you if he exists or not lol, mirroring the Lo-Fi vibes with Kate Joyner/Hotch/Team, canon-typical themes, some fluff, team dynamics, established relationship

Sypnosis: When Erin Strauss contracts a forensic psychologist to work with the BAU Team, Aaron Hotchner isn't sure if he is more frustrated with the fact that they dislike you as their newest team member or as his secret girlfriend.

Aaron Hotchner had spent years mastering the art of control. His team relied on him to remain composed under pressure, a steady anchor in chaos. But when Erin Strauss informed him that she was contracting a forensic psychologist to assist the BAU, he felt his resolve stretch thin. Not because he doubted the decision—he knew you were exceptional—but because the team didn’t know the full story.

You were brilliant, sharp, and confident. You had risen through the ranks faster than most, your reputation built on precision and expertise. Yet, whispers of you being a “workaholic” and “cutthroat” followed you, a product of stereotypes surrounding young, successful women in high-stakes fields. Aaron had seen it before, but it infuriated him nonetheless, especially now that you were his… well, not officially, but close enough to feel the sting of those judgments on your behalf.

At the morning briefing, he broke the news. “The Bureau has decided to bring in a forensic psychologist to collaborate with us on our cases. She’ll be joining us starting tomorrow.”

Predictably, the room bristled.

“A shrink? Really?” Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “No offense, Hotch, but we kind of know how to read people.”

Emily Prentiss folded her arms. “Isn’t that the point of profiling? What does Strauss think we’ve been doing all this time?”

JJ added carefully, “Is this about our mental health? Are we supposed to… talk to her?”

Spencer Reid, ever the analyst, frowned. “I’ve read that forensic psychologists in consulting roles often critique operational dynamics. Could this be Strauss trying to monitor us?”

Aaron kept his face neutral, though he wanted to correct them all. You were nothing like what they imagined. “This isn’t about our capabilities. The psychologist has specific expertise in complex cases involving psychological manipulation. Her role is to supplement our efforts, not replace them.”

“Yeah, until she starts picking apart everything we do,” Derek muttered.

Aaron resisted the urge to snap. They didn’t know you yet. They didn’t see the meticulous care you put into every decision, or the softer moments when you let your guard down with him.

The next day, you arrived at Quantico with a polished confidence that turned heads. Ready to take on the next case, which was local to the BAU. 

You greeted the team with a professional demeanor, offering a firm handshake and an easy smile. But the tension was palpable. The team’s skepticism hung in the air like a storm cloud, and Aaron felt his jaw tighten as he observed their guarded reactions.

Derek kept his distance, observing you with a critical eye. Emily was polite but cool, and even JJ seemed uncertain about how to approach you. Spencer avoided eye contact altogether. Rossi…well, Rossi seemed to sit back and take it all in. 

“Let’s get to work,” Aaron said, more curtly than he intended, leading the group into the roundtable room.

You took a seat beside him, your notebook open and pen poised. “I’ve reviewed the case files,” you began, your voice steady and self-assured. “The unsub’s behavior suggests a deep-seated fear of abandonment, likely rooted in childhood trauma. But the escalation pattern indicates recent stressors. Have you explored potential triggers within the last six months?”

Reid blinked, clearly taken aback. “We—uh, we considered family dynamics, but we didn’t narrow the timeline that specifically.”

Your sharp gaze turned to him, not unkindly. “It’s worth revisiting. The timeline could give us a better idea of who influenced him most recently.”

Aaron noticed the way Reid shifted uncomfortably, and it grated on him. You were offering valuable insights, yet the team’s resistance was evident.

After the briefing, Derek muttered to Emily, loud enough for Aaron to hear, “Well, she doesn’t waste time, does she?”

Aaron’s patience wore thin. “Morgan, a word,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

In his office, Aaron shut the door and faced Derek. “What’s your problem with her?”

Derek raised his hands defensively. “Hey, I didn’t say anything she didn’t earn. She walks in here acting like she knows everything. What do you expect us to do—roll out the red carpet?”

��I expect you to treat her with the same respect you’d give any other professional,” Aaron snapped. “She’s here because she’s the best at what she does, and we need her expertise. Whatever preconceived notions you have, leave them at the door.”

Derek frowned but nodded. “Got it, Hotch.”

Aaron exhaled slowly after Derek left. He knew he couldn’t shield you completely, but it infuriated him that he had to watch you navigate the team’s cold reception.

That evening, after everyone had gone home, you found Aaron in his office. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, crossing your arms. “So, how bad was it?”

He looked up from his desk, his expression softening. “They’ll come around.”

You smirked, though your eyes held a flicker of vulnerability. “I’m not holding my breath.”

Aaron stood and walked over to you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to prove yourself to them. I know who you are, and eventually, they will too.”

You tilted your head, a teasing smile breaking through. “Is that your way of saying you’re proud of me, Agent Hotchner?”

He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Always.”

For a moment, the weight of the day lifted. Here, behind closed doors, you didn’t have to be the prodigy or the psychologist with a reputation. You were just you, and Aaron was fiercely determined to make sure the team saw that too—someday.

The next morning, as Aaron walked into Quantico, he noticed a huddle forming near Penelope’s desk. Derek, Emily, Spencer, JJ, and Penelope stood together, their voices low but animated. He had planned to keep walking, but a snippet of their conversation caught his attention.

“I’m telling you, I heard she’s impossible to work with,” Penelope whispered, her usual warmth absent.

“Yeah, and she’s already showing it,” Derek added. “Control issues, first day on the job.”

“So far, It’s just one case,” Emily said, though her tone was skeptical. “But she’s definitely… intense.”

“We don’t need someone analyzing us while we’re trying to profile an unsub,” JJ muttered.

“I don’t think she’s here for that,” Reid said hesitantly. “But… yeah, I’ve heard the whispers too.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened as he listened. He wanted to intervene, to defend you, but he bit his tongue. This wasn’t the time. Instead, he walked away, the sting of their words lingering. He felt almost betrayed. His team was usually better than this. They prided themselves on fairness, on seeing beyond the surface. But in this case, they were clinging to gossip and prejudice, and it hurt more than he wanted to admit.

When you arrived, you carried yourself with the same poise and determination Aaron admired. You greeted the team briefly, your no-nonsense demeanor firmly in place. “Let’s get to work,” you said, spreading the case files across the conference table.

Your approach was methodical and efficient, and though Aaron knew it was how you operated, he could see how it rubbed the team the wrong way. They weren’t used to outsiders, especially not ones who came in with your level of authority and expertise. But they were professionals, and they pushed their reservations aside as the case progressed.

Aaron watched you closely throughout the day. You were unflinching in your analysis, your insights sharp and accurate. When you spoke, your voice carried confidence, but he could sense the subtle edge in your tone—a shield you had learned to wield over years of proving yourself.

After the case briefing wrapped up, Aaron found you in one of the quieter corners of the office. You were reviewing your notes, your expression focused but unreadable.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice low.

You glanced up, a small smile playing at your lips. “I’m fine, Aaron. It’s not my first rodeo.”

He stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “I’ve heard some of the things they’ve said,” he admitted. “They don’t know you, and they’re wrong. I’m sorry for how unwelcoming they’ve been.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You don’t have to apologize for them. I get it. They’re protective of their team, and I’m an outsider. It’ll take time.”

“It shouldn’t have to,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended. He softened, adding, “You shouldn’t have to prove yourself to them.”

Your smile widened, though there was a flicker of something softer in your eyes. “I’ve been proving myself my whole life, Aaron. This is nothing new. Besides, I’ve got you in my corner, right?”

“Always,” he said without hesitation.

For a moment, the weight of the day lifted, and he allowed himself to take comfort in your resilience. But as he returned to the team, he resolved to address their behavior. They needed to see you for who you truly were—and he wouldn’t rest until they did.

During the next case you assisted on, the tension had been simmering all day, and Aaron could feel it building like a storm. You had just delivered a sharp, insightful breakdown of the unsub’s likely behavior patterns, pointing out inconsistencies in the case file that had gone unnoticed. It was the kind of analysis that would have earned respect from anyone else, but not today. Not from this team, not yet.

The briefing room was quiet for a moment after you finished speaking. Emily exchanged a glance with Derek, and JJ tapped her pen against the table, her lips pressed into a thin line. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating.

“That’s… an interesting perspective,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair. His tone was polite, but Aaron caught the subtle edge, the unspoken doubt.

You didn’t falter. “It’s not just a perspective,” you replied, your voice calm and measured. “The data supports it. If you cross-reference the victimology with the geographic profile—”

“We get it,” Emily interrupted, her tone sharper than usual. “But we’ve been doing this a long time. We know how to read behavior.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. He glanced at you, but your expression remained composed, even as he could see the faint tension in your posture. You nodded slightly, as if conceding the point, and continued reviewing the case files without another word.

The meeting wrapped soon after, but Aaron lingered behind, pretending to organize his notes. That’s when he heard it.

“I don’t know how much longer I can deal with her,” Emily muttered as the others gathered near the coffee station. “She’s so… clinical. It’s like she doesn’t even care about the victims, just the data.”

“She’s got control issues, for sure,” Derek added. “Like she’s got something to prove.”

JJ sighed. “Maybe Strauss sent her to micromanage us. I mean, why else would she be here? We’re already the best at what we do.”

Aaron slammed his folder shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room. The team froze, turning to see him standing there, his expression dark and unreadable.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low but laced with unmistakable anger. He stepped toward them, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “I don’t know what’s more disappointing--your lack of professionalism or your willingness to tear someone down based on assumptions and gossip.”

The team exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke.

“You think she’s here to micromanage you? She’s here to help. And the fact that you can’t see the value in her insights says more about your egos than it does about her methods.”

“Hotch, we didn’t mean—” JJ started, but he cut her off.

“No,” he said firmly. “You did mean it. And if you spent half as much energy working with her as you do undermining her, we’d be a hell of a lot closer to catching this unsub.”

The room fell silent. Aaron rarely raised his voice, and when he did, it carried the weight of finality. He let the silence hang for a moment before he continued.

“She’s not here to prove herself to you. She’s already proven herself, time and time again. It’s time for you to rise to her level, not drag her down to yours.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he’d have to address this further later, but for now, he needed to find you. He wanted to make sure you were okay to remind you, in whatever small way he could, that he was still in your corner. Always.

Aaron Hotchner found you where he expected to: in one of the unused offices, deep in thought over the case files. You were perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through pages with a sharp focus that never failed to impress him. The tension he’d carried since leaving the briefing room eased slightly when he saw how calm you were.

You didn’t even look up when he stepped inside. “Didn’t expect you to find me so quickly,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Aaron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I needed to check in. The team…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “They were out of line.”

That made you pause. You glanced up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Aaron, it’s fine,” you said, setting the file down. “I’ve been in this position before. People don’t like change, and they don’t like outsiders. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” he replied, his voice firmer than he intended. “It’s not fair, and it’s not professional.”

You tilted your head, studying him in that way you always did when you were about to cut through the noise. “They don’t know, Aaron. About us.” Your tone was even, but there was a hint of something deeper there--not accusation, just acknowledgment.

He stiffened slightly, but nodded. “They don’t. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. For now.”

You let out a quiet hum, leaning back on your hands. “For now, sure. But you should think about it. They’re already questioning why you’re defending me. If they find out later that it’s because we’re involved, it won’t sit well with them. They’ll feel like you’ve been hiding something important.”

“They’ll feel betrayed,” Aaron said, the weight of the truth settling over him.

You nodded, a small, knowing smile on your face. “Exactly. Look, I can handle their doubts, their gossip, whatever they want to throw at me. But you need to decide how long you want to keep this a secret. They’re your team. They’re loyal to you. But they also need to trust you.”

Aaron stepped further into the room, his expression softening as he regarded you. “You don’t care what they think of you, do you?”

“Not even a little,” you said with a shrug, your confidence steady. “I’ve spent years dealing with this kind of thing. It’s not new, and it doesn’t bother me. What does bother me,” you added, meeting his eyes, “is the idea of this coming out later and making things harder for you. Or for us.”

Aaron let out a slow breath, running a hand over the back of his neck. You were right, of course. You always were. He couldn’t keep this from his team forever, and things with you had grown too serious for him to pretend otherwise. He had never been one to let his personal life interfere with his work, but this was different. You were different.

“This is serious,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You arched a brow, a teasing smile breaking through. “Wow, Aaron. Way to make a girl feel special.”

He stepped closer, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “You know what I mean. Things are serious between us. You’re not going anywhere, and neither is the team. I need to find a way to make this work.”

You softened, your hand brushing against his as he stood next to you. “You will. They’ll come around, Aaron. And if they don’t, well…” You shrugged, the corner of your mouth lifting in a smirk. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

Aaron felt a warmth spread through him, a rare sense of peace in the midst of the chaos. You were right, as always. He would figure it out--not just because he had to, but because you were worth it.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that it would all work out.

Aaron Hotchner had always believed in leading by example. Transparency, fairness, and honesty were core tenets of how he ran his team, and they had rewarded him with loyalty and mutual respect. But as he stood in the conference room, waiting for his team to gather for an unscheduled meeting, he knew he had failed to uphold one of those principles.

The team filtered in, curiosity and unease written across their faces. JJ and Emily exchanged glances, Reid clutched his ever-present notebook, and Derek leaned against the edge of the table with his arms crossed. Penelope, usually lighthearted, looked slightly nervous. Rossi lingered at the back, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in thought.

When the door closed, Aaron cleared his throat and took a steadying breath. “I asked you all here because there’s something I need to address—something I should have told you from the beginning.”

The team straightened, their collective focus sharpening. Aaron had their attention.

“You’ve all expressed concerns about having a forensic psychologist embedded in the team,” he began, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve questioned her presence, her methods, and, frankly, her character. Some of those comments have been professional disagreements, but others have crossed the line. I’ve let it continue longer than I should have, and for that, I take responsibility.”

Emily shifted uncomfortably while Morgan frowned. Reid’s brow furrowed in confusion, his pen tapping lightly against his notebook. Rossi, though silent, tilted his head slightly, a knowing look flickering across his face.

Aaron met each of their gazes in turn, his tone unwavering. “The reason I know she’s good at her job—why I trust her, and why I know she’s not here to spy on us or undermine our work—is because I’ve been seeing her outside of work. For a while now.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Reid blinked rapidly, his pen freezing mid-air. JJ’s mouth opened slightly as if to speak, and Penelope let out a small, involuntary gasp. Derek sat up straighter, his brows furrowed in disbelief. Emily’s eyes widened, but she quickly masked her surprise. Rossi, however, didn’t look shocked at all. Instead, his lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, as though confirming a suspicion.

“I had no say in her placement on this team,” Aaron continued, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Strauss made the decision, and she made it clear that the reason is simple: she’s the best. You’ve seen it for yourselves, even if you haven’t wanted to admit it. Her insights have already helped move this case forward. She is not your enemy, nor is she here to judge you.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “I didn’t disclose our relationship because I wanted to keep our personal lives separate from our professional ones. But as your Unit Chief and as her partner, I will not tolerate disrespect toward her—whether it’s behind her back or to her face.”

Reid, finally finding his voice, asked hesitantly, “Does she…know about us? I mean, our dynamics, our methods? Or does she see us as part of the problem?”

Aaron’s expression softened slightly as he addressed the question. “She knows exactly who you are and how good you are at what you do. She’s here to help you do your jobs better, not to interfere. But she also deserves the same respect you’d give any other member of this team.”

Rossi finally spoke, his tone measured. “And you think telling us this now is going to smooth things over?” His words weren’t accusatory, but they carried weight.

“I think,” Aaron replied, meeting Rossi’s gaze, “that you deserved to know the truth. And I think it’s time we focus on the job at hand rather than creating divisions that don’t need to exist.”

The silence lingered until Derek broke it. “Hotch, we didn’t mean to—”

Aaron held up a hand. “I know you didn’t mean harm, but intentions don’t erase the impact. This team works because we trust each other. That trust goes both ways. If there’s something you need to say, say it to me or to her directly. Gossip and disrespect have no place here.”

JJ nodded, her expression softening. “You’re right. We were out of line. I think…I think we just felt blindsided.”

Aaron’s tone eased, though it remained firm. “I understand. Change isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. You’ll see soon enough why she’s here. Until then, I need your cooperation.”

Emily exchanged a glance with Morgan, then nodded. “We’ll work on it. I promise.”

Rossi gave a small nod of approval, his smirk gone but his understanding clear. “She’s good, Aaron. I’ve seen it. Let’s make sure the rest of the team sees it too.”

Reid looked thoughtful, his pen tapping rhythmically again. “I think we can…adjust. If she’s here to make us better, that’s not a bad thing.”

Aaron gave a single nod, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Good. That’s all I wanted to say. Dismissed.”

As the team filed out, murmuring quietly among themselves, Rossi lingered behind. “You know,” he said, crossing his arms, “you could’ve just told me this a week ago.”

Aaron allowed himself the faintest smile. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Probably not,” Rossi said with a shrug, “but it would’ve saved you the speech.” With that, he left, leaving Aaron alone to gather his thoughts.

For now, he had taken the first step. And he could only hope it was enough.

Over the next few days, Aaron began to notice subtle shifts in his team’s behavior toward you. It wasn’t immediate, nor was it dramatic, but the signs were there. During case briefings, they no longer exchanged skeptical glances when you spoke. Instead, they began nodding along or even asking follow-up questions. Derek, who had been one of the most vocal skeptics, offered a rare compliment about your interrogation technique after a successful suspect interview.

“She’s got a way of getting under people’s skin,” Morgan admitted to Rossi when he thought Aaron wasn’t listening. “In a good way, I guess.”

Aaron didn’t respond, but he tucked the comment away, feeling an unspoken sense of satisfaction.

Even Reid, who had initially kept his distance, began peppering you with questions about your graduate work. You seemed to enjoy indulging him, discussing obscure psychological theories with the same enthusiasm he brought to the conversation. JJ and Emily followed suit, no longer as guarded, and Penelope—while still wary—had gone out of her way to show you how to use the BAU’s internal systems.

Aaron observed it all with quiet pride. His team was warming up to you, just as he had hoped, and it wasn’t because he’d told them to—it was because of you. Your intelligence, your confidence, and your ability to adapt were slowly breaking down the barriers they’d put up.

That evening, as the two of you wrapped up some paperwork in his office, you leaned back in your chair and smirked at him. “You know,” you said, your voice light with amusement, “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Aaron looked up from his file, one brow raised. “Enjoying what?”

“You’re like the team dad,” you teased, crossing your arms. “All broody and protective, wanting the stepmom to be liked by the kids.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, low and rich. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” you shot back, grinning. “Because I think you’ve been paying more attention to their approval ratings for me than I have.”

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head but still smiling. “Maybe. But only because I know how much they mean to you—and how much you mean to me. I want this to work.”

Your expression softened, and for a moment, the teasing dropped. “It already is, Aaron. You don’t have to worry.”

His smile lingered as he looked at you, the tension that had been weighing on him for weeks finally starting to lift.

The real sign of progress came at the end of the week. The team had just wrapped up a grueling case, and as everyone packed up their things, Derek clapped his hands together.

“Alright, we’re going out. Drinks, food, and maybe a little dancing. Who’s in?”

JJ and Emily immediately agreed, and Reid nodded hesitantly, though he muttered something about “just one drink.” Rossi chuckled but offered a quick “Count me in.” Penelope looked around, her bright demeanor back in full force. “Where are we going? And more importantly, is there karaoke?”

Derek laughed. “No promises, Garcia.”

Then, almost casually, JJ turned to you. “You should come,” she said, her tone friendly and genuine. “You’ve had a long week too. You deserve to relax a little.”

Aaron didn’t miss the slight hesitation in your posture before you smiled. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” JJ said, already texting someone. “It’ll be fun.”

Aaron stayed silent, watching the moment unfold. The invitation wasn’t forced or reluctant—it was sincere. It was an olive branch, extended without fanfare, and he could tell by the look on your face that you recognized it for what it was.

As the team began filing out, chatting about where to go, you lingered by his desk. “That was unexpected,” you said quietly, glancing at him with a small smile.

“They’re coming around,” Aaron replied, his voice equally soft. “I told you they would.”

You smirked. “Well, Dad, looks like the kids like the stepmom after all.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he stood. “Let’s just hope I can keep them from embarrassing us tonight.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” you teased, grabbing your bag. “Now, come on. You’ve got to show me if Unit Chief Hotchner can actually let loose.”

As you both headed out to join the others, Aaron felt a rare lightness in his chest. Things were falling into place—his team, you, everything. And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to enjoy it. 

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

[kaiist]

-.- .- .. .. … -

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 : 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒

⋇ Status ⋯ Docking Complete ⋇ Location ⋯ 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓 Orbital Station ⋇ Access Level ⋯ Authorized ⋇ Launch Code ⋯ 280325

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑. ∹ You’ve successfully docked at 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐓, a terminal floating amidst the cosmic expanse. Whether you’re here for classified mission reports, encrypted transmissions, or to send a request through the interstellar network, all data logs are available below ⋯ navigate wisely—adventure awaits.

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍

⋇ Designation ⋯ Captain Kaisa-19 ⋇ Rank ⋯ Chief Archivist & Storyteller ⋇ Mission ⋯ Documenting celestial encounters and stellar romances across the cosmos. ⋇ Terminal Note ⋯ All transmissions are encrypted and monitored by the central AI, and I’ll later review it in my command quarters. For further inquiries, send a request through the Incoming Transmissions channel.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐌

✛ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 ⋯ Mission Reports & Archived Transmissions [ All Writings ]

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© main · ao3 · theme · divider · characters belongs to developers

[bubybubsters]

Smau ideas!

Telling Acotar guys your ranking of high lords based on how hot they are (completely out of the blue and unprompted)

Not sure if you have seen the trend on TikTok where wives are telling their husband they can’t pay the mortgage this month and the husband is like what do you mean, you never pay. Something like that maybe where you say you can’t pay y’all’s rent this month and they are confused as hell because you never pay the rent anyway

Telling them you bought puppy but then sending a picture and there’s actually like 8 puppies

Sending a flirty pic but then saying oops wrong number

Excuse me? acotar smau

in which you send the acotar males your rankings of hottest high lords

a/n: I’m SORRYY it’s been a hot few months since you sent this and i’m very sorry it took me this long! i’ll try to do the other ideas another time! thank you for the ask and thank you @thelov3lybookworm for reviewing these!

thank you @tsunami-of-tears for the dividers

smau masterlist

taglist: @profound-imagination @lilah-asteria @stargirl1714 @hieragalbatorixdottir

i’m sorry if i forgot you- my brain is wild rn <3

ask to be tagged, give ideas, comments, reblogs are appreciated, do not steal my work!

[slowd1ving]

IWAUSBTIDAWRIANWATSIARHNAFTFTWOADP ✦ . SUNDAY

I was an underpaid salaryman but then I died and was reincarnated into a new world as the strongest in a reverse-harem novel and forced to follow the whims of a deranged pope??? headcanon/drabble thing idk before I recommit to my baby pendulum art creds: noredemptionarc on x pairing: pope sunday + male reincarnator reader warnings: none, just some obsessiveness ig and violence wc: 4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✦ . Each person has their own unrealistic daydreams about things they want to experience: a day with unlimited money, exacting revenge on a particularly insufferable coworker, or perhaps the advent of superpowers. Paltry things, naturally, in response to the endless mundanity and strife present in a vast world.

✦ . Naturally, you’re no different: an overworked corporate pawn that fits uncomfortably in the statistical median. Each ambition of yours is imprisoned in a charcoal suit, and your only solace is escaping to other worlds to forget this one. That’s your daydream, wrapped neatly in a bound volume of novels and the cracked screen of your phone.

✦ . Apocalypse, martial arts, romance—you devour each and every genre. Horridly predictable clichés, trash storylines and badly written characters: they pile up, catalogued in your reading history with carefully curated reviews. There are gems that you wouldn’t mind ending up in; with those, you plan cautiously your ascent to a comfortable, entertaining life—an office worker versus the pixels on your phone. 

✦ . Alas, you wind up in a cliché of your own: entering an eternal slumber from overwork and reincarnating as a side character in the shitty b-rated romance novel your coworker recommended. Scratch that—not even a side character but an extra. It’s a karmic jab at the scathing vitriol you left buried in the comments, engaging with the work only to argue with people beneath each chapter about the god-awful plot devices and utter vapidity behind the character choices. Like, come on, a harem based on how ‘interesting’ the female lead is? Seriously? 

✦ . Except, the situation is very serious now. Shoved into the body of one of the male leads? You could’ve dealt with that hand. Reborn as the villain responsible for the situations that inevitably ended with each male lead getting closer to the heroine? Sure, you’ve read enough of those that you have a comprehensive, cited manual on how to turn around your fate. But… being born as a commoner in a fantasy setting, a good twenty years before the story actually starts, in a village that would likely be stricken by the plague or wiped off the map as a plot device? You’re screwed. 

✦ . Or that’s what you might’ve thought, if the plot wasn’t so predictable. 

✦ . You’ll set yourself up for life if you play your cards right—following each cliché like a trail of breadcrumbs to find each magical artifact or whatever, unlocking a magical core probably along the way, finding every obvious foreshadowing Chekhov’s gun style. Training to be the underdog knight who ends up as a second male lead? Pshh—that’s amateur stuff. You’ll make a name for yourself, journeying through the lands of Argo to steal the main characters’ glory. 

✦ . It’s simple. You wait for an inevitable war with demonic hordes that probably contributed to a tragic backstory in the main cast, and do your best to get recruited by the grizzled veteran who conveniently spots you training with a stick in one of the fields. Either you die and leave this stupid world, or you get lucky and rise up in the ranks—a win-win situation, really.

✦ . It hurts. The magic sword that you found located suspiciously in the forest looks into your soul and determines you are not in fact pure of heart and will wallop you until you are, thus the golden-haired Southern Duke’s heir Gepard Landau misses his opportunity to acquire the legendary Harpe, and you get to be beaten up in his stead. You don’t complain though—this is all part of the convoluted process that is mentioned once (never in detail) that creates a stupidly overpowered character. 

✦ . It hurts. The veteran who noticed your far-too-enthusiastic movements knows his stuff—in true cliché fashion—and you are molded into the perfect little soldier, bruised within an inch of your life. You learn various footwork techniques and the basics that shape your swordwork into something to be feared, that cuts down demons like wheat under a sickle. 

✦ . It hurts. Magic circles brand the tender walls of your heart when you’re thinking about the physics degree you started but never managed to complete, and you pass out a few times as they stabilise—but it’s fine. Pain is temporary; those sweet gains will be your plot armour. 

✦ . Guilt might have wracked your heart if you were one of those irritating protagonists that firmly believed they should stick to the plotline no matter what, but you aren’t. If it’s truly a fictional world you are in, then your actions won’t matter; and if it’s a real world, then your actions merely represent a parallel divergence in this universe, and the world actually doesn’t revolve around the main cast. 

✦ . You are the first to find the demonic stone that is meant to be absorbed by the Duke of the North, Yingxing—one of the more disturbing male leads—and consume it to catalyse the formation of additional magic circles around your body. He’s just some guy whose demonic heritage and extensive training created a ridiculously strong and edgy lead who is fixed or whatever by the sunny protagonist. 

✦ . It is when you accidentally-on-purpose stumble across the statue of an old goddess Idrila that your ripples culminate into a tidal wave of change. Within the subtle planes of the stone, a mythical being slumbers—meant to be the driving force behind the knight-turned-second-lead Argenti’s actions, yet will now be used to your full advantage as you drip your blood into the offering plate. No, she doesn’t grant wishes, but she does give him a pretty neat technique that creates a water-tight defense.

✦ . You may have gone too far. The paltry details you’ve robbed from the story—mere plot devices that only accelerate the male leads’ growth—have forged you into a war hero, practically capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Demon Queen herself. Well, not really. You won’t push your luck, even as you’re being awarded a medal of honour and a title for turning the tides. It’s a viscounty—far more than you expected, but you’ll take it, even with the whispers in high society about you. A commoner turned noble. Oh, the scandal—the horror. Truly, you could not care less as you return to the battlefield to find even more spoils—except, you almost crash into a herald on your way and stare incredulously as he delivers the king’s edict. 

✦ . Guard His Holiness. 

✦ . You were fine dealing with the murderous stare garnered from the Northern Duke as you politely bowed to the protagonist, fine with interacting with the two more rational male leads (though it was a controversial case when it came to Sir Argenti, if you were totally being honest), but His Holiness? Now, this wasn’t a plotline you could have predicted. If memory serves you correctly, mad dogs of the battlefield are, you know, kept in the battlefield slaughtering demons—not, you know, on guard duty. Is the king being for real?

✦ . He is, in fact, being for real. Part of you wants to take the rolled up parchment from the herald and bash it over your head, but another part of you appreciates the unexpected nature of the request. Or perhaps it’s expected, as the natural enemy of demons is the Church of Order, and they will likely be targeted by the hordes next. Except, you’re not quite sure why the most dangerous of the male leads, Sunday, needs protection. Of the unfortunate quartet, he is the most obsessive—the papal figure of Ena the Order, with his deluded faith coming only second to his absolute devotion to the heroine. 

✦ . Though, on second thoughts, heading to the church might be the only plausible course of action—you know, consult with whatever god is running this place, get some answers to the questions that have really been bugging you, like the logistics of this world, and perhaps why this feels far too like an easy mode on a video game with all the clues laid in front of you. You want a real head scratcher, now that everything’s fallen neatly into place: your wealth, title, and sick powers. 

✦ . Except, as you’re kneeling before a statue of Ena and fervently wishing for some explanations and perhaps an answer for why things continue to be easy mode, a sickening chill spreads over your body—almost as if THEY are laughing at you. Easy mode? THEY seem to scoff, before the feeling fades away and you stand up, feeling dread pool in your stomach. 

✦ . You’re just some guy. You took this job and didn’t run away to the neighbouring kingdom, purely for the reason that your soul is about as clean as pond water—much like all the other people who frequent the temple—and Sunday views these ordinary people, these sinners, with a benevolent sort of sympathy. Nobles and commoners alike are lumped in together as the ‘lambs’ who require salvation—including you, of course. The pure-hearted main character is a general exception to this rule—somebody who in his eyes, absolutely embodies light. She’s far purer than he is, which ironically serves as the sun to his wax-adhered wings—catalysing his imminent destruction and advent as someone who’d do anything for her. The Sunday you’d read about with mild fascination will inevitably grow distant to the plight of people—which is perfect for you, either way, as you will be reduced to white noise, befitting of a mere guard. 

✦ . Well, it’s not like he needs a guard, regardless. If you had to pick one positive of that novel, it would be evenly distributing the power levels of each male lead—meaning that Sunday was comparable to the other three in his own right (or he might even be slightly stronger, considering your hijacking of key level-up materials of the other three). And in true novel fashion, he’d likely just dismiss you as soon as you announced yourself. 

✦ . Which he does. He’s not necessarily a tall man, but the way he dresses pristinely and talks in that clipped manner makes him exude a certain type of presence that makes you wary of numerous facets of his character: the almost-too-angelic image he presents himself with, the dark expression he wears when nobody can see him, and finally, the uncanny way he spots lies within someone’s words. Of course, you’re not necessarily important enough to exchange words with, therefore it’s not like he can glean lies from your brief greetings when you come to fulfill your duties each day and are promptly dismissed from your post. 

✦ . You’d be pretty annoyed about this blatant waste of time if it weren’t for the fact that it gives you access to the theological works located in the library—ample time to research the exact cliché that led you here. Though you’d wished for such a reincarnation to take you from Earth, it feels artificial almost, when you’re pre-cognisant of what will happen based on the tried and true arcs of each repetitive novel you’ve read. 

✦ . There’s no way of telling what point of the story you’re in. With how many things you’ve screwed over, it could be over for all you know—or there could be a parallel story culminating from all the butterfly effects you’ve unleashed. Ah, whatever. You’re strolling through the well-maintained courtyard with a divine treatise in one hand and the constant droning of Harpe in one ear, attempting to find a nice little shady nook to lurk and read in, when you see it—the protagonist, presumably meeting the papal figure of the Order for the first time. The slight flutter of the wings by his face that denote him as part of an angelic race confirms it, and you turn on your heel abruptly, leaving them to talk. 

✦ . Except, the protagonist is far too friendly for her own good—and hasn’t in fact forgotten about a commoner-turned-viscount who met her properly like once. She waves at you cheerfully, calling out your name, and you turn around slowly—like you’re in some horror movie, which you probably are. 

✦ . “I didn’t know you got transferred here!” Each time you see her, you’re reminded of the interns at your company—friendly, not yet crushed by the depressing reality of corporate life. It makes you feel bad for her, but then you’re reminded of who exactly stands next to her when you politely take her hand and bow your head over it in a perfunctory greeting. 

✦ . “Yes, as per His Majesty’s orders.” You’re laconic in your usual state, which seems to cut you some slack with Sunday, who observes each miniscule shift of your emotions like some damn psychologist—the general apathy you feel to the both of them, the yearning to go somewhere else (anywhere but here). You can feel the intrusion, and it’s a double-edged sword. If you succeed with this, you can successfully convince him you’re not a threat. 

✦ . “What are you reading?” She spotted the book you’re half-heartedly keeping tucked by your side, and you can feel the intensity of Sunday’s stare increase. Shit. 

✦ . “Some of the interpretations made by the Prophets.” You mutter truthfully, feeling as though you’re being interrogated. You hesitantly show the worn cover—wanting to be anywhere but here, under the Pope’s intense scrutiny of his guard.

✦ . “Oh, really? That’s—”  “The manuscripts in the library aren’t meant to be taken out of the building.” Sunday’s cool voice interrupts her, and you practically wither. 

✦ . “My apologies, sir. I was unaware of that.” It’s best to smooth things over instantly: pathetically bowing your head to the Pope. “It’s Your Holiness, viscount. And it’s unseemly for a guard of mine to be unaware of two such crucial pieces of knowledge.” As expected, he’s meticulous about everything pertaining to his image—so unbelievably fastidious that it might’ve irritated you had you not had so many years of working under irritating superiors. 

✦ . “Yes, Your Holiness. Then, I’ll excuse myself to return the treatise.” There’s not a trace of annoyance in you—rather, a profound relief at him providing the convenient excuse for you to exit. It was probably on purpose that he did so, hoping you’d take the hint and leave, but it works very well for you. 

✦ . “Wait— is that the ancient language of ◼◼◼◼◼?” There’s a brief pause, before you stare at the book again, prompted by her curious words. It’s not in the fictional language of this place, but the ancient tongue had always been denoted in the novel as square brackets around the original English of the text for convenience, which indirectly manifested it as English when you reincarnated here. 

✦ . “I suppose,” you mutter. It’s rare to find clergy who can both read and speak it well, and even rarer for a regular layperson to do so. It’s far too time-consuming to learn with the current alphabet of this place, and the pronunciation isn’t intuitive at all based on how the words are constructed, considering the language here. It makes you wonder at the sloppy linguistic developments of this world, further supporting the hypothesis that you’re still in a fictional world. 

✦ . [You’re fluent and not just loitering about to waste time?] Sunday speaks, maintaining his even tone and crisp cadence—though they’re tinged with some Argonian ways of speaking. The protagonist’s head swivels between the two of you, and you sigh internally at the prolonged disruption.

✦ . [Yes, Your Holiness. If I wanted to waste time, I’d beat up your knights templar. But as it stands, it’s not like you’re letting me perform my job regardless, therefore I am in a state of loitering perpetually.] You bow your head once more, feeling a strange sense of vindication. [Now, if you’ll excuse me.] Then, you leave—particularly refreshed after the little spat. 

✦ . That is your first mistake. 

✦ . The second comes from having befriended the Saint, Robin. Though formally, she’s meant to be in isolation—guarded in her tower save for days where she descends to the realm of mortals—you’ve felt sorry for the faceless girl and her quiet complaints, so you’ve taken to spiriting away sweet foods from the outside and leaving them on her windowsill—using the special footwork arts you’ve trained in for such paltry purposes. As it turns out, Templar knights are more than willing to leave guard duty to a war hero, which means you become more or less a constant in her terribly lonely life. You feel horrible. Her voice has been blessed by the gods, and thus she’s been reduced to a songbird—shackled to a birdcage by the corrupted elders of the church. 

✦ . Yet, she can’t even escape, for the hold they have over her brother makes her unable to leave. 

✦ . You only realise what a horrible mistake it is when the two of you end up bonding over literature—on one side of the table, a veiled Saint eats some of the strawberry cheesecake that you baked after sneaking into the Temple kitchens at night, while on the other, you sit with a cup of hard coffee to knock some energy back into you. Well—it’s not exactly then that you realise you fucked up. After all, you’re enjoying a pleasant conversation on the most mundane of things: the birds that fly past her window and occasionally stop by to bring her flowers, the weird sort of stiffness that the priests move with outside, and the unique taste of the cakes the pâtissier in the village makes. 

✦ . You don’t bring up your past, nor her situation. It’s the only respite she gets from her solitude, and it’s the only respite you get from your own—two misfits within a strict hierarchy. 

✦ . Yet…

✦ . “Explain exactly what you are doing here.” Cold fury vibrates through Sunday’s voice as he stands in the stone doorway leading into the Saint room. You freeze under his yellow-eyed, boreal glare; every second stretches into an infinity, and the cake on your fork wobbles in tandem with your hand. 

✦ . Shit, isn’t this breaking some kind of taboo? The veiled Saint pauses, then places down her fork too—yet, she’s not shaking in her boots like you are. 

✦ . “Don’t yell at him.” You’re staring at her incredulously, and your fork clatters against your plate as you drop it. Sunday’s gaze swivels to her, and his brows furrow. 

✦ . “And you—what have I told you about being careful?” It’s not exasperation in his voice, but something else that you can’t quite put your finger on. Concern? Nah—can’t be. 

✦ . “She’s not at fault,” you argue. But upon reflection… “Neither am I, actually. I’m fulfilling guard duty whilst being her friend.”

✦ . Friend. You can tell her eyes are fixed upon you from beneath her veil—though you can’t tell they’re brimming with some emotion. Sunday only scoffs at your words—his unmoved mask wavers in the face of the Saint, it seems. “Guard duty? You’re flagrantly disobeying protocol, again, while being a bad influence on the Saint. What are you doing here in the first place?” 

✦ . “Stop it, Brother!” Her words send a shocked shiver down your spine—and she’s pulling off her veil, showing you a face and wings that are practically a carbon copy of her brother’s. All angry and red and yelling, and you’re left staring at two siblings squabbling over you. “He’s one of the only things that have been keeping me sane in this misery. I’m old enough to distinguish who I can trust and befriend—” 

✦ . “Robin…” he murmurs, wings agitated and flattened against his face. His lips part and close once more, before his eyes swivel to yours in a renewed glare. “And you—”

✦ . [Follow me.] His icy tone clearly translates into the tongue he switches to, and you’re essentially marched out by the ear. You haplessly look back at Robin, but all she mouths is ‘I’ll see you later’. It’s barely an assurance that you’ll survive the encounter, but at this point, you’ll take any assurance you can get. 

✦ . You get your answer when he practically slams you down into a chair in his office, wiping his dove-grey gloves off as if you’re dirt reincarnate, and you scowl. 

✦ . “Answer me honestly,” he demands, and you nod with a swallow. You can feel the familiar intrusion rooting around in your mind, drinking in every change in emotion. “Are you seeking to harm Robin?”

✦ . “No, I’m not.” You hold his gaze. There are two sides to his personality—the apathy he feels towards everyone, and the care that he bequeaths onto those close to him. It’s been like that in the novel throughout the duration of his arc—this new, irritated side to him is one you’ve never seen.

✦ . “I would’ve thought a war hero would have a spine, but you’re far more pathetic than I thought.” It’s a cutting remark, but honestly, you’re marvelling at the change. 

✦ . “All due respect, Your Holiness, but you’re my employer and this is a feudal system,” you reply neutrally, gazing at the floor as if it’s captivating you. The glare focused on you intensifies. 

✦ . “I changed my mind. Report to me each morning—I’ll put you to work.”

✦ . He lives up to his words. Rather than guarding him, you’re entrusted with translating manuscripts into this world’s tongue—a task that had previously been split between him and two other cardinals, yet has now been unceremoniously delegated to you. You’re paid, naturally, yet not for the damn job that you were meant to do. 

✦ . “Pour me some tea.” It’s another flippant side to him that you only ever witness when you’re alone with him. If anyone walked in, all they’d see after politely knocking would be a paragon of hard work—Sunday—and his aide. That’s what you’ve been reduced to from a mad dog of the battlefield. 

✦ . “What am I, a maid?” you mutter under your breath, and his yellow eyes hone in on you in the precise glare that makes your spine prickle. 

✦ . He only softens when he sees his sister—inviting himself to the designated ‘tea times’ the Saint has set for you, and merely staring at you whenever you speak, never deigning to reply to you but only Robin when she speaks to him directly. 

✦ . “I think you’re the closest to a friend that he’s ever had,” she tells you one time, when he’s busy with the inevitable duties that come with being the pope. You don’t say anything, laughing off her words internally. You? A friend? To Sunday? The maniac obsessed with divinity, the Order, and the protagonist? It’s ridiculous. He challenges you to a duel that very night—and you think it’s over. He’s never shown his hand like this in the novel; those who witness him fight might as well be dead.

✦ . His divine power manifests itself as thorns—looping and weaving in dangerous ways you barely manage to block with Harpe and Idrila’s defense, crashing into the secluded ground of the Templar knights’ training hall. 

✦ . “What’s wrong?” he taunts. “Didn’t you say you could beat templar knights? And here you are, struggling before a mere member of the clergy?”

✦ . You don’t fall for his provocations. No, actually, you do. A magic circle activates. Another halo appears around his head.

✦ . It’s a narrow victory, you think, but he’d claim it as his—two bodies lie heaving in the sand, surrounded by the rubble of a training hall. 

✦ . “You know magic. Fix it,” he pants, looking down at his sweaty body in mild disgust. To be in such a state—you read his thoughts amongst the affronted flutter of his wings.

✦ . “Isn’t divine power better for repairing things?” you comment sardonically. “I think I’m all spent.”

✦ . “Should I report you to the king for lapsing in your duty?” he glares, sitting up. 

✦ . “You could,” you settle your hands beneath your neck contentedly. “If anything, I’d simply be fired and sent back to the battlefield. I’ve got armies to command, don’t I?”

✦ . There’s a crack, before a pillar (that had been precariously canted at an angle) comes crashing down against the billowing grime of the hall. You startle, and whip your head to gaze at Sunday, who merely looks at you placidly. 

✦ . “Is that so?” he murmurs. There’s something buried deep in his eyes—something implacable, as though he was the one that caused the pillar to snap in a fit of anger. Anger over your impudent words, most likely, and nothing else—right? Right?

[leviitome]

4 — HR Ruins Everything | Suguru Geto

AO3 / Masterlist / Moodboard

EDITED | ONGOING

Wordcount: 4k

cw: 18+, teasing, vocal Geto, oral (f receiving), boss-employee relationship, Geto don’t gaf about anonymity and secrecy he’d fuck you in front of everyone if it meant proving how badly he wants you.

Minors DNI.

Newly promoted and chronically late, you unknowingly take the last elevator available to only the highest-ranking executives and apparently, it's him. Suguru Geto. Who promises himself to give you, your exhausted, frustrated self, some type of relief every time you take his elevator.

Like all rumors, they start small. Like they always do. It’s been months, five actually, you can’t even believe you’ve been letting this on for this long. But you let it anyway.

Every passing moment, a comment in the break room about how you and Suguru arrived at the same time pops up. A knowing look when someone mentions seeing you both in front of the building. Sarah from HR asking casual questions about “settling into the executive floor” with a tone that suggests she knows more than she’s letting on.

By Wednesday, it’s impossible to ignore.

You’re reviewing quarterly reports in your office when your supervisor, Kiyotaka Ijichi, appears in your doorway. He’s holding a manila folder and wearing the expression of someone who wishes he were anywhere else.

“Got a minute?” he asks, already stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Your stomach drops. “Of course.”

Ijichi sits across from your desk, the folder unopened in his lap. He’s maybe in his late thirties, with graying temples and the kind of tired eyes that come from one long decade of corporate mediocrity. He’s never been unkind to you, but he’s never been particularly warm either.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” he says. “There’s been some… talk.”

You keep your expression neutral. “What kind of talk?”

“The kind that makes HR nervous.” He opens the folder, revealing what looks like printed emails. “Someone filed a concern about inappropriate workplace relationships on the executive floor.”

The words hit you like ice water. “Inappropriate relationships?”

“Look, I’m not here to play gotcha,” Ijichi continues, his tone slightly softer. “But I need to ask - is there anything going on between you and Suguru Geto that I should know about?”

The question, like always, hangs in the air. You could lie. You probably should lie. Deny everything, act offended, make it their problem to prove. But looking at Ijichi’s tired face, you realize how exhausting the deception has become.

“What happens if I say yes?”

Ijichi sighs, and suddenly, he looks even older. “Honestly? I don’t know. This is above my pay grade. But there are policies, protocols. Someone’s going to want to document this officially.”

You think about Suguru, probably in a similar meeting right now. Wonder if he’s handling it better than you are.

“Who filed the complaint?”

“I can’t tell you that. But…” Ijichi hesitates. “Let’s just say it wasn’t someone from your floor.”

Someone from lower floors, then. Someone who noticed you both arriving together, or saw something in the lobby, or maybe just put two and two together from office gossip.

“I need to think about this,” you say finally.

Ijichi nods. “You’ve got until Friday. HR wants to meet with both of you then.” He stands, leaving the folder on your desk. “For what it’s worth, you’ve been doing good work up here. Don’t let this derail everything you’ve worked for.”

After he leaves, you stare at the folder for a long time without opening it. Your hands are shaking - not the adrenaline rush from stolen moments with Suguru, but something colder.

The afternoon crawls by in a haze of attempted productivity. You try to focus on spreadsheets and client emails, but your mind keeps drifting to worst-case scenarios. Transfer to another department. Demotion. Having to find a new job entirely. All the progress you’ve made, all the respect you’ve earned, potentially wiped away because you couldn’t keep your hands off your boss.

Your phone buzzes around three, a text from an unknown number that you immediately recognize as Suguru’s personal cell.

Can’t talk at the office. Meet me at the Meridian Hotel Bar after work. 7 PM.

You stare at the message for a full minute before typing back.

Okay.

The Meridian is downtown, expensive and discreet. The kind of place where executives have affairs and business deals happen over thirty-dollar cocktails. You’ve never been there, but you know about it, everyone in corporate circles does.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in a state of nervous energy, checking your watch every few minutes and jumping at every sound in the hallway. By the time five-thirty rolls around, you’re practically vibrating with anxiety.

The bar at the Meridian is all dark wood and soft lighting, jazz playing quietly in the background. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Suguru to choose, sophisticated, understated, expensive. You spot him immediately, sitting alone at a corner table, still in his work clothes but with his tie loosened and his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

He looks up as you approach, and something in his expression makes your chest tighten. He looks tired more so than you’ve ever seen him.

“Rough day?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him.

“You could say that.” He signals the waitress. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

He orders two whiskeys, neat, and you sit in silence until they arrive. The first sip burns, but it’s a good burn, warming you from the inside out.

“So,” you say finally. “I’m guessing you had a similar conversation to mine.”

“Similar.” He takes a sip of his drink, wincing slightly. “Though I get the feeling mine was a bit more… pointed.”

“How so?”

“Let’s just say that when you’re in my position, people expect you to know better.” His voice is flat, professional. “They expect you to understand the implications of your actions.”

“And do you? Understand the implications?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and then you see something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. Not regret, exactly, but something close to it.

“I understand that this is complicated,” he says carefully. “More complicated than either of us anticipated.”

The words feel like a rejection, even though his tone is neutral. You take another sip of whiskey, using the burn to ground yourself.

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“Are you?”

The question is loaded in everything you haven’t said. Because yes, you are having second thoughts. How could you not be? This morning you were secure in your career, confident in your trajectory. Now you’re sitting in an expensive hotel bar, drinking and wondering if you’re about to lose everything.

“I asked you first,” you say, deflecting.

Suguru’s mouth quirks up in what might be a smile. “Fair enough.” He leans back in his chair, studying you. “You want the honest answer?”

“I think I deserve an honest answer.”

“The honest answer is that I’ve been thinking about nothing else all day. About what this means, what it could cost us. What it could cost you specifically.”

“And?”

“And I keep coming back to the same conclusion.” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “I don’t care.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “You don’t care?”

“About the job, the politics, the gossip - no, I don’t care. Not when it comes to you.”

You want to argue, to point out all the reasons why he should care, why you both should care. But the way he’s looking at you makes the words die in your throat.

“That’s easy for you to say,” you manage finally. “You’re not the one who’s going to get pushed out if this goes sideways.”

“You think I’d let that happen?”

“I don’t think you’d have a choice.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe I won’t. But I’d try like hell.”

The conviction in his voice surprises you. You’ve gotten used to his confidence, his certainty, but this feels different. It felt more personal.

“Why?” you ask. “All of this? Risking all of this? For me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, turning his glass in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Because I've been going through the motions for years. Doing what I’m supposed to do, saying what I’m supposed to say, being who I’m supposed to be. And then you walked into my elevator, and for the first time in longer than I can even remember, I felt something different.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “Suguru…”

“I’m not saying this, I don’t want to put you on the spot.” He continues. “I’m saying it because you deserve to know. You deserve to understand this—what you mean to me.”

The bar music swells around you, and you’re acutely aware of other conversations happening in the bar, but the clink of glasses, the low murmur of voices. Normal people having normal conversations, not sitting here trying to decide whether to risk their careers for something that might not even last.

“What I mean to you,” you repeat slowly.

“Everything,” he says simply. “You mean everything. It’s not even about what we do in the elevator or in my office, it’s about what this is.” He finally manages to explain.

The words are heavy with implication. You want to say something equally meaningful, equally honest, but the words won’t come. Instead, you reach across the table and take his hand.

His fingers intertwine with yours immediately, and you’re struck by how natural it feels. How right.

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“I worked so hard to get where I am. The thought of losing it–”

“I know,” he says again. “But what if we don’t lose it? What if we figure out a way to make this work?”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll try anyway. We can talk to HR, see what options we have. Maybe one of us transfers to a different department. Maybe we can find a way to make it work within the current structure.”

“And if we can’t?”

His thumb traces across your knuckles, the gesture achingly routine and familiar. “Then we figure it out.”

The word hits you like a revelation. We. not just stolen moments in elevators and late nights in his office, but actually together. Building something real that could actually, realistically last.

“You’re asking me to choose,” you say. “The job or you.”

“I’m asking you to choose yourself. Whatever that looks like.”

You drain the rest of your drink, feeling the burn all the way down. “This is insane.”

“Probably.”

“We could both end up unemployed.”

“We could.”

“We could ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

“We could,” he agrees. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both quirk up a smile and manage to stifle out a laugh that could potentially leave both of you jobless.

The optimism in his voice should be irritating, but instead it’s oddly comforting. He’s sure. Like maybe, for once, you don’t have to have all the answers figured out in advance.

“I need to think about this,” you say finally.

“Of course.” He signals for the check. “But while you’re thinking, remember something.”

“What?”

"You're not the same person who walked into my elevator that first morning.”

The observation catches you off guard.

“Because you’re here. Because you’re considering this at all. The woman I met that first day would have already made her decision - the safe one, the logical one. But you’re still here, still thinking about it.”

Outside the bar, the city is alive with evening energy. People coming home from work, couples meeting for dinner, tourists taking photos of the skyline. Normal people living their day to day lives, and for a moment, you envy them for their simplicity.

“I can call you a cab to take you home?” Suguru asks.

You almost say yes, but something stops you. “I need to walk. Clear my head.”

He nods, understanding.

The kiss he gives you is soft, almost tentative. Like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your lips just in case it’s the last time he’ll ever get to it.

The walk home takes you forty fucking minutes. For a second there you wished you could have said yes to the cab. You both left your cars in the building, being intoxicated and all. By the time you reach your apartment building, you’ve made your decision.

You text him as soon as you’re inside. Come over. We need to talk.

He responds immediately, On my way.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find Suguru standing in your hallway, still in his work clothes but somehow more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him.

“Hi,” he says simply.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let him in, and suddenly your apartment feels too small.

He’s looking around, taking in the details. Your art on the walls, the throw blanket draped over your couch, the stack of novels on the coffee table.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

“And?”

“You’re right. About how I’m not the same person that walked into your elevator.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Yeah?

“Yeah.” You reach up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “And that this better last longer than any and I mean any of your relationships.”

The smile spreads across his face is radiant. “Are you sure?” The implication to his question is gleaming.

“No,” you admit. “But I'm sure about this. And maybe that’s enough.”

He kisses you then, and it’s different from all the others. Softer, more deliberate, less about hunger and more about choice. About commitment to what you both have.

Suguru kicked the front door shut behind him, sweeping you up into his arms and carrying you towards the couch. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up to reveal your tights and the smooth expanse of your legs. Suguru groaned at the feel and sight of you, so soft and pliant in his embrace.

He tumbled you down onto the plush cushions, settling between your spread legs. You could feel the thick ridge of his erection pressing against your core, separated only by the fabric of his slacks. You rolled your hips, relishing the desperate friction.

“Fuck, I want you,” Suguru growled, hands roaming greedily over your curves. He pushed your skirt down and slid them past your legs, exposing your skin and your underwear.

Unable to resist, he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses to the newly revealed flesh, tongue dipping into your navel.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him against you as you arched your back.

“All yours.” You breathed, desire burning hot and bright under your skin.

With a low grunt, Suguru reached to unbutton your shirt. The fabric fell away, revealing the peaks of your chest to his gaze. He palmed your tits before reaching behind you to unhook your bra.

“God,” he rasped, ducking his head to capture one nipple into his mouth. He suckled greedily, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as his hand continued to worship your breast. You mewled and writhed beneath him, pleasure sparking through your body.

Suguru’s fingers crept up higher, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties to brush against your slick pussy. You were already so wet, arousal coating his fingers as he slid them through your slick folds. He circled your clit with slow strokes, teasing you until you were breathing heavily.

“Please,” you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand.

Suguru didn’t hesitate. He tugged your panties down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

You feel Suguru’s strong hands grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settles between your legs. The cool air of your apartment kisses your most intimate places, making you shiver in anticipation. You look down at him, heart racing as you watch him gaze appreciatively at your exposed sex, glistening and ready.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Suguru chuckles, voice heavy with lust.

Unable to resist you any longer, he leans in and presses a hot kiss to your clit. You gasp, back arching off the couch cushions as pleasure sparks through you at the first touch of his lips. He groans against your flesh, the vibrations making your toes curl.

He starts to explore your slick folds with his tongue, licking long and slow from your entrance up to your clit.

Your fingers dangle in his hair, gripping the strand and holding him against you as he feasts on your sex. Suguru’s tongue circles your clit, flicking and teasing until you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Oh god, yes—“ you pant, hips rolling against his face. “Don’t stop. Suguru please don’t stop—“

Until he does.

You could feel a mix of frustration and confusion as he stops what he’s doing. He pulls back to look up at you with a smirk. Your body is aching, desperate for a release. The sudden halt leaves you annoyed. Unsatisfied.

“What are you doing?” You pant. Furrowing your brows as you grab a pillow and make attempts to throw it at his face. He stands back up, catching the pillow as he chuckles.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a teasing kiss to your temple.

You watch him with bated breath as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest inch by inch. He struts it off, letting it fall on the floor and leaving him in just his tailored slacks that hug his hips perfectly.

“Suguru, please...” you groan, sprawling your legs wider in clear invitation. Your pussy is throbbing, aching, you wanted it more than you ever have.

He smirks at your plea, fingers toying with his belt buckle. “Please what?” He teases, voice a low rasp. “Tell me what you need.”

You know he’s enjoying this, drawing out your frustration for his own amusement. But you’re too far gone to care. “I need you.” You admit, breathlessly.

Suguru’s eyes darken with lust at your confidence. He swiftly unbuckles his belt and shoves his slacks and boxers down his hips. His cock springs free, you lick your lips at the sight, remembering how it felt stretching you open for the first time.

He settles back between your thighs, the head of his cock judging against your dripping core. You both groan at the contact, your body already aching. Suguru grips your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he teases you with shallow thrusts, barely breaching you before pulling back out.

“Stop teasing,” you hiss, trying to rock your hips down to take him deeper. But he holds you in place, controlling your every movement. He chuckles again, taking in your sight before finally thrusting forward, claiming you to the hilt in one smooth glide.

He starts to move, hips rolling in a sensual rhythm as he fucks you deeply.

Your hands roam over his back, nails raking down the defined muscles as you hold on for dear life. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your increasingly loud moans and grunts of pleasure.

Suguru leans down to capture one of your bouncing breasts in his mouth, suckling the nipple greedily as he drives into you faster and harder.

“Yes, just like that,” you pant, head thrown back. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Suguru complies with a low growl, the force of his thrust making the couch shake beneath you. Your orgasm builds fast, pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core as he takes you. You know you won’t last much longer, not with the way he’s fucking you.

The tension in your heat snaps as your orgasm crashes over you. You scream his name, voice breaking on a ragged moan as your pussy clamps down and clenches around him. You could feel him grip your waist tighter from the feeling, “Fuck, don’t do that.” He lets out a breathy chuckle, your body convulses beneath him, back arching off the couch as pleasure blurs your vision.

Suguru snarls, hips jerking from the feeling. He grinds against you, prolonging your high as he chases his own. “My god,” he whispers, “—feel so good, baby.” fingers digging from your waist to your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

You can feel his cock throbbing and pulsing inside of you, growing even harder as he teeters on the edge. Your hands resting beside your head as you watch him reach his climax.

With one final, brutal thrust, Suguru fills himself inside you and comes with a guttural groan. His cum releasing deep inside of you. You moan in acknowledgement, aftershocks wracking your body as you milk him for every last drop.

Finally, he collapses against you, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both chase yourselves back to reality.

Afterward, you lie tangled together in your couch, the city lights filtering through your curtains. Suguru’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, your mind feels strangely and comfortingly quiet.

“So what happens now?” you ask, your voice soft in the darkness.

“I guess we'll wait till Friday,” he says. “Whatever HR thinks, whatever consequences there are, it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

You nod, but you can see the worry in his eyes. It’s the same worry that’s been eating at you all day, the fear that choosing this means sacrificing everything else.

“When did you become such a romantic?”

“About five months ago, when you stumbled into my elevator.”

You laugh, remembering that first morning. How nervous you’d been, how uptight you were, and how intimidating he’d seemed. “I didn’t stumble.”

“You absolutely stumbled. It was adorable.”

“I was late and I panicked.” You lifted your head up to glance at him before lightly hitting his chest.

“You were perfect.”

The sincerity in his voice makes you duck your head, suddenly bashful. Even after everything that’s happened between you, moments like this still catch you off guard.

As you drift off to sleep in his arms, you think about Friday’s meeting. About HR policies and workplace relationships and all the ways this could go terribly wrong. But for the first time in days, the fear doesn’t overwhelm you.

Because you’re not facing it alone anymore. Whatever happens, happens.

-

When you wake up the next morning, Suguru’s still there, arm around you, his breathing soft and even. Sunlight streams through your windows, painting everything in a warm light. You watch him sleep for a moment, memorizing the peaceful expression on his face.

In a few hours, you’ll both have to return to the office, to the whispers and knowing looks and the weight of Friday’s impending meeting. But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, you're exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You think about calling in sick, spending the day in bed with him, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist. But you know you can’t.

Suguru stirs as you’re getting ready for work, his eyes opening slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” You lean down to kiss him, and he pulls you back into the bed for a moment, making you laugh.

“We should probably talk about logistics,” you say when you finally extract yourself from his arms. “How we handle today, tomorrow, the meeting on Friday.”

“Right. Logistics.” he sits up, running a hand through his hair. “We should probably get there separately today. No need to give the gossip mill more shit to talk about.”

You nod, agreeing. “And during the meeting?”

“We tell the truth. That we’re obviously two consenting adults who’ve developed feelings for each other. We’re committed to maintaining professionalism at work, but we’re not willing to end our personal relationship.”

“And if they say that’s not acceptable?”

“Then we ask what our options are. Transfer, different reporting structure, whatever they need to make it work.”

You hum, watching him get up as he puts on his clothes from yesterday. Suguru gives you a quick peck on the lips before kissing your temple again. You smile, patting his chest as he steps out of your door.

“See you at work,” you say.

“See you at work.”

As you close the door, you realize that everything really has changed. You don’t just fuck your boss on the regular, you want him, not just his scent being displayed and obvious on your thighs, or at least once broken office chair one every two weeks. It’s Suguru. His whole being that leaves you desperate and wanting.

[sinsxo]

01. match found!

synopsis. it started with hacking accusations, and ended with you completely oblivious to who was watching your stream.

notes. thank you guys for waiting! in case you're unfamiliar with valorant, the reader is playing a character named reyna while nagi is playing a character named jett. valorant players usually refer to each other by the names of their characters and it applies to any streamer's chat as well. lmk if anything else is confusing!

cw. cussing, internet slang, chat has parasocial tendencies, valorant.

navigation. masterlist.

[🔴 LIVE] nagi seishiro @/nagi_channel

nagi seishiro oh… i died again to the reyna.

nagilvr ntnt!! revenge arc starts now user222 that reyna is lowkey cracked tf user4 DARE I SAY the reyna is hacking user90 bruh shes farming you lowkey user18 it’s ALWAYS reyna user5 reynas cooking 🔥🔥🔥 user20 is she cheating or just better 🧍 user777 nah id report just in case

nagi seishiro what the… how did that shot even hit me? kinda weird that she knew i was there.

user9 nah you didn’t even peek 💀 user111 clairvoyant reyna in your lobby user33 wallhacks??? user777 user33 i think so too nagifan user33 reyna is def hacking user88 yo that spiderman?? the spidey senses tingling

nagi seishiro you guys think reyna’s hacking? we’re still winning though.

user4 W for humble king nagilvr plot twist: stream sniping?? user00 i tihkn reyna js built diff user13 either a cheater or psychic user8 i dont think its hacking js skill diff user66 user8 take it back rey just aced 💀 user8 NVM that shot was kinda crazy icl

nagi seishiro is this person hacking?

user10 welp this again nagifan confirmed at this point tbh user32 we said this last time and it was just a 14 y/o prodigy 🙏🏻 stanname guys shes literally a streamer chill 😭 user3 i already reported oop user55 REPORT + BLOCK + UNINSTALL user8 stanname fr? whats her handle user777 stanname drop the name rn we’re waiting stanname @/yourusername shes legit good yall stop the false reports lol nagifan NAGI SHE’S A STREAMER GO SAY HI user222 ohhh wait ive seen her clips she’s hella good

nagi seishiro they’re a streamer? i’m checking them out if i die again.

user0 LOLLLL bros throwing now user44 lmao rip nagilvr uhh user7 AINT NO WAY 💀 user949 bro is crashing out 😭🙏🏻 user11 nagi crash out real nagishairstrand reyna needs to get a life

nagi seishiro gg’s. hold on, chat. i’m going to check the reyna out, what’s their channel?

user9 omg pls say the reyna is live rn user4 watch him queue snipe her nagifan HE’S LOOKING GUYS HES LOOKING user55 bros already on the hunt user22 lurking activated user101 parasocial speedrun

nagi seishiro is she away right now? oh, she’s back. let’s watch her play for a bit.

user99 she said she needed to pee nagilvr she went to pee user44 watching her like its a VOD review user22 nagi turning into a lurker 💀 user8 SHES BACK user33 “let’s watch” 👀 ok nagi

nagi seishiro not bad. her aim’s insane, game-sense is on another level too. and she’s pretty... good.

user99 AND SHE’S PRETTY???? user0 chat we lost nagilvr nagi what was that last part 😭 user4 bro you down bad already user111 he said “she’s pretty” and hes tryna brush it off im crying user8 new ship just dropped 🚢 user77 chat clip that NOW user1 nagi ur not slick bruh user09 next stream titled “i fell for my ranked enemy 😳” user0 do you want us to leave the stream so you two can be alone??

nagi seishiro should we queue into another match, chat?

user22 nah you tryna queue with HER be honest nagifan blink twice if ur trying to match again user77 queue solo but think duo user44 you mean queue into HER lobby user8 he’s in too deep 💔 user11 y'all acting like she's not already in another match 😭

exit stream.

[🔴 LIVE] you @/yourusername

you it’s fine guys, everyone’s probably burnt out from playing so much.

namelover okay but ur team is lowkey braindead 😭 userv suuuure they just suck userone Y’ALL enemy jett is nagi namelover userone WHAT EXCUSE ME userfive NO WAIT ITS ACTUALLY HIM user45 lmaoooo and hes getting fried by you user88 PMFG NAGI NAGI NAGI user6 he aint all that tbh

you i’m playing with nagi? nagi seishiro? that’s cool.

user44 yoo whats up gng nagis stream is GAGGED user4 not us thinking you were hacking lol user10 wait you is so pretty what user8 nagi chat was MAD no lie user7 vro was crashing out

you he’s actually too good. i don’t think our team can comeback, chat.

userfive they call him a genius for a reason user22 the way ur talking about him rn 🧍‍♂️ user20 idk its giving enemies to lovers userone no bc you guys lowkey have chemistry userv i smell an arc coming user09 me watching enemies to lovers unfold in real time 🍿 user77 if u duo w him i will cry actual tears

you tough luck, gg’s team. that was a really long round. gotta pee, be right back.

userone your team was running on hopes and prayers ngl userv idk how she doesnt crash out w these teammates namelover tbh she was against the nagi seishiro userone namelover yeah but she couldve won if her teammates were better nagi_channel has entered chat. userv WTF namelover 💀💀💀 userfive you COME BACK NOW stanname hoyl shit user7 she peeing while he JOINED user89 valorant timing HELPPP user90 THE LORE IS WRITING ITSELF

you i’m back, let’s queue again. i think i’ll swap my vandal skin real quick.

userv SHES NOT READING CHATT userfive OMG SOMEONE TELL HER namelover WHY IS THIS SO STRESSFUL userone this is actual tragedy user65 this cant b real 💔 userthree you look up PLS

you wait, i forgot to get water. i’ll lock yoru and come back.

usertwo no way this is happening user012 PLEASE SOMEONE SCREAM user6 THE WAY SHE DOESNT KNOW user7 the desperation in this chat rn 💀 user44 bro pulled up just to watch an empty gaming chair

you the round already started? why is everyone freaking out in chat?

userv NAGI JOINED STREAM user7 she is NOT meant to meet this man HELP user88 someone teach her how to read chat user9 i cant w the timing she came back when the match started 💔 stanname HE JOINED HES WATCHING U

you nice one. my teammates are really good this time, compared to the previous game.

user4 ong this cant be real user6 niceeeeeee user88 she joined late and still got a 3k userfive you GIRL PLEASE READ CHAT userthree humble queen fr

you huh? i’m reading chat now. nagi is in my stream?

userfive he WAS userv i think hes gone girl YOU MISSED HIM user11 and you were peeing and rehydrating stanname past tense. heartbreak user6 HE WATCHED. HE LURKED. HE LEFT. userfive im fonna crash ougt weewoo i think he searched your stream out of curiosity userlol you missed him by SECONDS useryay this is the most tragic gamer romance setup i’ve ever seen

you what do you mean the nagi seishiro was in my stream? chat. what do you mean.

userthree GIRL TOO LATE YOU WERENT READING CHAT stanname GUYS SHE WAS PISSING OK userone stanname BYEE user65 WE TRIED TO WARN YOU nagilvr GIRL HE SAID YOU WERE PRETTY IN HIS STREAM userv nagilvr he whATTTT user4 userv were deadass user111 nobody snitch that we snitched on nagi user09 tbf he said she was pretty good but everyone collectively ignored the last part user8 the last part was unnecessary we all know hes a fake nonchalant emo 🥀

exit stream.

yourusername

yourusername thanks for joining stream you guys are the best frfr

view comments.

stanname next stream when 💔 it ended too fast userone that was an eventful stream view replies.

namelover had us stressing and shi userthree fr userfive had all of chat yelling at the screen yourusername userfive mb gng 💔 userfive yourusername OMG yell at me please userone userfive HELP??

userv update us if he dms you 😊😊 nagilvr collab with nagi when 😮‍💨 stanname your hand in marriage please 🙏🏻

exit instagram.

taglist. closed! @lovingmayday @blu3-l0v3r @fiestvr @bigclownshoes @mixolya @nevvynev @p1z-d0njud6em3 @fischly @kuromixheartzzz @choco-cvt @ilovewonyo @summmerr0-0 @luvrofthemoon @kyeeeeeeeweeeeeeewi @silentheav @zephyyyrrra @emikikus18

back to. masterlist. proceed to. part 2.

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[hellinistical]

a review and analysis of the anecdotes needed for the new chapters, as well as being sprinkled with my own theories.

this will be a LONG post and will have MAJOR spoilers for ZAYNE AND SYLUS.

Covering Sylus's "Land of Lost" and Zayne's "Never-Ending Winter", and then for those that didn't read Zayne's "Thorns Under the Moon" in the Prologue to Tomorrow portion of the story.

Additionally, this would be a great thing to read if you dont wanna do the routes or whatever or if you're confused! I tried to break it down supppper deeply and organized it as best as i could. the formatting MAY be off but theres nothing I can do about that cause i literally just yoinked it from my google doc and its the same shit on the power point im doing LMFAO anyways. i also think this is good for people who struggle to write for them!

And finally, a review and analysis of the Timelock Key and the new four chapters will be out later. thanks for reading!

if you'd like to be tagged for the break down of that or future analysis, just comment ! if youd like to see more stuff of this, there's some character thoughts in my masterlist.

ANECDOTE COVERAGE: (scroll down for the route coverage)

Sylus, Land of Lost

0.1- High Alert

Myth v.s. Man, and distinguishing the two.

Sylus is introduced through reputation first, with a wanted poster, a myth, the most notorious criminal in Philos’s history. There is already a legend made about him that precedes who he is as a person. 

“He was lucky” with his entrance just flips the myth backwards- no longer is it a metaphor, but it is real. Composed, sardonic, and in control. Sylus’s escape from the space-time prison may have altered or corrupted him. The mist could be a byproduct of that breach—something he brought back that now answers to him. (or has smth to do with his evol since we know that theres already a mist type thing when he uses it sometimes like in his entry in the main story) 

The mist could be an ancient, banned technology, linked to the space-time prison’s interior environment. Sylus may have fused with it during his escape—he could be its host or conduit. It feels like it is smart. 

There is a huge sense of moral ambiguity with this man. He isn't painted as a clear-cut villain or hero. He uses violence and manipulation (puppeteering with mist), but his actions seem directed toward a larger purpose—likely resistance or rebellion against the Overlord. That line “the Overlord’s luck has run out” implies Sylus is an agent of change or revenge, not chaos for its own sake. He’s driven by his own ideological preferences. And unlike Xavier, with them being like, parallels and directly combating each other, he is supposed to be an answer for tyranny.

    Tone/Atmosphere

The story opens in a tight, claustrophobic, almost “noir-like” tone, where suspicion and tension hang thick even before Sylus appears- which makes sense due to the man being kind of perceived as a story to get kids to listen. The presence of seven checkpoints and grumbling deputies builds the sense that something oppressive looms—not just outside, but within the hierarchy of the world. (which we will continue to see throughout the anecdotes and even in the main story). “They scoured the galaxy for rare treasures—gifts for the Overlord's birthday.” This line is bureaucratic and akin to a ceremonial event, but keeping in line with it being dystopian, the wording having it be seemingly grandeur (what with the hunt), but it’s got that pettiness with the fatigue and suspicion. It’s basically bringing about a juxtaposition.

         Dialogue/Subtext

The exchanges between the Deputy and Captain establish three things at once: 

1. Philos, Feathers Star, the Overlord, the space-time prison.

2. The Deputy is brash, the Captain more informed—suggesting tension between age, rank, and experience. 3. Perception of Sylus: He's introduced as a legend, almost too big to be real. Which I’ve already said but yeah organization wooo

“That name rings a bell…”

“Most wanted criminal in Philos’s history…”

This exchange uses casual disbelief as a tool to lull the reader into a false sense of security before Sylus arrives. His later entrance undermines that skepticism with force.

   World Breakdown

Regarding Feathers Star is treated like a capital node—likely a core planet in the Overlord's dominion. The description of the black diamond-shaped planet could be both literal and symbolic: a rare, harsh, precious place shaped by immense pressure. The overlord, of course, is seen as some kinda central figure in authority- not divine, just a ceremonial thing like a king. HOWEVER, the gifts do add some quasi-religious under tones. A cult. 

The Overlord may not be a single person, but a figurehead position, used to stabilize control across multiple sectors. Alternatively, the Overlord is a god-king who may be immortal or technologically sustained. (Astra gonna get their ass whooped ong)

   Cultural/Political Notes

Deputy- younger arrogance. The captain- institutional loyalty. Sylus might once have been a figure of authority himself—perhaps part of the regime—before becoming its greatest enemy. The empire turned him into a myth to discredit him while simultaneously fearing him.

   Feathers star

Black diamonds- compressed carbon (basically a nod to Sylus’s unbreakable control), but the name is a contradiction as it has a stark contrast to it. Another note of a false utopia of some sort.

 Back to the Mist

Ik I’m circling gimme a break. it seems emotionally responsive. Its grip tightens as the Captain speaks; it performs violence without Sylus moving. It could be a manifestation of Sylus’s will, semi-autonomous being, or linked to his nervous system/mind.

0.2-Absolute Suppression

Narrative Dissection

The opening imagery is something to take note of, I think: “The impact caused great fire, illuminating the night sky above Feathers Star’s capital.”  The anecdote begins with cataclysm—a violent rupture of normalcy. It is literal (explosions, war) and metaphorical (the collapse of dominion, security, and identity).Feathers Star’s capital, once presumably  secure, is lit up in unnatural illumination—a foreshadowing of Sylus’s reality-warping presence. The line recalls Biblical imagery: fire from the heavens, divine punishment, or a celestial revelation- him coming is a sign of the apocalypse(?).

The setting of the bunker is critical in that it is a contrast to Sylus; treasure and armouries show materialism and militarism, showing the hoarding nature of the overlord and his force (which is funny cause Sylus is now like that-) and Sylus bypasses with his own will and the symbolic dominance. The bunker is also a false sanctuary. Its doors were made to withstand “any assault”—yet Sylus’s mist enters without resistance, breaking natural and technological law. The contrast suggests that the Overlord has prepared for every kind of power except the kind Sylus brings: psychological inevitability.

The Throne

“Sylus sits on the Diamond Throne, crafted by the Overlord himself.”  This is the heart of the scene, and arguably the anecdote. The Diamond Throne, a symbol of conquest and dominion, now becomes a seat of humiliation for its original maker. Sylus doesn’t fight for it—he sits. It’s the natural progression of his presence. The throne, being made by the Overlord, becomes his ultimate defeat—he built his own demise. This reads as mythic irony—the kind of punishment given to gods in Greek tragedy. His pride, his conquests, have led him here.

Power Structures/Philosophies

The Overlord

Represents rule through fear, violence, control. He conquered Diamond Star and turned it into a "cesspool of vice"—his strategy is corruption and enslavement.

His attitude during Sylus’s arrival shifts from bargaining to desperation. He uses humor (“You got the muscle, I got the goods”) as a shield, but it's transparent.

His final surrender (“Yes.”) is not a rational agreement, but a psychological collapse—possibly influenced by mist or Sylus's gaze. 

Sylus

Sylus is not a looter, and not a tyrant. His words make this clear: “Unfortunately, none of the loot here will satiate my appetite.”

His objective is not wealth, nor vengeance in the usual sense. He’s after the soul of power itself—planetary control, cosmic realignment. Sylus embodies Absolute Suppression, but not through overwhelming force. He doesn’t destroy the Overlord; he converts him. He renders him obedient, slack-jawed, erased. The eye glow suggests a hypnotic or godlike power—possibly symbolic of omniscience or deep manipulation. This is not magic in the fantasy sense, but presence as pressure. ASIDE from it being an aether core i mean.

   Thematic Significance

The mirror question- “Recognizing these gems so easily…Aren’t you just like me?” is a plea from the overlord to reclaim parity- asking Sylus to acknowledge SHARED identity. However, Sylus rejects this through inaction. Doesn’t even dignify it. Basically, this could be seen as “False Equivalence” in that the overlord thinks that plundering and ruling are the highest expressions of power. Sylus sees that as small. They’re insignificant in the presence of something higher—not through strength, but by scale of thought.

Stylistic/Symbolic Mechanics

Repetition of irony and role inversion: 

The Overlord locks himself away for safety but dies (spiritually) there. His own identity (biometric data) is the key Sylus uses to enter. He rules through chaos, only to be undone by something quieter than chaos: stillness, presence, inevitability.

Red Carpet imagery:

“It’s as if a red carpet is being rolled out for an unexpected guest.”  The “guest” doesn’t act like one because he’s already the master. This line reinforces the reversal of the collapse of ceremony to horror in that the throne room becomes the execution chamber (and yet no weapon was actually drawn).

The Broader Narrative Implications

This Is a Pattern: The Overlord is likely not the first. Sylus seems to move from system to system, leaving behind ruined rulers, empty palaces, and rewritten identities. 

He May Be a Cosmic Reset: This isn’t about revenge—it’s entropy given form. The beginning of an unraveling. He wants planets, not for conquest, but perhaps for cleansing. (ala a safe place for him and mc and anyways he was looking for mc regardless at some point)

0.3- Mysterious Visitor

Power as performance- theater of control

This scene is drenched in spectacle—the ruined fortress being rebuilt, the choreographed arrival of gifts, the banquet, the sudden darkness, the birthday cake. Yet at its core, it is a meticulously staged humiliation. Sylus isn't just overpowering the Overlord militarily—he’s directing a psychological play where power is theatrical. The use of props like candles, chess pieces, and cake frosting laced with blood shifts control from brute force to emotional warfare.

This birthday is not a celebration. It’s an execution masked as ceremony, and Sylus is the puppeteer. His control over setting, pace, and tone renders everyone else impotent—especially the High Lords, who are stripped of their status by their powerlessness in the mist.

Chess being a metaphor for mind games

The repeated chess motif is important—Sylus doesn't just want military dominance; he wants intellectual supremacy. Every move on the board mirrors a manipulation in real life. Sylus letting the Overlord "win clarity" only during chess is a cruel gift—it shows he's fully aware of the Overlord’s mental fog and exploits it for his own amusement.

The demand to “round up to 100 spaceships” is more than greed—it’s numerical obsession, a perfect number that signifies control, closure, and perhaps a past offense. It subtly implies that Sylus is correcting an old imbalance with math (I think. Could be waffling).

Mind Control/Gaslighting (slayyy)

The Overlord is “stuck on his throne by the mist”—likely literal and metaphorical. He is lucid only during Sylus' chosen moments. This implies that Sylus has control over his consciousness, choosing when to grant and revoke awareness. The overlord is reduced to a puppet with flickers of sentience, which makes his pain all the more cruel—he remembers enough to beg. When he says “Please, spare me... I’ll give you anything…” it’s not desperation for mercy. It’s total surrender, the moment when power crumbles into pathetic bartering. The frosting—sweet on the outside, violent on the inside—perfectly captures the tone of this entire anecdote. 

Sylus’s line, “Beasts don’t belong in cages”, is loaded. It indicates Sylus sees something morally corrupt in the Overlord’s methods—using violence for entertainment, caging living beings. This line alone humanizes Sylus, albeit slightly, hinting that while he, too, is violent, he sees himself as principled.

Mockery

The use of a candle—not just for light, but to blow up the armory—is poetic. It’s a literal spark of destruction masked as birthday celebration. Lighting it on the cake equates the entire banquet to a funeral pyre. When Sylus says “If this is our final celebration, we should make it unforgettable,” he knows he's orchestrating a legacy-killing moment. By forcing the Overlord to taste blood-sweet frosting, Sylus makes him consume his own humiliation. The knife isn’t plunged into the Overlord’s heart—it’s gently brought to his lips. That kind of violence is surgical, chilling, and psychological.

0.4-  Out of Reach

Thematic depth

“Out of Reach” subtly but powerfully explores the theme of disillusionment and idealism fading under pressure. Myer still holds onto the fantasy of justice even as the older generation has learned to accept reality’s limits. The boss's line: “Kid, it’s good to dream,” is particularly poignant.

Bigger Boom Boom

The gift ship reveal ties beautifully to the previous chapter: Dozens of ships, compared to "years past," implies this year is different (duh). Myer’s horror at the pillaging reinforces the moral cost of the Overlord's birthday tribute—another way the Overlord is letting Sylus use him as a pawn.

  0.5-Judgement of Fate

World Building and its revelations

Space‑Time Prison Brooch: The blood‑soaked brooch links Sylus’s escape from Philos to this massacre, implying a continuity of cosmic artifacts and a deepening conspiracy.

Basically, its supposed to act as a crescendo of destruction. Sylus’s waning power, mythical artifacts, and the dreams of mortal pursuers. It elegantly bridges the supernatural scale of Sylus with the human stakes embodied by Myer.

Zayne, Never-Ending Winter

0.1- Never-Ending Winter

Two World Ya Feel meeeee yessir

Zayne’s duality is central: he’s both a healer and a destroyer. His dream—a battlefield soaked in blood and silence—contrasts sharply with his waking role as a brilliant surgeon. His past is haunted, hinted by the imagery of him stepping over bodies and using dark crystals to kill. That supernatural or metaphorical moment isn’t just a dream—it’s a manifestation of guilt, perhaps from past trauma, war experience, or even literal supernatural powers in a sci-fi or fantasy setting. "These hands have mended heart valves and saved hearts. Yet for the past ten years, these same hands have ended countless lives in an endlessly repeating dream." It positions Zayne as someone who cannot separate who he was from who he is—even if society can.

Hypercompetence vs. Humanity

Zayne is shown to be immensely capable: he performs emergency open-chest CPR under chaotic conditions, something rarely successful in real life. But this scene isn’t just to prove his skills—it humanizes him. As sweat forms despite the cold, as his voice remains calm while everyone else panics, you can feel the burden of his excellence. His competence isolates him, but it also defines him.

Traumaaaa

Zayne cleaning bloodless hands with a disinfectant wipe shows that trauma lingers in muscle memory.  He’s mentally living in both timelines—in the snow-covered battlefield of his past and the sterile, clinical present. (Like that thing that dawnbreaker dreams of everything our zayne does with mc and has no mc of his own but i suspect that dawnbreaker is the true zayne ANYWAYS-)

Thematic Significance!

The line between dream and memory is intentionally blurred. The boy in the snow may be real or symbolic—representing Zayne’s own innocence that was silenced, or a literal act from his past. That’s the horror: he doesn’t wake up screaming. He wakes up cleaning blood that isn’t there.

Redemption Through Service

Though tormented by his past, Zayne chooses medicine, rescue, and action. His decision to risk a high-failure surgery shows not just skill but a desperate need to save. It’s not just duty—it’s penance. (But meena, why would he be punishing himself? BECAUSE HE’S ASTRA YOU FOOLS- gets dragged away)

Body as the story 

The repeated attention to hands, heartbeats, surgical motion, and even notebooks held close to the chest—all evoke how the body holds truth. There is no need for exposition when the reader can feel Zayne's internal struggle through how he moves and breathes. Infold makes it a point to mention his scars moreso than that of people like Rafayel. His scars are evident especially when he rolls his sleeves up.

Symbolism/Setting

The silence in the dream and the snowy landscape of Mt. Eternal mirror one another. Both are cold, quiet, suffocating. It creates a symbolic atmosphere where death feels natural, quiet, even expected. Mt. Eternal isn't just a location—it's a metaphor for enduring guilt, danger, and immovable pasts. "As the flurry of snow slowly dissipates, the foreboding Mt. Eternal comes into view." It’s telling that Zayne is being dropped back into this exact kind of environment—not only physically but psychologically.

False Daytime

The final scene where flash bombs illuminate the mountain “as bright as day” is metaphorical brilliance. It’s a false brightness. It mocks the idea of clarity and peace—Zayne is still in darkness, even if the snow is lit up. (womp womp sucka)

To compare- the boy in the snow

“There is only a shivering little boy. Zayne stands before him, his shadow looming across the boy's blood-covered face.” This is an image of absolute power imbalance. But Zayne doesn’t act—he simply raises his hand. The interruption of the dream here is haunting. We’re not shown what happens next. That ambiguity feeds the reader’s curiosity but also reinforces Zayne’s internal turmoil: what did he do? (THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS HIDING SMTH)

Emotional Tensions

Internally, Zayne’s stoicism is a mask. Underneath is exhaustion, dread, and a deep yearning to rewrite something irreversible. Externally, The narrative never lets him rest. Every reprieve—like a cold glass of water or a moment of peace—is shattered by new emergencies, new deaths, new reminders.

Deathly Encounter

Mt. Eternal is a character in itself- STAY WITH ME

The environment—snow-covered Mt. Eternal, the field ward, the constant presence of death and blood reflects Zaynes mental state. "The freezing air in his lungs wakes him." This line isn’t just physical. The cold is what brings clarity. He feels alive only when surrounded by death.

 Emotional Arc

Zayne is a man collapsing inward. The external composure masks his internal unraveling. He’s too exhausted to dream, but even when he does, his dreams are haunted by death—and himself. He doesn’t remember when he last slept. He lies when he says he “just woke up” highlighting the disconnect from time and reality. Additionally, Zaynes dreams turn into visual allegories  of guilt and failure.

“The Grim Reaper in his dream mocks him for his folly, futility, incompetence.” This dream is a direct representation of his inner critic. It manifests as himself in a white coat, standing still—accepting death. It’s a split between his idealistic self who wants to save everyone, and the realistic self who knows he can’t.

Recurring themes/motifs

Mortality/Futility being the  central philosophical tension is: Is trying to save everyone noble, or naïve? Zayne carves a tally mark for every death, not to punish himself, but to remember. Each patient is not a number but a memory. This is his quiet rebellion against futility. (low key makes me think of the abyssal chaos story where they had people trapped in the computers) “Yet they still died.” “But he’s not planning to give up.” The tension between idealism and realism is the emotional centerpiece.

Role of Healer (Im a healer, but…)

Zayne was a battle medic in an active warzone.   He’s a figure of stability, but also desperation. William’s dialogue was a BIG thing: “Zayne, it’s normal to want to save your energy since you just started here.” Because it implies that he’s new to this scale of trauma (level unlocked!)

Symbolism

Dark Crystals: In the dream, Zayne’s hands form dark crystals. This is a potent symbol; it could imply corruption of purpose, symbolizes how his intentions are becoming brittle, and ties into the mysterious evol system mentioned earlier. 

The tally notebook is his tomb of remembrance, being a ritual to honor and in a way, an emotional ledger (#vent channel). Echoes Holocaust witness poetry, war memorials—personal documentation to make sure death doesn’t go unnoticed.

Determination

I cant lie dawg im getting tired anyways THEMES

Duty vs. Safety: Zayne’s conflict revolves around the tug-of-war between personal safety and public responsibility. He chooses self-sacrifice not out of recklessness but out of deep-seated obligation.

Mentorship/Legacy: His instructor represents both a parental and professional figure who wants to preserve life, not lose it to ideals. His plea isn’t just professional—it’s paternal.

Solidarity/Brotherhood: William’s final gesture is essential: it affirms that Zayne isn’t alone in his conviction. His acceptance into the special rescue unit isn’t just procedural—it’s spiritual, like a knight receiving his sword from a brother in arms.

Emotional resonance: "If he can't save everyone, then he'll go to the root of the problem and eliminate it."This is his core creed—heroism, not in glory, but in its raw, sacrificial form.

Zayne’s arc in this chapter follows the "Refusal of the Return" in the Hero's Journey model. He has crossed a threshold, faced conflict, and now is being offered a return to safety—but he refuses. Instead, he doubles down on his journey toward the unknown, because that is where his truth and usefulness lie.

Through Troubled Times

Mission Briefing/A will/

“Our mission is to find the center of the Protofield and eliminate it…” Idkw I added this it just seemed noteworthy. High-key lost my train of thought.

“I'll introduce you when we get back.” William’s question is poignant. Wills represent anticipated death, and his curiosity about Zayne’s "emotional anchor" peels at the shell around Zayne. Zayne deflects, classic repression. But William’s line “I’ll introduce you when we get back” adds human stakes. It’s a quiet but powerful emotional tether to the idea of life after this. “Didn’t expect ‘getting back’ to become an unobtainable luxury.”

Lil notes

He needs immense therapy.

A Long Way Home

More mission stuff

The team’s technical precision and logistical readiness (detailed callouts like "Metaflux barrier test initiated") contrast heavily with the chaos that follows. The structure dissolves into survival, loss, and raw willpower. This showcases the brutal unpredictability of war—even the most meticulous planning can be undone by uncontrollable variables.

Zaynes character development

Self-Sacrifice: He freezes his own legs to stay upright—a brutal metaphor for using your pain to maintain control.  His decision to face the Wanderers alone reflects both his guilt (stemming from his past) and his relentless need to redeem himself by saving others.

The moment of peace in the line “can we go back”  is heart-wrenching in its simplicity. It acknowledges survival—but also the emotional release Zayne experiences for the first time in the narrative. Sunlight here is not just weather—it's the return of hope, warmth, and clarity after the suffocating cold of war and grief. The “frozen apocalypse of dreams” not becoming reality ties directly back to Zayne’s trauma and internal war. It's a powerful resolution… until it isn’t.

Plot twist, with other notes

William and his lil contamination. The blue crystals appearing on William signal Protofield corruption—a slow death or transformation, possibly into a Wanderer. Zayne's inability to speak is telling. For a man so controlled and emotionally locked down, this moment breaks him. It’s the fear of failing again, of not being able to save the person he cares for most.

Protofield energy, like trauma, doesn’t kill instantly—it spreads, it infects, it lingers. William’s final scene reinforces that not all wounds bleed—some glow.

The title is deceptive (just like the size of my dick) 

Home for zayne is a state where guilt is no longer defining him, a place where people can stay safe, and where the past isnt actively poisoning the present.

The Nightmare Worsens

Immediate tragedy 

The core of this chapter is the horrific transformation and death of William, Zayne’s close friend and comrade. William becomes infected by black crystals—possibly remnants of the destroyed Protofield or something even older—that violently mutate and consume his body. The transformation is grotesque, agonizing, and irreversible.  The core of this chapter is the horrific transformation and death of William, Zayne’s close friend and comrade. William becomes infected by black crystals—possibly remnants of the destroyed Protofield or something even older—that violently mutate and consume his body. The transformation is grotesque, agonizing, and irreversible. 

There is NO noble death. It’s just decay.

Post-trauma (the time-skip)

Three years later, Zayne is a doctor, seemingly functional, even celebrated for his Evol-assisted surgical breakthroughs. But the trauma has calcified inside him. He’s buried William’s memory—literally in a drawer, along with his own accolades. However, it is VERY clear that the past isn’t done with him.

Thematic Significance and Analysis

Corruption of Hope- Evol saves lives, but cannot stop death, and sometimes makes the suffering more unbearable. William’s line, “Life… can be terrifyingly ugly,” hits this theme hard.

Heroism vs. Mercy:  Zayne's struggle represents the clash between heroic idealism (“I can save him”) and merciful pragmatism (“He’s already lost”). The tension breaks Zayne spiritually. The right choice is impossible. He doesn't kill William in cold blood—William dies by crystal-induced combustion—but that doesn’t absolve Zayne from the torment of not being able to grant mercy.

Memory being a burden: The theme of remembrance vs. repression comes through Zayne's drawer—an altar of sorts. He hides the awards like tombstones. And yet, he can’t move on. The story implies that the snow, the trauma, the ghosts—they never left him. The past isn’t past; it’s patient.

Fate Cycles and the Reaper: The closing lines paint a chilling picture: the Grim Reaper, once a metaphor for death and guilt, is now watching again. His eyes have reopened. Fate is cyclical, not linear. The crystals have returned, and so the nightmare isn’t over—it’s merely paused. This final image sets up a possible continuation, but even as a standalone, it says: There is no peace in survival—only the illusion of it. What happens to the hero who survives, not as a victor, but as the last one left?  The title “The Nightmare Worsens” is both literal and existential. Not only does the crystal infection physically escalate, but Zayne's internal nightmare—the weight of loss, guilt, helplessness—deepens and metastasizes. And then it goes back to the crystals, which only appear again. 

THORNS UNDER THE MOON/ ROUTE COVERAGE:

Zayne Being Dawnbreaker

Zayne being shaped to become Dawnbreaker is a burdened inheritance- it was GOING to happen regardless. It’s meant to represent sacrifice, redemption, and his universal purpose. It’s meant to display that this role is a cyclic pattern,  potentially reincarnated or fated through time, especially if tied to Astra. Mind you, his whole transformation isn’t all about getting some big ol strong power up- its a metaphorically power up that relies more on the philosophical reasonings, whatever they may be.

Beta Protocurve/Linkon

Beta protocurve is more than a new enemy mechanic—it links directly to space manipulation, and in speculative fiction terms, that usually leads to dimensional anomalies, temporal dissonance, or void incursions.

Wanderers being attracted = Ever sowing chaos intentionally, to create another Metaflux rupture or open rift.

Basically this is implying that he is acting as a mythical anchor and it is almost evangelion-like in that emotional trauma and myther converge together. 

Another Zayne arc

Ever’s plans to do their own empire using the aether-core enhanced wanderers, manipulating science, trauma, and fate. Their interest in MC is not casual—MC is central to their plan. (which we knew. duh)

Nodding back to when I said that zayne’s trauma is emotional and physical, it’s important to remember that with the reveal (that i am getting to) that his trauma is supposed to happen and is chronological. The nightmares are bleeding into prophecies. The guilt over William, the illusion MC, and the fear of Akso—this isn’t PTSD, it’s Foreseer-induced temporal insight. Remember: he does NOT want his fate, he accepts it out of necessity (cough he’s astra out of guilt and-)

Akso Hospital is used for premonitions

Akso isn't just a setpiece in Zayne’s dreams—it’s a future event he keeps reliving because he may be consciously or subconsciously temporally displaced. Foreseer’s voice suggests time isn't linear for him anymore. “When you and the world wake up,” implies a sealed-statis that could be him becoming a rift stabilizer- basically a living Dawnbreaker lock.

Zayne taking in the black ice → he absorbs chaos metastasis into himself.

He isn't killing the anomaly. He's hosting it, and that implies a toll—possibly one that alters him into Dawnbreaker or fractures his timeline permanently.

Doomed pairing

Zayne’s fear of losing MC and thinking he is a curse to her is what makes his arc tragic. He doesn’t fear death—he fears being the reason she suffers. When he says “Letting her in was a mistake,” he either means that letting her into his nightmare is dragging her into the pain or that letting her into his life like that means that their destinies are tied to HER destruction (NOT his).

However, this is a paradox: it's MC who grounds him. She keeps him sane, real, anchored. The cluster cracks when she is successful. Their soul resonance is literal and symbolic: she is his will to live.

Extrapolation

Zayne becomes Dawnbreaker not because of lineage—but because he takes the metaphysical weight onto himself. He might merge with Astra or be chosen by their essence. (or that ho IS astra).

Akso Hospital event becomes the catalyst where all timelines converge: MC, Ever’s scheme, Metaflux rupture, and Dawnbreaker's rebirth.

MC’s Healing Ability could be aether resonance-based, and her memory unlocking (via dream/future peeks) could mean she is also connected to Foreseer or even Astra in some unknown way. (NOT counting the myths, of course).

Zayne’s real curse isn't Dawnbreaker—it’s loving MC in a world where love leads to annihilation. Which. Imo that’s his own interpretation for the sake of romance but hey! Could be wrong. 

[m1d-45]

post-mortem

summary: war was not a gentle affair; not to the land, the civilians, the soldiers, or their captain.

word count: 1.1k

-> warnings: major spoilers for natlan aq, very very brief mention of canon-typical violence

-> gn reader (you/yours) and unspecified traveller

taglist: @samarill || @sarienic || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

harbingers were not meant to be kind. they were meant to carry out the tsaritsa’s will, and while they were allowed some level of leniency within their methods of doing so, their goal remained firm: fetch the gnosis. if they could manage that, then it was to return home in more or less one piece.

capitano was not in natlan for fun. he had a mission to complete. anything that stopped him was an obstacle to be immediately removed. anything that slowed him was to be brushed off and cut away. for hundreds of years, he had had no problem with this goal, and no problem for what would come after it.

he stationed himself just within natlan’s borders, gathering as much information on the ley lines as he could without stepping on too many toes. he had bided his time patiently, tending to his mechanical heart and the souls within, his plan ready to go as soon as the traveller arrived. carefully reviewed and edited millions of times, paperwork he no longer needed to read to remember the words of. it was the pinnacle of his years on teyvat, his will and testament to the nation he once served.

he held no reservations. he had no doubt, no fear for what was to come. il capitano did not linger.

the captain sat behind his desk, the plain wood empty and unoffensive. there was neither pen nor paper across its surface, all reports having been reviewed just as midnight struck. the only light in the cramped tent was from a lamp in the corner, the flame’s light flickering over the walls and everything held within. outside, the wind whined through the stone of tezcatepetonco range, keeping all words far from listening ears. had he wanted to, he would feel comfortable even listing out his plan to someone he trusted enough to tell it to.

that had been his plan, initially. his tent was nestled deep within the heart of the camp, and he doubted neither his soldiers’ fealty nor their ability to alert him should something go wrong. in the wilds of the land of war, he had forged a sliver of true privacy. any day now, he would receive word that the traveller had finally left fontaine, and his plan would fall into place. every possible failure and fault had long been accounted for; all that was left was to secure that his affairs would be in order after he died.

and with that, you had been called into his office, the summons delivered by an agent with a deep red mask and a voice permanently roughened by illness.

you had been hired young by the fatui, like so many others in their ranks. you were a remarkably ordinary person, in fact; at least by snezhnayan standards. you were born, you starved, you joined the cause. and because the captain made a point of caring after those put under his banner, he let you try to forget the things that happened in between. you came when called and struck when commanded, carrying the same loyalty that marked the rest of his division. you were entirely unassuming, if not for the fact that for some inexplicable reason, it was you that he had called.

there were soldiers with more experience than you. there were soldiers with a more precise control over the elements than you, with a higher kill count, with a broader stature or quicker strikes. you were perhaps not average, but assuredly not him, nor someone fit to manage every loose string.

the only thing you were, for certain, was slumped over his desk, leaning rather uncomfortably on your arm in a way that you’d certainly regret in the morning. normally, he’d never allow such disrespect—this was his tent, after all—but given that you were the one he’d chosen to step alongside him for the past few days, he supposed he could cut you some slack. regular people needed sleep, after all, and the captain was in the habit of protecting those under his banner. as a reward for trekking with him across the country and back and dealing with the combat in between, he would allow you to rest with him as your guard for one more night.

no one person could handle every consequence of the power vacuum that would be left in his stead, and he was not stupid enough to think so. he had informed both the jester and her majesty, but their business was not with inter-platoon affairs. while he may not have to worry about anyone striking when they thought the harbingers were weak, he did have to worry about who would upkeep all of his contacts, monitor the ley and those that resided within them, who would coordinate his troops while they either filtered to the other harbingers or were reassigned to whomever would take his place. it was for this reason that he had spent his tentatively “free” time developing and editing a second plan for when news of his death reached fatui ears. it sat in his pocket, a thin weight he was never meant to hold on to.

he was meant to give it to you. ordinary you, as plain as the uniform over your shoulders, tasked with filling his shoes until the storm passed. you, who he should not be fond of because captains did not have time for such childish things as favorites, and yet your name had refused to leave his mind. no, he was not forced to give command to you in particular, and neither was he made to leave it at all. but war was cruel, and a soldier without a cause was as good as a cart without wheels. he was to reduce his people’s suffering, not impart more upon others. you just happened to be better suited for the job, and he had happened to tell you more about natlan’s ley lines than anyone else. it only made sense that he kept calling on you rather than anyone else, as he could handle any combat anyway. informing you would make your transition to stand-in all the more easier, that was all. there was no place for “kindness” in his crowded heart. “kindness” implied a level of sympathy he did not show, not to any of his troops and assuredly not to you. it was not “kind” to mark you with his death.

he waited until the sun crept above the horizon to move, letting you sleep uninterrupted. you would need a much of it as you could get. he let his chair slide against the floor as he stood, letting that wake you instead of his gauntlets on your shoulders. you snapped to sitting up, but just as fast winced at the knot in your shoulder. “get moving,” he ordered, and you hurriedly apologized, thanked him, and turned to comply. as the wind swept in behind you, he watched you shiver at the sudden drop in temperature, hunching your shoulders high and walking quickly.

for just a moment, his mind briefly drew the idea of giving you his coat. he discarded the idea as soon as it came, pushing his chair back into place and following you out, running through today’s agenda.

his last wishes would be dealt with another day.

[moody-alcoholic]

Chapter 6 - The New Role

Name used for reader Dani, It's just personal preference I don't like using Y/N.

Summary: Simon x reader. 5.3k words. You want to be more involved with the more dangerous side of the job. Which means you and Simon are forced to talk about your feelings and what this means for you both.

CW: smoking, alcohol, vomit, mentions of past abusive relationship, implied SA (not 141), hurt/comfort, feeeelings.

AN: Don't be too put off by the content warnings this chapter is VERY fluffy, a lot of fluff and people being bad at feelings.

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1 Month later.

You’re sat in John’s office. He’s looking over papers, like it’s a real performance review, for a real job you’ve been doing for the past month. He hums looking back over at you.

“So how’s it been?” He asks putting the papers down. You look at him, it’s almost like what happened a month ago was just a one time thing. You haven’t even been in the storeroom since. They still talk around jobs like it’s a real company. There was something burning inside you now. You wanted more. You wanted to be part of their world. 

“You know, good,” you say shrugging. He presses his lips together waiting for you to say more. 

“Something wrong?” He asks after a few more seconds of silence. You shake your head. How would you even ask? Maybe you could ask for another ride along. 

“The job is very easy, I could easily continue to do it no problem..” You trail off you’re not sure how to word it. 

“But?” He asks leaning forward on his desk. 

“I want to be more involved, I want to help with the special cases.” You say. He takes a big breath. 

“I know what you’re going to say. I’m not a soldier, and I’m not a ‘professional’ like you guys. But I’m discrete and loyal, and I’m good a keeping secrets.” You stop yourself realising  you’re not really saying much of anything. John frowns his gaze turning serious. 

“You don’t want to get yourself involved in this, it’s messy work.” John says, it’s almost like a warning. 

“I do I want to. I want to help people the way you helped me.” You reply quickly. 

“It’s not always that simple we can’t always help everyone.” He says leaning back in the chair. 

“Well I’d like to try at least.” You say, it sounds like a plea but you mean it. He lets out a big sigh.

“It can be dangerous you could get hurt.” You feel a pit forming in your stomach. He’s not wrong. Is it worth the risk?   

“I know.” You say keeping eye contact with him. 

“You can’t tell anyone what you do.” You nod, you haven’t been telling anyone anyway. 

“You might see and hear things you don’t like.” He says sitting up straight. You nod. The pit is not going away. You know he’s trying to get you to back down but you’re not going to. 

“I want to be involved John.” You say mustering up all the courage you have. He sighs. 

“Fine, I’ll talk to the others see what jobs are lined up.” He says closing the folder on the table. 

“Thank you I won’t let you down.” You say getting up. 

“Oh by the way, we didn’t see you for drinks last time are you coming tomorrow?” He asks. You feel like you have to make it now. 

“Yeah I’ll be there.” You say turning to walk out the door. You close it behind you giddy as you see Johnny sat over on the sofa looking at a tablet. 

“How’d it go we got you fer another month?” He asks smiling as you walk over to him. 

“Of course what would you do without me.” You joke. Sitting down next to him. He closes the tablet down. 

“Johnny where’s LT he was supposed to be back 15 minutes ago?” Kyle says from the top of the stairs. Johnny shrugs.

“Have you tried calling him?” Johnny suggests. 

“He never picks up when I call.” Kyle says coming over to sit in the recliner.

“Here use my phone.” Johnny says throwing his phone to Kyle. 

“Why do you call Simon LT? I thought is nickname was Ghost?” You ask, Johnny chuckles.

“It is. Simon used to be a lieutenant so sometimes we still call him LT.” Johnny explains. 

“What does that mean was he like a high rank or something?” You ask. You see Kyle smile.

“Kind of, he was a rank below Price, so he was the second in command.” Johnny explained. 

“I’m surprised he hasn’t talked about it before.” Kyle says pressing Johnny’s phone up to his ear.

“Si’s not one to boast, you know that Gaz.” Johnny says nudging you. You don’t talk much about his military past, he tends to stay away from it. Maybe now would be a good time to get some stories though. Your head looks up as John comes out his office.

“Where’s Simon he was supposed to be back 20 minutes ago?” John asks.

“Have you tried calling him?” Johnny says, you can’t help but chuckle. John mutters something under his breath and goes back into his office. Gaz hangs up the phone. 

“Try again he never picks up the first time.” Johnny says winking at Kyle. 

“I miss the days we could just radio each other and we would have to answer.” Kyle says sighing. 

“Ah yes Price yelling ‘how copy’ in my ear every 3 seconds is definitely something I miss.” Johnny says sarcastically. 

“So how come John doesn’t have a nickname? You just call him Price.” You ask Johnny. Kyle moves seems like Simon has picked up the phone.

“Don’t know, he’s always just been Price, or captain. Maybe you should ask him, tomorrow after a few drinks.” Johnny winks at you. You sit back on the sofa as Gaz comes back. 

“He hung up on me said Price was calling him.” Kyle says as he sits down handing the phone back to Johnny. You smile.

“What do you need him for anyway?” Johnny asks. Kyle sighs. You know that sigh its the ‘special job’ sigh. The one they think they’re so good at hiding but you’re picking up on it, on all the little mannerisms.

How Simon only picks the phone up first time if it’s John, how Johnny always asks Simon for help before Kyle, if only just to piss Simon off. Kyle and Johnny tell each other literally anything and everything unless you’ve explicitly told them not to say anything. John’s nickname might as well be dad with the amount of times they run to him with silly little problems.

You see Simon pull his van into the building. Johnny gets up going to the balcony looking down. 

“Welcome home honey, I’ve missed you so much.” Johnny coos with a high pitched voice as Simon gets out the van. You smile, Johnny will take any opportunity to wind up Simon. John walks out his office, Simon looks up at him.

“Oh honey, I can explain! He’s no one I love you baby.” Johnny says walking over to John. Gaz starts laughing. You watch as John shakes his head and Simon heads up the steps. 

“Come on we need to have a chat, all of you.” John says looking over at you. You nod getting up as everyone piles into his office. Price leans up against his desk looking at us all. 

“So Dani and I had a chat and she asked to be involved more with some of the other jobs we do.” Price says, everyone turns to look at you. The only person you want to see is Simon. Half of his face is covered by a mask so you can’t read his expression as easy. No one says anything as you feel yourself blushing.

“We’ll take it slow, she’ll follow you around see if it’s definitely something she wants to get involved in.” John explains, you smile at him as everyone turns back to look at him. 

“Simon, you’ve got the easier jobs next week. She’ll follow you till Wednesday. Until I can find a replacement you’ll have to spend Thursdays and Fridays catching up with the work you’ve missed.” You nod. Simon sighs, it’s a long sigh almost a huff almost like he’s annoyed or something. 

“Problem?” John asks looking at him. 

“No.” He replies. John nods. 

“Good okay, it’s been a good week. Don’t forget to empty the vans before you leave.” He says standing up and going round to the other side of his desk to sit down. Everyone starts getting up to leave. Simon’s eyes catch yours as he turns. You can see something in them. Is he upset? Angry? Johnny throws his arm round your shoulders. 

“Joining the big boys club now!” He says cheerfully as he leads you out. Simon heads straight down the steps your head snaps to him following him as Johnny leads you back over to the sofas.

“We’ve got to have a celebration drink!” Johnny exclaims going over to the kitchenette. 

“We’re already going out tomorrow, besides I have to drive home.” Kyle says. 

“I’ll have to pass too.” You say. You want to speak to Simon, you want to go home. 

“Party poppers the both of ya’s.” Johnny says putting the scotch back in the cupboard. 

You look down as you hear the storeroom door slam closed.   

 —————————— 

Simon doesn’t come over Friday night, and you don’t hear from him all day Saturday. You don’t know why he’s been avoiding you but you confirm with Johnny that he’s coming for drinks tonight. Maybe he’ll open up after a pint or two. You spend the day distracted, you try to convince yourself it’s not that bad.

You spent such an amazing month together and now he’s basically giving you the cold shoulder. You thought you had something special. He’s so caring, gentle, nothing like the Simon you know at work who hides his face. He’s been helping you recover, if you can even call it that. He’s there when you wake from nightmares, careful not to step out your comfort zone without asking. He understands you.

You love him.

You didn’t want to admit it, scared it would drive him away.

You realised it a few nights ago while you were curled up on the sofa watching some cheesy romantic comedy. He laughed at some stupid joke. It was the first time you’d seen him laugh, properly laugh. It made your heart flutter, you looked up at him as he stroked your arm, massive grin on his face. You almost just blurted it out right there and then.

You’re not the type of person to move on so quickly. Two months after your ex and you’re already sticking your tongue down another mans throat. At least you haven’t fucked him yet. The thought makes you shiver. Not because you don’t want to, you do. You just can’t.

When he’s around though you can’t help it, your eyes soaking up every part of him. Sometimes he sleep’s topless, you just lay there watching his chest rise and fall. You’ve made a mental note of each scar he has making up stories in your head about how he got them.

You move from the bedroom to thumb through the stack of mail that has been gathering dust over the past few days. Water bill, spam mail mostly trash. Then you see a hand written letter, the address is handwritten in beautiful calligraphy and the paper is almost shiny. You open it it’s an invitation, to Joe’s funeral. You feel sick reading over the contents of the letter.

You remember the officers coming the day you found out about his suicide. You grilled Simon about it but he wouldn’t go into details, kept telling you they just ‘ruffed him up a bit’ whatever that meant. You slide the invite back in the envelope almost wanting to will it to go away. You want to hide it, you’re not sure why, you pick your sock drawer shoving it down and to the back between your fluffy winter socks. You feel sick, now you want to get out the flat you look at the clock it’s only 6. You pull out your phone and text Johnny.

Wanna meet for that celebration drink before 7?

You don’t have to wait long.

Sure thing usual place? I’ll be there in 15.

You smile, you really need to get out of this flat.

 —————————— 

“So Simon talked to you yet?” Johnny asks winking. You and Simon haven’t really spoken about what this means, you and him, where you stand. You definitely haven’t been telling anyone.

Johnny acts like he knows, maybe he does or maybe he thinks he knows. Whatever the case whenever you two are alone he always asks about Simon and winks like you’re about to spill the dirtiest secret. 

“Why? I talk to him at work.” You say taking a big gulp of your second cider, you were drinking it like water. Anything to quell the nerves, stop your mind from racing and your hands shaking. The cigarettes you’d smoked on the walk here weren't cutting it. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout his reaction lass. He’s a grumpy sod when he want’s to be.” Johnny says sipping his beer. 

“It’s alright.” You say sighing. It’s not you miss him. 

“He’ll be over it in a week just you watch.” Johnny says. You want to believe him you want to think it’s all going to be okay. Simon does this, when he’s mad or upset about something, it’s like he reverts inwards. Doesn’t want to talk or even look at you.

There had been a few days like that over the past month. He usually just mopes around the flat limiting contact until he feels better. Or worst case he messages you to say he’s staying home. You had never been to his place you didn’t even know where he lived.

You don’t know how you would feel being in another mans flat. Maybe it was better you were always at your place. You let Johnny talk only half paying attention to what he was saying while you finished your drink. You offer to get the next round taking the empty glasses to the bar. You’re waiting for the order when you feel someone place a hand on your back. You freeze.

“Hey,” It’s Simon you relax, letting your shoulders drop. 

“Where have you been?” You ask trying not to sound mad at him. It’s nice to feel him near you again. 

“Had some thinking to do.” He says, you scoff. 

“You mad at me?” You ask as the drinks are put in front of you, you smile at the bartender paying. 

“No ‘course not.” He says. You pick the drinks up. You turn to look at him. He seems distracted about something, his eyes are soft, his expression warm in the pubs glow. It’s almost like he think’s nothing has changed over the last 48 hours and he hasn’t just been ignoring you.

You walk past him going to the table sitting down. John and Kyle are here now too taking their coats off and scooting into the booth next to Johnny. You put the drink down in front of Johnny taking a big gulp of yours. You listen to John talk as he explains something about an old General getting in contact with him about something. Simon comes back with the drinks and sits next to you.

You try to relax, you want to talk to Simon. Not here though, maybe if he could come back to yours tonight. You should have asked him at the bar. When you’re halfway finished with your cider you take your coat going out for a smoke.

You don’t know if Simon will join you but you hope he could take the hint. You’re stood off the path inhaling the smoke letting it warm your lungs. The nights are getting colder, summers coming to an end. 

“Johnny said I’ve pissed you off.” Simon says, you look over to see him lighting his cigarette. You chuckle shaking your head. 

“You haven’t pissed me off.” You say even though it comes across a little more hostile then you expected. Simon takes another step to be beside you.

“Sorry I haven’t been round.” He says. You shake your head. 

“It’s okay, I missed you.” You say nudging him. His hand wraps his hand round your waist. 

“You seemed mad about me wanting to help out with the special jobs.” You say looking up at him, he blows out a mouthful of smoke looking down at you. 

“Not mad just worried.” He says looking away. 

“I’ll be fine.” You say not really knowing what to say. You’d had a month to think about this. You’d spent all that time trying to get as much information from Simon, Johnny and Kyle. They hadn’t given you much, talking around the jobs like it’s no big deal. John said you could get hurt, but so could Johnny, or Kyle, or Simon. The thought of Simon getting hurt made your stomach knot, you didn’t want to imagine him being hurt. 

“Besides, you could get hurt as much as I could.” You say. It’s mostly a mumble, your head spinning with the alcohol. He sighs. 

“I’m trained to deal with the worse possible things. You’re not you’re just..You’re just.” He stops he’s trying to think of the words.

“What I’m just a woman? Not a soldier? Not strong enough?” You spit out. He shakes his head dropping his hand from your waist.

“You’re safe. This isn’t your life, you don’t have to worry about the bad shit we do. It’s not always easy shit like stalkers or surveillance. Sometimes-” He stops himself. Like he doesn’t want to say whats next. He steps closer to you and you turn your body so his back is facing the street. 

“Sometimes we have to get our hands dirty.” He says quietly. 

“You said you don’t kill people anymore.” You grit through your teeth, keeping your voice down. He sighs.

“Sometimes things happen, situations can change in an instant. Look what happened to Johnny when you first started. He got shot could have died.” He says. His hand moves to grip your arm like he wants to shake you and get you to listen to him.

“What do you think happened to the people shooting at him?” He asks. You hadn’t thought about it, or maybe you just didn’t want to think about it.

“You said he was shot for being stupid.” 

“He was but he was still shot. He survived because he has years of training.” Simon says. His eyes are burning into you.

“It’s not going to change my mind I already had the speech from John.” You say. Simon sighs dropping his hand from your arm.

“What did he say. It’s dangerous? You could get hurt? Clearly he didn’t try that hard.” Simon scoffs, you don’t know why you feel insulted by that. 

“I just won’t get shot at.” You say holding your hands up, you don’t know what to say to him. You know you can do this you want to try at least. Your cigarette is almost completely gone now as you flick the ash away.

“No one goes on a job planning on being shot at.” He says. “That’s not the point I don’t want you getting hurt.” You stand there looking at him as he hangs his head letting out a big sigh. 

“I don’t want you getting hurt. I can’t see you hurt…I love you too much.” You gasp, you don’t mean to you just weren't expecting that. For a second you think you’ve misheard him you’re just stood there with your mouth hung open. You had no idea he felt that way.

“Simon.” Your voice catches in your throat. You flick the cigarette butt on the floor. He shakes his head. You reach up and squeeze his arm. You want to say it too. Tell him how you really feel. You swallow getting the lump out your throat. 

“I don’t know what love feels like it’s been…Years. Whatever this is what we have, whether it’s love, I don’t know. I just, I want you so bad.” He flicks the rest of his cigarette away putting his hands on your shoulders. You look him in the eyes, they’re wide looking into you like he’s trying so hard to tell you something he cant put into words. 

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I need to be around you, have you in my life. If you do this, I could lose you.” He stops it almost sounds like he’s pleading. You don’t know what to say. You feel guilty, you didn’t know how he felt maybe you should have spoken to him first. You thought if you did it could start an argument, or he would try to put you off maybe even try to get you fired. Your brain is still used to your ex, not Simon.

Simon who’s spent the last month practically living at your place, who spends as much time as possible with you and still respects your boundaries. He’s never so much as raised his voice at you for any reason, he still sleeps on the sofa when you’re having bad nights. He’s patient and kind nothing like your ex. 

“I’m sorry.” You say hanging your head. You are sorry, you mean it. He pulls you into his arms. 

“It’s okay I should have been honest, told you how I feel.” He says kissing the top of your head. You can do it you can tell him. 

“Simon.” You grip your arms round him tight, bunching his shirt up in your hands. “I think I love you too.” You feel his hands loosen on you like he wants to pull away to look at you. You grip him tight not moving. 

“Just hold me for a second.” You say into his chest. 

“Okay, I got you.” He says going back to squeezing you in his arms. It’s almost like you can feel your heartbeat in your ears thumping away from the adrenaline of telling him how you feel. It shouldn’t be this hard. You think to yourself. Maybe if he knew how fucked up you really were he wouldn’t feel this way. You close your eyes for a second breathing him in. All you can smell is cigarette smoke, you don’t care though his warmth is enough. 

“Let’s go back inside.” He says after a few more seconds. You nod even though your head is still buried in his chest. Reluctantly letting him go so you can break apart. 

“Will you stay at mine tonight?” You ask before he leads you away. 

“‘Course.” He smiles. 

 ——————————

You stay out later then you expected. Feeling like a weight has been lifted off you enjoying your time with everyone. You’re quite drunk when John finally calls it quits and everyone takes that as the cue to leave. Johnny is also pretty inebriated when he goes to get up, having to lean on Kyle for support. He’s even more unsteady on his feet then usual, hobbling around winking at everyone he bumps into. It makes you laugh, not that you’re any better having to rely on Simon to hold you up as you stumble your way out the pub.  

“You get her home and I’ll make sure, these two make it back safe.” You hear Price sigh as Simon’s hand finds your waist pulling you up against him. 

“Price, Si!” You hear Johnny shout, Simon turns and you turn with him to see Kyle doubled over vomiting into a drain. 

“It’s like Spain all over again!” Johnny rubs Kyle’s back. You feel Simon chuckle, John shakes his head going over to Johnny and Kyle.

“What happened in Spain?” You ask as you watch John help Kyle stand back up straight. 

“Johnny and Gaz went out and got drunk with some marines. They came back to the base so drunk they woke up the base commander. He was so mad he had them running laps until sunrise. Kyle must have stopped every few hundred meters to chuck his guts up.” Simon says as you turn to walk away. 

“What about you?” You ask.

“I was sleeping, peacefully I may add until Price woke me up to keep an eye on them while he got his ass handed to him by the base commander.” He chuckles and you reach your arm round his back.  

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun.” You say smiling. 

“Yeah well, there were some fun moments between missions.” He says sighing. 

“Do you miss it?” You ask. 

“Sometimes, the good doesn't always out way the bad though.” You hear him sigh again. You keep a tight hold of him as you walk back to your flat. It’s cool and the breeze makes you feel light headed. You’re stumbling over your own feet as you walk up to the first floor where your flat is. You pull your key out your pocket. Simon takes it out your hands opening the door and guiding you inside. You both kick your shoes of at the door then he sets you down on the sofa, as you hear him going into the kitchen. 

“Hey Simon?” You say leaning back. 

“Yeah?” 

“Did you really mean it? When you said you loved me.” You wait for a response not hearing anything. You don’t even hear him walk beside you as he hands you a glass of water. For how big he is he really is quiet on his feet. You take the glass sipping it as he sits down next to you. 

“‘Course I meant it.” His hand rests on your thigh. It makes you pause. You don’t remember the last time you’ve been drunk, at least this drunk. Let alone around a guy. Your ex loved you being drunk, said he made things easier. It did make things easier, it was better then being sober.   

“I meant it too.” You say to him. He smiles taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the table before you spill it. 

“I know you did.” He says squeezing your thigh. It makes you swallow hard. As you do you feel bile rising in your stomach. You don’t have much time to react as your hand slaps over your mouth. You don’t want to throw up but you can’t stop yourself rushing into the bathroom and heaving into the toilet bowl. You feel Simon’s hand on your back pulling your hair out the way into his hand. You keep throwing up in the toilet until you’re dry heaving.

You reach up pulling the flush. Simon lets go of your hair bending down in front of you passing you the glass of water. You take little sips cleaning your mouth out before gulping the rest down. You look up at him through hazy eyes as you brush your hair out your face. 

“Sorry, I haven’t drank this much in a while.” You say your throat still raw. 

“It’s okay.” He says taking the glass out your hand as you reach it out for him. He helps you to your feet as you wobble in his arms.

“Lets get you to bed.” He says. You nod blindly following him across the living room, almost tripping over the carpet. 

“You’re so drunk.” He says guiding you over the bed. You flop down not quite understanding what’s going on. You remember the vomiting, that was real, you can still taste it in your mouth. 

“Simon,” you call as you feel his hands leave your body. 

“Yeah?” he calls back. 

“Don’t sleep on the sofa it’s bad for your back.” You say. You reach under your shirt pulling off your bra flinging it across the room. 

“I won’t sleep on the sofa.” He says pulling the duvet over you. 

“Good, it’s not good for your back.” You murmur. You hear him mumble something as you grip the duvet settling down into bed. You think you hear a light switch you’re not sure, you don’t even remember falling asleep.    

—————————— 

You wake the next morning with a ringing in your head. The bedroom blinds are wide open. You don’t remember making it home, you turn over in the bed it’s empty. You’re pretty sure you remember Simon walking you home. Did he not stay the night? You get out of bed pressing on the bridge of your nose trying to get the ringing to stop.

As you walk into the living room you see Simon spread out on the couch. He’s far too big for it but you can’t help but smile as the sheet he grabbed out the wardrobe barely covers him, not leaving much to the imagination. You see his jeans bunched up on the floor and you reach down picking them up and laying them over the back of your armchair. He’s snoring softly as you make it into the kitchen.

You try to be as quiet as possible pouring yourself a glass of water and gulping it down as you take some mugs out to make tea. You try to think back to last night. You remember Simon saying he thinks he loves you. That made you smile. You remember telling him you think you love him.

It feels like you’re back in primary school when you didn’t know what love was but you had a crush on some random boy. Do you even remember what love is? Your ex said he loved you and you loved him at some point, before he moved in at least. You don’t even hear Simon coming up behind you just his hands round your waist. You reach forward and click the kettle on taking a box of teabags out. 

“You shouldn’t sleep on the sofa it’s bad for your back.” You say as he nuzzles his face into your neck. 

“You got so drunk last night.” He chuckles as he watches you spoon sugar into the mugs. 

“Yeah,” you say feeling embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I guess I just. I don’t know. I should have been more careful.” He breathes into your neck grabbing your waist and pulling you round to face him. 

“You don’t have to apologise. It was nice to see you let your hair down and relax.” He says his thumb stroking your cheek. You don’t have to apologise, even after a month you’re still reverting back to old habits. You look at him until the kettle clicks, he reaches down kissing you on the forehead. 

“You’re not still mad at me for asking to join you guys on the special jobs.” He sighs letting go of your waist siting down at the kitchen table. 

“I was never mad. Just worried.” He says. You pour the water then bring the mugs over. 

“Yeah, I know. I want to help people though, the way you guys helped me.” You say taking the milk out the fridge then going to sit opposite him. 

“I know you do. I just wish there was a safer way for you to do it then getting involved with this stuff.” He takes the milk pouring it in his cup. You sigh waiting for him to finish. You remember the conversation yesterday, with Simon and the one with John. You still wanted to do this nothing has changed.

“We get to work together, at least we’ll always be close.” You say smiling at him. He hums blowing on his tea. 

“Let’s not think about work at least not today. Let’s spend the day together we’ll do what ever you want.” You say as you watch his hand reach across the table for yours. You slip your fingers between his. 

“I love you.” He says squeezing your hand. Hearing him say it makes you smile before you even realise it. You squeeze his hand back looking into his chocolate eyes, being lit up by the morning sun. 

“I love you too.” You reply. It felt real.    

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[scummy-writes]

Ikemen Series Tierlist Video

Using the tierlist here, I spent four hours going through each ikemen game listed and ranking how I felt about them. We talk about route spoilers, ships, which characters need to 'get bent', and which should be given a loving home...or second chance. For the first hour-ish, @rjthirsty joins me on voice chat to gasp or agree with my opinions.

This is a long one, and in my opinion its fun background noise. We go through Ikepri, Ikesen, Ikevamp, Ikevil, some JP ones I don't know, and even Ikerev! Thank you to everyone who joined the stream!! If you enjoyed this, please feel free to suggest other ikemen discussion videos/streams I could do that you'd be interested in!

Under the cut are going to be some fandom folks I mentioned (due to discussing fanworks and such). I may miss some names and I apologize in advance. Further, timestamps for when each game was discussed will be right under the cut.

TIMESTAMPS:

Ikemen Sengoku - after setting up the tierlist, it's the first we tackle!... but it's at 11:37

Ikemen Revolution - 57:20

Ikemen Vampire - 01:21:33

Ikemen Prince - 02:14:54

Ikemen Villains - 03:15:12

Smash or Pass with other ikemen games - 03:44:30

Server Member Tierlists - 03:57:30

MENTIONS:

@rjthirsty a friend and co-host for a part of this stream! RJ writes a lot of gilbert with me, in and outside of DMs, and streams with me every now and then! I highly recommend their writing in general. We also do reviews together over at @dokidoki-digest and do a podcast on the youtube channel.

@honeybyte with their fanworks with motonari and kennyo (and kennyo again) that live in my head rent free. They're mentioned a few times with ikevamp too, so overall check out their art!

@beni-draw-ikemen-please just. so much ikemen arts. she is now heavily into twst, but she ALSO has a fun youtube channel discussing art and her life. Right now she's working on becoming a japanese VA - check her channel out!

Dark-Frosted-Heart was also mentioned - I'm avoiding a tag since I do not Know her (I'm sorry if this still somehow tags), and is a fun resource for upcoming JP spoilers for some of the games, and some other games!

@kazesuke a writer who used to write ikevamp a ton! I love a lot of her works, and I do recommend them if you enjoy poly mansion fun and more.

BatteryRose has a bunch of fun fanarts of the ikemen series, but the arthur/vincent i mentioned is here.

I distinctly remember mentioning Tarren, Solomons-poison, I don't remember if I referenced any fanworks they've created, but they're another writer I recommend!

@drewadoodle created the gilbert chibi we use later in the stream! go check him out, many good arts.

I am likely missing a few people! I apologize. If i mention someone and you're curious, feel free to reply and ill try to figure it out.

(The arthur/naps fic we laughed about is...mine.. and it's Here.)

also hi! I have written a lot of fanfics for ikepri and ikevamp, but I also stream video games over on my Twitch, @scumberly. Feel free to check any of that out, and if you like my streaming shenanagins, here's a link to my discord server regarding it.

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[lo1k-diamonds]

Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 4

“Justice just never sleeps.”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: Yoongi makes a decision and gives up on the nicotine gum.

WORD COUNT: 6.8k

GENRE: Gangster AU, Law AU, enemies to lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, explosions, fire, blood, threats, arguing, handjob, blowjob, riding

A.N. It's so hard to pick a favorite part, but I think this one might be it... Again, infinite thank yous to @moonleeai for helping me around the clock and being an incredible beta! Enjoy 🔥🔥

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Yoongi sighed as he made his way inside his office, dismissing his secretary when she tried to pass him a pile of files waiting for his review. It was the end of another exhausting Friday, and although he appreciated her commitment, she should have long gone home to her family instead of wasting time on this.

Closing the door behind him, he started a sequence of ceremonial steps: he took off his coat and hung it up, loosened his tie, grabbed more nicotine gum from his drawer, and then sat down, chewing it with a long sigh. The wall behind him had his many decorations, including the latest that landed him there.

Working with you was seamless and smooth, and justice was swiftly served. Not only was he able to recover the agent’s body and bring him home with honors, but the dismantling of the whole operation was a huge success. It gave him honors, medals, a ceremony with Seoul’s Mayor, and lastly, a promotion he didn’t even want. 

He heaved a deep breath; he couldn’t say he loved being Superintendent General. He preferred to be hands-on with the cases he and his team worked on, but he had moved too far up: he made decisions, but was too high in rank to see any of them carried out. He had more responsibilities and dreadful meetings that were more about competition between police agencies and politics than what actually mattered. And so for months, he’d been tolerating the bullcrap from all ends — from fellow Superintendent Generals and their chiefs from all over the country, including his boss, politicians, and Senior Superintendents complaining about the workload and the lack of resources as if he wasn’t in that position himself just months prior. It was exhausting and slow, and he kept asking himself what was the point.

But just like any other night, his ritual wasn’t complete if he didn’t open his locked drawer and pulled out a file with your name. Despite being frustrated and sometimes disgusted by the people in positions of power with so little consideration for the workforce or the people they served, there was nothing he could do. Instead, every night, he stared at your file and asked himself what he should do.

That night was engraved into his brain: you made a deal, he relapsed and asked you to let him eat you out, then proceeded to get so lost in you, that he didn’t even recognize himself. But then, you left him alone in your office, and that was when he saw those files.

He had managed to take photos of a few of them before leaving and had since printed them and worked on them. So he knew what they contained – details of money laundering. They depicted monumental amounts, to the likes that he was surprised even existed, but maybe he was just too naive. There were mostly coded names on those files, so he knew you were handling it for others and not just for yourself. It probably ran much deeper than a few bars or the drugs you were now distributing, safely, like you promised.

And that was the issue, wasn’t it? He groaned with himself, settling his face inside his hands. He used to see things as black and white, but the more time passed, the more he realized there was no such thing. Politicians, among other officials, ran the show, and he knew things were happening behind closed doors. You were as bad if not worse than the people you had helped him put away, but you kept your word: you gave him evidence to exonerate Officer Jimin, an alternative to bring the Klysa conglomerate down without ruining the lives of thousands of people, and gave him the address where he could find the agent’s body, not to mention crucial names that once picked, dismantled the net of dealers quite nicely.

So why was he after you? Were you the lesser evil? Were those exceptions to your usual criminal and selfish deeds? Or were you just deceiving him by pretending to play nice?

He didn’t know how you knew so much, but now he knew you laundered money, and he had evidence. Evidence he couldn’t use without disclosing how close he had gotten to you and risking discrediting himself. Evidence that could get him a warrant, even under heavy scrutiny. He could try to bring you down, even if it meant letting his career implode. His former self would have, but now he was hesitating, convincing himself every night that he should pursue this. If those documents existed, then his instincts about you were right all along and other evidence was out there, too. It was just business; you would throw him under the bus if it suited you, too. Right?

He heaved a deep breath and closed the file, deciding to bring it home and muse over it there this time around. The office was empty, and it was a lonesome way until he reached his car in the underground parking lot. He hated not seeing the liveliness of a police station anymore, but that was where he was now.

His phone rang through the car speakers as he drove, and he picked it up at the second beep, “What’s wrong?”

Something had to be for Officer Jung to call him at 1 AM.

“Remember the one you wanted me to keep an eye on?” 

Yoongi hummed as he maneuvered the car at an intersection; he was lucky with every detective and officer he had had the pleasure of working with.

“Just got the code for an explosion and fire at a restaurant downtown that she owns. First responders are on their way. Apparently, she was in the building.”

“Which one?”

His grip stiffened around the steering wheel and in seconds, he was doing a U-turn under the streetlights. There was little on his mind as he drove way past the speed limit, cutting corners and passing cars to get there as quickly as he could.

He stopped his car next to the police barricade and got out with a shudder down his spine. Una mordidita was famous around those parts; it was the best Mexican restaurant, and it was always booked. The building itself was dedicated to the concept, and he knew the different floors could host multiple types of events. 

Yet now, it wasn’t the center of influencer buzz or a ballroom dancing event, but of chaos. Firefighters were trying to get the flames under control as even the red neon sign above the building got charred by the smoke escaping the windows. The white walls were losing their shine, and the wood decorations giving it a more Latin-American vibe had surely seen better days.

The chaos of shouts, siren lights, and people wanting to see what was happening didn’t disturb him; he had worked through similar occurrences, so he understood the professionals’ logic through the disorder. What got him running towards the Firefighter Captain handling the occurrence was something else entirely.

He smacked the Captain’s shoulder and didn’t even let him recover from the shock of seeing Yoongi there. “Is everyone out?”

The Captain regained his bearings swiftly, “Working on it.”

Yoongi knew better than to overstep, but he was unsettled. He turned to the entrance of the restaurant, where people were running down the stairs, accompanied by firefighters. He didn’t recognize a single one, and so he turned to the captain again with a stiffness in his shoulders, “You need to—”

A loud female voice shouted, and he spun to look again. The Captain’s frown was entirely lost on Yoongi when he saw you almost being dragged out of the restaurant and down the stairs by two firefighters. His feet instantly took him to you, finally allowing him to hear what you were saying.

“Un-fucking-believable!! You let it spread to the third floor?! What the fuck are you all doing?! Let me go and do your job!!”

He met you at the bottom of the stairs, noticing your bruises, cuts, and blood dripping down your temple. Your embroidery anglaise white dress fit your curves in what would have been a dreamy view if it wasn’t stained with black and red spots, letting see how you had scrapped your knees too. You were busy trying to get the firefighters to get their hands off, but they couldn’t let you go until you calmed down.

You were frantic, so you only noticed Yoongi when his hands settled on your shoulders and he spun you to face him. Your voice finally vanished as your eyes widened; finally, he could see you were shaken up under all that fierceness.

“Are you hurt?”

His tone was firm, to the point, but you squirmed, “I have to—”

“Are you hurt?” He repeated, not letting you get away.

“I’m fine!”

You tried to turn around, but he didn’t let you. He wrapped an arm around you, signaling the firefighters that he had you, then dragged you away. You squirmed and hit his chest, clawing at his arm and demanding he set you free, but he ignored you.

You thought you’d gouge his eyes out in frustration, but suddenly, he forced you to sit on a street bench across the street. He kneeled before you, but your eyes flew beyond him to the restaurant. The fire, the smoke, the people, the firefighters, and even the wreck at the back that you couldn’t see from there. The explosion had been in the kitchen, surely. You knew before any reports because that’s where you’d do it if you wanted to send a message. Easily passable as an accident, but strong enough to cause all that chaos. You ground your teeth, vexed to your core, and sprang back up. The more those idiots wasted time with—

“Sit down.”

Yoongi’s tone was incontestable as he grabbed your arms and forced you back down, and this time you faced him. He was like an apparition, crouched in front of you with his dark hair, sharp eyes, and composed demeanor that always rattled you so much. He was a sight for sore eyes, and it confused you.

“How are you here?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Did you know about this?!” You asked furiously, your anger fueled by the possibility.

But he was impassive, “Are you hurt?”

“Answer the question!”

“You’re in shock, and I need you to calm down.”

“I am fucking calm!” You roared in his face, almost jumping away. “My restaurant just fucking exploded and is on fire, don’t you fucking talk down to me!”

“I know, so calm down.”

His monotone voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

“I’m fucking calm! I need—”

He gripped your wrist and raised it before your eyes, and you jolted; your fist was shaking.

The anxiety crept up on you, and you sobbed under your breath, instantly looking at him in confusion. You were angry, ready to blow on everyone and everything, but suddenly you wanted to cry. Your fear had stayed at bay, but was ambushing you now.

You gripped his coat as you teared up, mouth opening and closing, but nothing came out. You sucked anxious breaths as you looked around, conflicted between crying and telling him it was all so frightening, and getting up and making everyone work hard to save your business.

Your thoughts must have been clear in your eyes because he held you back, grounding you with enough space to let you breathe and process.

“I know. It’s a lot. I promise everyone is handling it, but you are more important.” He spoke calmly, but not condescendingly, and it only made you shake harder. “Tell me: does anything hurt?”

You pulled in a deep breath and frowned, then shook your head. A small explosion behind him drew your eyes, but he guided your chin gently so you’d face him again.

“I’m going to touch you, and you’re going to tell me if it hurts.”

You were ready to cuss him out, but as soon as he released you, you grabbed onto him desperately. There was nothing in his dark eyes as he looked up again, yet you were so embarrassed you could have died. You didn’t want to hold onto him for dear life like that, but it was stronger than you. Your lips trembled, and you suppressed your cry, unable to explain or control what was happening to you, but he had you.

He leaned into you, tugging you in with his elbows on each side of your legs, “I know, I’m here.”

Your frightened eyes showed him enough to anticipate the moment you let go of him to throw your arms around his neck and squeeze tightly. He could barely breathe, but it was secondary; he embraced you slowly, afraid to hurt you. The adrenaline running through your system changed the way you perceived pain, and he’d never risk harming you. Still, you needed to feel safe, so he held you as hard as he could safely. 

You were shaking, maybe even crying, but rightfully in his arms. Despite the chaos behind him, that was all that mattered.

He waited until you pulled away, sniffling and pulling your long hair back, embarrassed to face him. It told him the first part was over, and that now you’d be able to talk.

“We need to get you checked.”

“No,” you dismissed easily. “I only trust my people, anyway.”

He swallowed his exasperation and tried again, “But at a hospital—”

“No, just take me home.” You got up and faced the mess before you with a hard expression, catching him off guard. He got on his feet quickly, ready to try to convince you to go to the hospital anyway, but you looked at him again, “My people can meet me there, and I have calls to make.”

He observed you, clearly not convinced, but you stood your ground. You didn’t want to ask nor admit you needed him right now to feel safe and be able to look that problem in the eye. You’d soon be yourself again, and that moment of weakness was unforgivable, even more so in front of him. But as you faced him and waited for his response, you closed your fists and tried not to wobble on your heels or cry again. You had a reputation to uphold, people to manage, retaliation to prepare, and maybe your knees hurt a little bit.

“Alright.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist and directed you slowly in another direction, away from it all. In other circumstances, you could have thought about the potential danger of going with him, but you dismissed those thoughts. Yoongi was your cop, even if you hadn’t seen him in months. He was there for you, and there was no judgment in his eyes.

You sat on the shotgun seat of his car and looked at your lap. The time it took him to circle the car was enough for you to chastise yourself for being so gullible.

He sat down next to you and got ready to drive, and you didn’t hesitate to ask, “Did you know about this?”

“About what?”

“About their plan.”

He glanced at you, then got the car moving, “I was driving home when I was notified of what happened and drove straight here.”

You closed your trembling hands over your lap again, uncomfortable with how relieved his words made you. Your eyes settled on the rearview mirror, where all the chaos was being left behind, and you sighed. You couldn’t let that shake you; it was just a place, a business, one of countless others. It didn’t matter that you were there, that it happened so close you were deaf from your right ear, that you could have died, that it was way too close for comfort.

He reached to grab your hand, and you looked at him again. You didn’t know what to call this or how to interpret it, but he was there. Yoongi was right there.

His perfume was all around you, and with the lull of the car, the nightly traffic, and his hand in yours, you managed to close your eyes, work through the adrenaline, and doze off.

You opened your eyes when he squeezed your hand, meeting the gate of your private property in Hannam-dong. His window was down, and your housekeeper was asking who he was.

“It’s me, Sooyong,” you raised your voice just enough.

The gate instantly opened, and you stretched lazily. You weren’t shaking anymore, and your judgment wasn’t clouded either. All in all, those thirty minutes had managed to calm you down. Of course, your knees stung, your head fucking hurt, and you would feel your left side for days since you fell on it during the explosion. But fuck, if you weren’t ready to get down to business ASAP.

You told Yoongi where to go so he could park inside your garage, then left the car swiftly before it was even off. You didn’t wait for him to follow you inside, but knew he would; instead, you handed your coat to Sooyong, nodded at your two security guards, and bent down to greet your two lovely Dobermans: Archer and Gunner.

“The medic will be here shortly, and I already asked for a preliminary report of the damage.”

Sooyong was looking at Yoongi with suspicion, but you ignored it, “Get me a phone, I need to contact Hoon Yeong.”

Your butler bowed and obeyed instantly, but Yoongi wasn’t able to think about what he was hearing. The two big goons didn’t follow Sooyong, and your dogs had turned to Yoongi the second you stopped petting them.

In another circumstance, Yoongi could have felt intimidated or at least uncomfortable by the whole situation, but not tonight. You were still bleeding, slept only ten minutes in the car, and were now getting worked up instead of resting.

So he spoke up, “You need to get checked before anything else.”

It didn’t matter that your men looked ready to beat him up or that your dogs were sniffing him too close for comfort. You glanced at him, “I’m fine.”

Then you turned and left, disappearing further inside the house.

He didn’t hesitate to follow after you, ready to insist on you taking this seriously, but he wasn’t able to. You dismissed your guards with a wave before they could grab Yoongi to drag him out, and were already pressing a phone to your ear.

He looked around your big living room, its white couches, carpets, fancy glass chandeliers falling from elevated ceilings, and matching walls adorned with expensive art. You didn’t just live lavishly; you displayed it, too.

You sat on a couch while you spoke with a hand covering your eyes, and Yoongi moved quickly to dim the lights. You were stubborn, but he wouldn’t make things harder for you.

He waited while you talked, disliking the observant butler in the corner of the room. Yes, Yoongi was listening to everything you said, but you could have easily told him to leave. So instead, he kept your two dogs busy with him and quiet while you made one call after another, holding nothing back.

“Secure all locations, increase the bouncers working tonight, and do random checks. Send someone to La Mordidita to account for all our staff, and Thoma to make a sweep before the firefighters start snooping around. I want to know what can be recovered and who the fuck dared to pull this shit off.”

“And? And the product? The insurance? Yes, indeed. Don’t move it, don’t do anything. Keep me posted.”

“Talk to me, Ulan,” you sighed, fatigued from handling multiple people. “I want to know how the fuck does anyone even plan this, and I don’t hear about it.”

You were pacing around with each call; whatever you were learning was not helping you settle. The medic arrived and asked you to sit to work on your wounds, but you were restless. You were trying to figure out who did it, and it was clear to him by the way you started shouting that your people knew and that something had failed.

The medic tried cleaning your temple wound, mentioning a concussion, but in your temper, you slapped her hand away. That was the moment Yoongi decided to intervene; he got up, waved the medic away, and took over.

You were ready to slap his hand away, too, but froze when your eyes met his. His expression was hard, saying without as much as an eyelash bat that you needed to hang up. 

You huffed your annoyance and quickly redirected your anger, “If you know, then get me something. Those bastards found out about it somehow. Get me the mole, and something that will hurt them just as badly. Weren’t they importing weapons illegally to sell to both North and South? Get me something!”

You ended the call and threw your phone to the other end of the couch.

“The fucking audacity,” you spit between gritted teeth, glaring at Yoongi. He worked fast on the wound on the side of your head, but it still stung.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes, it fucking hurts!”

You exploded and instantly saw the glint in his eyes. Why did he look so dazzling, taunting you like that? He did not react to your outburst whatsoever, so you rolled your eyes.

He started cleaning the cuts on your palms. “Why would they attack your restaurant?”

You gritted your teeth and waved everyone else out of the room, adding a command that guided your darling puppies to their big pillows in the corner of the room. You were annoyed with absolutely everything, and even more with the answer about to fall from your lips, “Because they knew I would go there to secure important goods.”

“Was this personal?”

You smirked bitterly, “Had to be.”

“What were the goods?”

“The product we got last time. Some of it, anyway.”

“How did they find out?”

“A mole, for certain. I moved everything across multiple locations and only disclosed today that a fraction would go to this restaurant for distribution. So unless they can read my fucking mind, they had to learn it from a fucking mole.”

“They could have just followed you if they knew you’d go personally.”

You paused and then chuckled while he prepared the gauze to clean the wounds on your knees. “But they could have attacked any of the venues I was in before, and they didn’t. They had to know what was in this one was worth destroying.” He nodded quietly, seemingly focused on getting your knees clean of debris. You hated the silence and almost growled, “But they have no fucking idea who they’re messing with.”

“No, they don’t.”

His answer was so serene, that it accentuated the silence that echoed the room. He got rid of the bloodied and dirty gauze, looking you over as though he was evaluating if anything else needed pressing attention, and it hit you. “You’re still here.”

He looked at you, “Do you know who did this?”

There was a shift in his tone that made you shudder, “The Russians.”

“Where would it hurt them?”

“Their warehouse downtown.”

“Their boss?”

“Prokhor Evgeni.”

“Where is he?”

“The Evgeni Sports Center in Heungin-dong.”

Yoongi nodded and got up, leaving the same way he got there, and you were dumbfounded.

“Wait!” You got up, and he stopped to look at you. “What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Some could say that was an abuse of power, but it was too easy.

He realized, as he drove under a sky barely blemished by the rising sun, that when the force wanted to, shit got done in a flash. They said, ‘Where there is a will, there is a way’, and he was in the unique position to have both.

He stopped in a no-parking zone in front of the Evgeni Sports Center in Heungin-dong and made his way lazily up the stairs of the entrance. The big thugs outside didn’t phase him as he asked to speak with Prokhor Evgeni. His tone was dry and blasé, and the men’s reactions were to laugh and joke about it being almost 6 AM. The center was closed to people like him.

“Nothing is ever closed to people like me,” he found himself answering, unmoving.

He saw commotion behind the thugs, where he imagined the security booth was, and instantly relaxed. People like him didn’t have to show identification, his face was enough. He glanced at his watch as he waited, ignoring the quips of the two men, who were increasingly dumbfounded by the situation.

He understood; he would have been stupefied as well. After all, even Superintendent Generals would have security if they wanted to confront the head of a mafia at 6 AM. But as it turned out, Yoongi was feeling beside himself. It was time to start using who he was to get shit done, instead of hiding and praying someone like you could give out a hand. Not this time; it was his turn.

One of the bouncers couldn’t read the room and made a move to touch him, and Yoongi’s eyebrow almost twitched. He just needed one touch to arrest him and get a warrant. Would that be an abuse of power as well?

Fortunately for the small fry, someone from the back called out his name and reprimanded him swiftly in Russian. It was enough for Yoongi to assume everyone was on the same page, and follow when said man — a big, wide fellow with small eyeglasses — waved at him to follow.

Yoongi went up the elevator with the guy in silence, evaluating if anything still needed to be done to wrap this up, but it was just that. And a phone call.

He ignored everything he saw as he walked the corridors, from the men passing him to the gambling hastily hidden by the doors continuously closing in his wake. Finally, he arrived at the office of the big boss, judging by the cigars, wide flat screens showing multiple sports simultaneously, and the big foreigner man with much more white hair than he would have guessed, sitting behind a desk.

“I couldn’t believe it when they told me,” Prokhor Evgeni laughed before the amusement dropped from his face. “But here you are. You must be lost,” he bit the cigar in his mouth, unable to hide his discomfort.

Yoongi stretched his shoulders a little bit and, on cue, his phone rang. He picked it up, “Got it.” 

He put his phone back inside his pocket, looking at Prokhor as if waiting for him to say something, which only annoyed the old thug further.

Yoongi looked around as if he had all the time in the world, “I’ll wait for you to be put in the loop.”

Prokhor smacked his hands on the desk, getting up with a shout that never came out because his phone rang as well. He sat back down, cursing under his breath, and picked it up. His gaze was venomous as he heard the caller, unable to stop Yoongi when he reached for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter lying on the desk.

The mob boss’ cheeks were getting redder and redder, yet Yoongi was unfazed as he lit a cigarette and took a drag that numbed his senses. He almost groaned then, holding it in for such a long time he lost track. How had he ever stayed away?

Prokhor yelled what were probably obscenities before slamming the phone on the desk, but before he could talk, Yoongi breathed, “Justice just never sleeps.” The smoke exited his parted lips slowly, and the mob boss stilled, starting to understand the situation. “We were lucky too,” he smirked, taking another drag. “Your kids still had the same materials used in the explosives in their car. Otherwise, I don’t know. We might have required a warrant to search for more potentially harmful materials. Say in the warehouse downtown where they were found lounging around smoking weed when they were arrested.”

Yoongi suppressed a smirk as he put the cigarette between his lips, and the mob boss was so red he was about to explode. He knew the kids weren’t found near his warehouse, so the implication was clear.

“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?!”

He hissed, but Yoongi only kept smoking placidly, “Just try to poke your head out again.”

In a flash, pure anger became bewilderment in the giant’s blue eyes, “No way.” Yoongi didn’t even blink, so Prokhor scoffed, “Bitch really has the Superintendent General on a leash?”

Yoongi threw the cigarette on the garish carpet, “I like it quiet.”

He turned to leave, but Prokhor got up in a fury again, “I have people too! People who can bite your head off!”

Yoongi turned but kept walking backward, opening his arms in a momentary invitation, before leaving that place without as much as a hair out of place.

It was interesting to consider that Prokhor’s threats could hold true, but Yoongi didn’t feel minimally affected. He got inside his car to drive home and reevaluated his thought process. He and the Firefighter’s Captain had a long history, the Mayor called him for favors, and the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency still operated under his direct scrutiny. It was why puzzling the evidence from the restaurant fire had been so easy, especially given that Thoma had conveniently left the place ready for them. Yoongi assumed; he saw a man in the shadows, between the mess, and minutes later, a firefighter had found something. Interesting how explosions in rich parts of town were such a priority for the city; the division of arson investigation could take years to build a case, but tonight, a couple of hours sufficed. The Mayor saw to that as soon as Yoongi called. And the media would love that swift action, earning everyone brownie points for reelection.

Yoongi parked as he scoffed to himself; he was playing a dangerous game. He eyed his house, wondering if he should feel wary about anything happening to him, but he brushed it off. And if it did? He did what he had to do, and he’d sleep like a rock, knowing he had taken care of everything so you could finally sleep your concussion off.

He got inside his house with the first rays of morning, thanking the universe it was Saturday. But he sighed and didn’t throw his jacket too far, only on the nearest couch, before making his way to the kitchen. He would probably still work—

Something cut the corner at the same time as him but from the kitchen, and his reflex was to pull out his gun instantly, taking a step back. You were tranquil, despite the gun barrel on your face, and his eyes widened in disbelief, “Jesus fuck!”

He could barely believe it was you, with no bandages on your head and now wearing a black dress instead of white, but he still put the gun down. Or would have, but you shoved it away first, then grabbed his head to kiss him.

Instantly, he put the pistol down on a nearby counter, just in time before you pushed him back. He hit a cabinet glass door with your strength and immediately caught you when you threw yourself in his arms, frantically kissing him as if there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

His initial shock didn’t last when your taste and perfume assured him it was you, and with you, insanity was to be expected. He had nothing against you being in his house, kissing him, or coming to him in general.

But he still tried to hold you back gently so he could ask, “Shouldn’t you— be in bed— resting?”

He spoke between your hungry lips, whenever you gave him a split second, and you laughed, “Take me to bed, then.”

Your sly smile died in a small yelp when he bent down to pick you up in his arms. You held onto him silently while he carried you upstairs to his bedroom, and his ego couldn’t have been more inflated after that whole crazy night. What got him wasn’t that he managed to calm you down, met your dogs, or solved your problem by showing some mob boss how big his cock was, no. What got him hard in a split second was that little yelp and your silence as he carried you effortlessly. He might have had an office job, but he still took the time to go to the gym every day, and fuck if it wasn’t worth it.

When he put you down over the bed, he thought you’d actually want to sleep after such an exhausting night, but he should have known better. You got on your knees on the bed before he could open his mouth and started unbuttoning his shirt. His expression must have given away his thoughts because you didn’t stop, but you didn’t push him either. You waited for a clear indication that you could touch him, but didn’t hesitate to get him naked, opening every button. Then, when you pulled the shirt back over his shoulders, he grabbed your head to kiss you.

Your reaction was instant, rushing to get rid of the shirt and unbuckle his belt as he consumed your mouth eagerly. It was hard not getting distracted, especially by the way he easily pulled on your hair to keep you on your toes, but it only served to melt you. Even when he did it with a level of gentleness, careful about your injuries; something that could easily trigger you and turn you off, but tonight made you so eager to be with him, that you didn’t recognize yourself.

You moaned inside his mouth when he sucked your tongue, dizzy from the blood rushing everywhere all at once. Fortunately, you had made your way inside his pants and could anchor yourself to his cock.

It only made you groan harder as you pumped him; he couldn’t get harder than that, and your wet core would be the perfect match.

His consuming kiss along with his soft touches could have gotten you to settle and let him decide where to take this, but you knew what you wanted and your limits. You needed Yoongi like air to breathe, but you were on painkillers and exhausted. You shouldn’t have driven there in that condition, but couldn’t stop yourself. So, you pushed through his addictive, wild kisses and pulled his pants and underwear down, hinting at him to strip fully.

He did so in a heartbeat, falling over you so quickly you didn’t see it coming. Accommodating him over you between your parted legs was everything you wanted, so you sighed into his returning mouth, clawing at his back so he’d come closer. His lips soon made a detour to your neck, and you were overrun by shivers, almost pleading his name with how much you were dying to feel him.

But as he made his way down to your chest, you pushed through your cloudy, horny judgment. You pushed him by the shoulders and got on top of him, straddling him easily. His head fell over the pillow, dark hair contrasting with the white as his equally dark eyes observed you. They were glistening, hungry, but the hands on your hips were patient, and controlled. Min Yoongi wanted to ravish you, but for you, he’d give you the lead. You almost teased him about it, but there was no time to waste.

You had never seen him naked, so you weren’t shy about looking; quickly, but still. You touched every scar you could see — on his left shoulder, under his ribs, on the side of his waist, wondering how he had gotten injured and if it had hurt. Your lips followed suit, lingering over his skin while you sniffed his scent on your way to an untamed delicacy.

You only nuzzled him for a second before starting to lick his balls greedily, and he groaned, “You don’t have to.”

You smirked, laughing with yourself — as if you’d miss the opportunity. “I want to.”

It would be wrong to say you drove across town in that state to give head to Min Yoongi, but it was close to the truth. In your plans, you spent more time working him up — kissing him, dry humping, maybe even twisting those pretty nipples — before reaching his balls and preparing him to give you cum all night long.

But the fucking concussion and pain and tiredness or whatever. It irritated you, your knees hurt, and your head was spinning, and not necessarily from his luscious scent or your insane lust. So, unfortunately, you had to cut to the chase.

Just licking the tip of his dick wasn’t enough; not for you, and not for him. You wanted the thick mushroom tip between your lips, and the guttural groan he let out once you sucked broke the dam for you.

You licked and drooled all over him, bobbing your head to get him further and further inside you with greed that bordered on obsession. The more your jaw slacked, and his taste flooded your mouth, the more you needed to feel him pressing, invading, reaching inside you. His groans matched your moans, his fists around the sheets mimicked your hands holding his hips, and the desperation of his hips, moving to match your head falling on him, almost fulfilled your need.

Until you realized that wouldn’t do. Your wet cunt was throbbing slick, desperate with your need, and you were selfish. You wanted him to bust his nut down your throat, but fuck; you wanted to ride him more.

The drool that fell all over his hard, red shaft was almost embarrassing, but you didn’t waste time licking it. You got off him to slide your underwear off, your eyes never abandoning his, and so you didn’t miss him looking at you with a glint of despair in his eyes.

“I think I wouldn’t have lasted five more seconds.”

You grinned at his confession and got back on him, throwing your dress around so you could align him with your slit, “Good.” You felt the tip of his cock, and so did he, because he gripped your hips as if to stop you. “You better hold it.”

His dark eyes showed a hint of torture, but you were not sympathetic. You pressed yourself down on him, rolling your hips to get him coated in you, forcibly stretching you, making you keen so ecstatically, that you threw your head back. If his thick cock tucked inside you wasn’t enough, then the groans out of his mouth, with gritted teeth and a frown, in deep concentration, would take the cake. You rolled your hips further, slowly in wide movements, seeing every line in his face contorting or twitching under your sweet torture, his strength slowly leaving him as he fought tooth and nail not to come so soon. 

“Your— Your knees—”

You smirked, oblivious about your bandaged knees at that moment. “Shut up, just let me ride you.”

His nails pierced your skin at the hips around your garter, and you moaned approvingly. Just looking at him, the blood rushed to your cheeks, the temperature rising immediately in a heatwave through your body. Every grunt of his was fuel; you couldn’t stop moving, dragging his thick cock across your walls so it could disappear deep inside you and torture him some more. And you, because the more he resisted, the more you wanted it, and the more it got to you too.

You knew you’d come pathetically quick but didn’t imagine it would be this fast. The pleasure burning through you was so overwhelming and undeniable, that soon you were riding him hungrily, not to torture him, but to come with him. He noticed it somehow because he started helping you, meeting you with short thrusts upwards that set your body on fire. You wanted him so fucking bad that leaning over his chest to kiss him before you came became your final act, and you crashed.

Your mouth pressed to his with a shaky moan from deep inside your chest, and he held the back of your head, keeping you in place. He fucked you through your orgasm, your throbbing so intense around him, it took him seconds to spill inside you; to groan into your mouth as he pressed you down, burying his cock as deep as he could.

Feeling him coming was such a delight, you grinned. The silence was cut by your chuckle seconds later, and even when he bit your cheek, you didn’t come down from cloud nine.

[noona-is-afk]

Completed Dramas, Ranked

Masterlist of all the dramas I have finished and my rankings from 1-10. Keep in mind I don't usually finish dramas that I don't like, so most of these reviews will be 6+ ratings.

List got too long! Have migrated it over to MDL: https://mydramalist.com/list/1zyZGNZ4

Also follow me on my new blog for updates on what I'm watching: https://darth-noona.tumblr.com/

[niaojirou]

royed fic recs please

I'm so HAPPY to provide!!! I have my own masterlist for royed fics but it's still under construction, so I will give you three of my favorites! I tend to read long fics so buckle up!

1. Veritas [Mature, Romance/comedy]

↳ Roy Mustang; a presidential candidate of the US. Treading through ice bridges to get to his destination. Every move is calculated precisely down to the bone, but Roy really just had to fuck Senator Hohenheim oldest son.

Personal review: Great, GREAT rom/com, funniest fic I’ve read in this fandom. I've busted out my lungs every single time I'm reading this fic. Absolutely phenomenal.

// Veritas - dawnstruck - Fullmetal Alchemist

2. Tears And Rain [Explicit, threats/attempt of rape/non-con, political drama, happy ending]

↳ Quick summary: Someone have been killing high-ranking officers in Amestrian military, and that also included an assassination attempt on Roy Mustang. The only reason Roy survived was because another target in the list saved him, and that was Edward Elric, but he was no General, and yet he was also in the same immediate danger. Nationwide conspiracy pushed both of them into extremities for survival, while others on their side were forced to aid in the dark.

Personal review: No review can do justice on how amazing this fic is, my #1 favorite fma fanfiction. I won’t shut up about this masterpiece. This fic is my good to go fic to download if I’m in any of my 22 hours flight. I have nothing to say anymore/spoil as this fic has to be enjoyed and savored first hand. It’s the rite of passage for Roy/Ed fans. Impeccable work.

//Tears and Rain - BeautifulFiction - Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)

3. i don't want to fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart) [Mature, Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort]

↳ Roy and Edward got married, they got two kids, but they really have to separate for their own good because this is not working out. They mutually split and agreed to see each other a few times in a week for the sake of the kids. But deep in their heart they know they still care very much for the other. Family drama, romance and a good amount of angst sprinkled on top.

Personal review: Picture yourself snuggled in with a warm mug of hot chocolate, outside is very cold from the falling snow, you turned on the TV and a family christmas movie comes up. That is how reading this fic feels.

//i don't want to fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart) - cathydeff - Fullmetal Alchemist

(Small edit: Please read this fic while or after you listened to Peabo Bryson's If Ever You're In My Arms Again because it amped up all the feelings and believe it or not I was bawling so hard lmaoooo)

[xoxorealitygalore]

Nasty Dancer X

Summary: Due to her unyielding confidence, Aphrodite earns her spot on the main roster, becoming The Bloodline's manager — or rather, Sefa's Special Counsel. His Wisewoman. But can she maintain her bold, unapologetic style when faced with her greatest challenge yet: working alongside her ex-boyfriend?

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert @bratzzzdoll

Nasty Dancer Masterlist

Previous: Chapter Nine

Aphrodite Receiving High Praise From WWE Officials

WWE Superstar Aphrodite is quickly becoming one of the most talked-about performers in the company, earning rave reviews from both fans and officials alike. The rising star has been making waves recently, and WWE officials are taking notice of her exceptional work inside and outside the ring.

Her recent appearance on WWE SmackDown was a major highlight of the week, marking her first televised match since her in-ring debut at the Royal Rumble event on February 1. As the seventh entrant in the women’s Royal Rumble match, Aphrodite made an immediate impact, and fans were buzzing about the potential she showed. However, it was on SmackDown that she truly cemented her place on the main roster.

According to CBS Sports, WWE staffers and talents were seen watching closely in the Gorilla position and other backstage areas as Aphrodite competed in her first WWE TV match. It’s not every day that the company’s internal team watches a performance with such attention, and this level of intrigue speaks volumes about Aphrodite's growing reputation.

One of the key aspects that has garnered widespread praise is her remarkable storytelling ability. Aphrodite's seamless integration into The Bloodline, one of the most prominent factions in WWE history, has only served to elevate her profile. Her natural charisma and knack for building tension in matches and promos have made her a standout performer, even in a group already filled with top-tier talent. Whether it's her interactions with Solo Sikoa, Jey Uso, or other members of the faction, Aphrodite has proven to be an invaluable asset in the ongoing storyline of The Bloodline.

Her storytelling goes beyond the traditional aspects of WWE matches; she brings a depth and emotional resonance that is often lacking in many other performances. Aphrodite's ability to connect with the audience and convey the emotional stakes of a storyline has impressed both her colleagues and WWE officials, positioning her as a future star of the company.

Beyond her in-ring work, the praise for Aphrodite’s commitment to her craft is undeniable. She continues to improve with each appearance, gaining confidence and refining her style. Whether as a dominant force or a subtle character, she’s shown the range needed to thrive in the fast-paced world of WWE.

Looking ahead, the future seems incredibly bright for Aphrodite. With high praise from WWE officials, her role in The Bloodline, and her undeniable talent, it’s clear that this Superstar is poised for greatness. Fans will undoubtedly be watching eagerly as she continues to rise through the ranks of WWE, and with her storytelling abilities and dedication to the craft, it won’t be long before Aphrodite is a household name in the world of professional wrestling.

noitsreallyaphrodite ✓

1,340 Posts 2M Followers 910 Following

A P H R O D I T E ♥︎

Athlete

@wwe

Liked by solosikoa and 830,121 others

noitsreallyaphrodite Through thick and thin, we’ve got each other’s back. #BigBrother 💕

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Aphrodite sat on the edge of her hotel bed, one leg crossed over the other as she absentmindedly gazed out of the window, her eyes catching the fading light of the day.

The bustling streets of Dortmund, Germany, lay below, filled with the usual ebb and flow of locals and tourists alike, each going about their day without a thought of the incredible spectacle that would soon unfold inside the city’s massive arena. She was here for the Road to WrestleMania tour, a journey that saw WWE Superstars traveling across Europe, visiting eleven cities over three weeks to connect with the fans who had supported them through thick and thin.

At the moment, Aphrodite was listening to the familiar voice of her older brother, Lykos, over the phone as she finished seeing her ring gear.

“So, we’re thinking about matching tattoos,” Lykos said, his voice laced with a hint of excitement. He was always the creative one in the family, the one who dreamed up the most outlandish ideas that, more often than not, became reality. Aphrodite smiled softly at his words, leaning back against the pillows, her fingers absently stitching the fabrics of her wrestling top as she listened intently.

Matching tattoos were a tradition among her siblings, something they’d done to honor their shared bond. Aphrodite wasn’t sure when it had started, but it had become a ritual of sorts. Their names were all derived from Greek mythology, a connection to their Greek heritage that their parents had instilled in them from a young age. Each sibling carried with them the names of gods, goddesses, and mythical figures. Tiasa, Bia, Cyrene, Adonis, Lykos, and Xylon.

Her brother’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she focused again on his words. “Shit, it’s between getting the planets representing each sibling and the larger circle being the order we were born or a Greek symbol of our names with Roman numerals of the order we were born,” he said, his excitement clear. Lykos always had a flair for the dramatic, and even something as simple as a tattoo design became an elaborate, thoughtful discussion.

Aphrodite raised an eyebrow as she processed the idea. A celestial theme was fitting. The planets seemed like a symbol of their individual personalities, each orbiting the other in a delicate dance. It was something that could bind them together while also celebrating their uniqueness.

The other design, a Greek symbol tied to their names, with Roman numerals marking the order in which they were born felt more personal, more intimate. It wasn’t just about the symbolism; it was about the story behind the design, the invisible thread that connected each sibling to the others. Aphrodite found herself torn between the two ideas.

“Well, let me know which one y’all pick,” she finally replied, her voice warm but thoughtful. She didn’t have a strong preference for either design, but it was important to her that whatever they chose would represent their bond in a way that felt true to who they were. Family was everything, after all.

Before Lykos could respond, Aphrodite heard the door to her hotel room creak open, and her eyes flickered toward the figure that entered. Joseph walked in with a bag of food in his hands, his face lighting up as he saw her sitting there, phone pressed to her ear. “Bye,” Aphrodite said as she rushes off the phone with her brother.

A chuckle escaped his lips as he set the bag down on the small table beside her, his teasing tone cutting through the conversation.

“Damn, Dottie, over some food and a man. Cold, bye,” Lykos joked from the other end of the line.

Aphrodite rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’ll talk to you later, Lykos,” she said, cutting the call short with a playful tone. “Love you, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lykos said before hanging up.

As Aphrodite placed the phone on the bedside table, she turned her attention fully to Joseph, who was already unpacking the food he had brought. His presence was comforting. She had been traveling nonstop, moving from city to city, with no time to catch her breath. But in moments like this, with him by her side, everything felt just a little more manageable.

Joseph had always been the calm to her storm. Where Aphrodite was passionate and sometimes impulsive, Joseph was grounded and patient, qualities that had drawn her to him in the first place. They balanced each other out in ways that made their relationship feel effortless.

“So, what do you want to do for your birthday?” Aphrodite asked, her voice light and playful as she reached for a fork from the tray.

Joseph paused for a moment, his expression softening as he looked at her. He wasn’t a man who cared for extravagant celebrations or grand gestures. He’d always been the type who found joy in the small, intimate moments. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what we do on my birthday,” he said, his voice sincere and steady.

Aphrodite’s heart fluttered at his words, but she couldn’t help the pang of guilt that tugged at her. Joseph’s birthday would fall during their time in Belgium, and though she would be there with him, the constant whirlwind of their schedules and the pressures of being part of the WWE roster made it difficult to plan something special. Still, she was determined to make it memorable for him in her own way.

She pouted slightly as she looked at him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “We’ll be in Belgium, Sefa,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of playful resignation.

“I don’t care,” Joseph replied, brushing off her concerns with a shrug. “I’ll be with you, and that’s what matters.”

Aphrodite smiled softly, feeling a rush of affection for him. She knew he didn’t need grand gestures, but she still wanted to do something meaningful, something that would show him just how much he meant to her. “I’ll figure it out,” she said, her mind already whirring with possibilities as she thought about what they could do together in Belgium. Perhaps a quiet dinner in a charming café, or a private stroll through the historic streets of Brussels, away from the chaos of the tour. The idea of spending a simple yet intimate day with Joseph felt like the perfect gift, one that didn’t need to be extravagant to hold meaning.

As the evening stretched on, Aphrodite and Joseph shared a quiet meal together, the world outside their hotel room fading into the background.

Liked by solosikoa, trinity_fatu, rikishi, and 901,623 others

noitsreallyaphrodite Wishing the happiest of birthdays to someone truly exceptional.

View all 13,783 comments

rikishi #BlessedAndChosen

Over the next few days, as the WWE Road to WrestleMania tour continued its journey through Europe, Aphrodite found herself thinking more and more about her family. Her brother’s tattoo idea had sparked something within her.

Being away from her siblings during this time made her miss them in ways she hadn’t anticipated. They had always been a constant in her life, and despite her busy schedule and the chaos that came with her profession, she couldn’t help but feel sad she wasn't experiencing this with her siblings.

As she traveled from city to city, from the bright lights of Barcelona to the historic streets of Vienna, she found herself thinking about her siblings.

They were her foundation, the ones who had shaped her into the person she had become. And though she stood on the grandest stage of them all, WWE’s WrestleMania, with millions watching her every move, it was moments like these, small, quiet moments with the people she loved that reminded her of what truly mattered.

The time in Belgium arrived sooner than she expected, and as she and Joseph explored the charming city, Aphrodite found herself filled with gratitude for the life she had built, both in the ring and beyond. The world of WWE was exhilarating, but it was the connections she had with her family and the people she loved that truly grounded her.

And so, as the countdown to WrestleMania continued, Aphrodite embraced the moments of peace and reflection, knowing that no matter where her journey took her, she would always have the love and support of those who mattered most. And that, in the end, was more than enough to keep her going.

The air in Belgium was crisp as the day unfolded in all its charm. The quaint cobblestone streets of Brussels, with their medieval buildings and rich history, wrapped themselves around Aphrodite and Joseph as they wandered hand in hand, their laughter echoing against the narrow alleyways.

It was Joseph’s birthday, and despite the whirlwind of their WWE schedules, Aphrodite was determined to give him a special day, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos.

She had planned the day with meticulous care, wanting to blend the beauty of the city with simple pleasures that Joseph would appreciate. Their first stop was the Cathedral of St. Michael, an awe-inspiring structure with towering spires that seemed to scrape the sky. Inside, the light filtered through colorful stained-glass windows, casting hues of ruby, sapphire, and emerald across the cool stone floors. The silence of the cathedral felt almost sacred, a quiet contrast to the outside world. Aphrodite could see the wonder in Joseph’s eyes as he took in the grandeur of the space. It wasn’t just the architecture that fascinated him. It was the history, the stories imbued in every stone and every corner.

Next, they went to the Grand Place, Brussels’ central square, surrounded by opulent guild halls and the striking Town Hall. The square was alive with tourists and locals alike, all drawn to the beauty of the ornate buildings and the rich culture of the city. Aphrodite took Joseph's hand, guiding him through the crowds as they marveled at the stunning architecture and vibrant life around them. For a moment, it felt as though time slowed down, just the two of them in the heart of a city that had seen centuries of history.

Their day wasn’t complete without indulging in one of Belgium’s greatest culinary delights: waffles. Aphrodite had insisted they stop by Maison Dandy, a famous spot known for its decadent waffles. They sat at a small table near the window, savoring the warm, golden treats dusted with powdered sugar, and for once, no cameras were flashing, no fans calling out their names just the two of them, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. Joseph’s eyes twinkled with appreciation as he took a bite, his laughter light and carefree.

As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting a warm glow over the city, Aphrodite knew it was time for the second part of her surprise. Later that evening, when they returned to their hotel room, she had arranged for a small, intimate gathering. The room was filled with a sense of quiet excitement, as Joseph’s brothers and cousins arrived, each one with a grin on their face, knowing what was coming.

The cake, a rich, decadent chocolate creation, sat on the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by candles ready to be lit. Aphrodite could feel her heart race as she gave Joseph a playful nudge, signaling that it was time for the celebration to begin. The door opened, and one by one, Joseph’s family filed in, their voices rising in cheerful unison as they began to sing "Happy Birthday."

Jon was the first to stand and deliver his usual theatrics. With an exaggerated gasp, he clutched his chest as though overcome with emotion. “Oh, my baby brother!” he cried dramatically, throwing his arms wide as though preparing for a grand monologue. Aphrodite couldn’t help but smile at Jon’s antics. He was always the dramatic one, the life of the party, and tonight, it seemed, was no exception. His voice cracked as he continued, making everyone chuckle. “I remember the day you were born, Joseph. You were so small, so innocent, and now look at you! I’m so proud of you. I love you more than words can say.”

The room was filled with a mixture of laughter and affection, but then, to everyone’s surprise, Jon’s voice wavered. His theatrical sobs became genuine as tears welled up in his eyes. “I just—” His words were lost as he wiped his eyes, still trying to compose himself, though his emotions had overtaken him.

Joseph stood there, not surprised, as Jon’s emotional display turned into full-on crying. And to everyone’s shock, Jon wasn’t the only one who broke down. Joshua, stood next to him, his own eyes welling up with tears as he put a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder.

Joseph moved to comfort his older brothers. He chuckled softly, a warm, affectionate laugh that seemed to put everyone at ease. “Come on, you two,” Joseph said, wrapping his arms around both of them. “You guys are such babies.”

As he comforted them, Aphrodite watched the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and tenderness. It was a side of Joseph she rarely got to see. The loving, patient baby brother who had to calm his much more emotionally charged siblings. It reminded her of just how deeply Joseph cared for those around him, how much he was rooted in family.

“I forget how emotional those two can be,” Trinity whispered with a grin, her voice filled with affectionate teasing.

Aphrodite nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah, they always put on a show, don’t they?”

Trinity shook her head in amusement. “I swear they do.”

The night continued with laughter, cake, and more shared stories from their childhood. Jon and Joshua eventually calmed down, wiping their tears and regaining their composure, though they still offered teasing glances at Joseph. Their bond, though often tested by distance and the chaos of their respective careers, was unshakeable. It was clear that family was everything to them, and tonight, Joseph’s birthday was a testament to that.

As the evening wore on and the last of the cake was eaten, Aphrodite pulled Joseph aside for a quiet moment. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with affection, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so glad we could be here together,” she murmured, her voice low and sincere.

He smiled down at her, his eyes soft with gratitude. “Me too.”

As Joseph wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, Aphrodite felt a sense of contentment settle over her. This was what mattered. This was what she had always been fighting for, these quiet, tender moments, where the world stopped and all that mattered was the love they shared.

Next: Chapter Eleven

[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Five: Lucky Gambit

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 4.5K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter // Masterlist

A/N: I'm running out of Ramattra gifs guys send help

chapter under the cut ↓

---

“Do not make me talk to him again.” Then, after a moment, “Please.”

Winston peered at you from beneath his glasses, calmly folding the briefing notes he was reviewing between his hands as if he did not just saddle you with the worst assignment imaginable.

It wasn’t only the idea of spending even more time locked in a glass prison with such a volatile companion that lingered bitter in your mouth. It was the way Winston declared it, too, the cadence of his voice what you expected from a person asking you to fetch the newspaper. You simply needed to give it another go—his own words.

The scientist’s eyes turned serious once he noticed the dread clouding your expression. “What happened? Did he threaten you?”

You crossed your arms, trying to tamp down the simmering anger that bubbled in your chest at the reminder of its source.

“No, he’s just—” Being a jackass sounded childish, but it was the most accurate phrase you could think of to describe Ramattra’s behavior. You pivoted to its more professional equivalent. “Being difficult.”

Leaning forward intently, Winston furrowed his brow. Regret built in the back of your mind as you watched his concern morph into interest.

“In what way?”

You shifted in place uneasily, withering under the shine of the scientist’s inquisitive gaze.

When you had first appealed to Overwatch with the request to join their ranks, you had waved away the question of Talon’s bounty on you as a simple hazard of your occupation. You were originally a skilled engineer in the highly sought-after field of robotics, after all.

Overwatch was in no position to be picky, though, a fact that worked splendidly in your favor. Your loosely constructed explanation was happily accepted, standard procedure only requiring something to fill the blanks in your paperwork. The hard kept secrets of your past now sat filed and packed away in storage, never to raise an issue again—until now.

If even Null Sector had knowledge of you, that meant the price tag on your head was starting to circulate outside of Talon’s inner circle. It was only a matter of time before the true nature of your history would be forced into the spotlight, and the cloak of safety Overwatch provided became nothing more than an illusion.

Selfishly, you reminded yourself that it was no longer just your head on the line anymore. You had colleagues now, many of them much more altruistic than you. They would stop at nothing to help you, and you knew what Talon did to those who stood in their way.

“He’s… insistent that we give him information in exchange,” you answered finally, praying that Winston wouldn’t catch the hitch in your voice.

You thought he would shoot the proposition down immediately, allowing you to conveniently close the book on this chapter of your life forever. Instead, his brows furrowed as he reflected on your words, unaware of how flimsily they were conjured.

“I see,” he said, before eventually heaving out a resigned sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to figure something out.”

“What?” You weren’t proud of the way your voice echoed around Winston’s office and would normally be mortified by the flagrant lack of decorum you were displaying, but the implication of his words was too much to ignore. “You want to cooperate with him?”

“We don’t have any other choice,” he confessed, instantly quelling the flurry of objections you were ready to unleash. He spoke almost regrettably, as though finally admitting a serious truth that he had up until this point ignored. “We’re not strong enough to stand up to Null Sector right now.”

You bit your tongue, knowing you couldn’t argue with him.

Overwatch was already working with limited resources as a result of the recall, and there were barely enough agents to fill the one airship it had left. Not to mention that the organization was technically a rogue entity right now, operating against the UN’s orders in secret and under worldwide condemnation. It could stave off the odd invasion here and there, as it had done in Gothenburg, but you remembered the dire state everyone returned in. Pure luck was the only thing keeping Overwatch afloat, and it was an infamously flippant bedfellow.

Simpering beneath the stern look on your face, Winston cleared his throat. “Look, I’m as happy about it as you are, but right now is our best chance at stopping Null Sector. I—we need you to keep trying, at least until I can find a way to work with him.”

Your finger tapped against your elbow as you lifted your head to the ceiling, hoping to find some loophole, some rebuff to his words in the pale tiles, but there was nothing.

Dropping your head back down, you huffed in concession. “Fine, I’ll try again. But don’t expect much, he’s exceptionally withholding.”

---

Ramattra knew your face well at this point, though not due to any personal interest. He could not care less about the so-called “standards of beauty” that humans insisted upon measuring themselves by. No, what stood out to him about you was something different.

Usually, every human he met inevitably faded into an endless sea of blank, unimportant faces—yet yours persisted. Every minute detail of your face was maddeningly inscribed into his circuits. You were so… expressive, every muscle in your face demanding to be involved when displaying any emotion.

When you were angry, your eyebrows pulled close together and you clenched your jaw. That was the expression he was most familiar with.

When you were stressed, hurrying from one place to the next, your eyes were wide, alert and searching for where you were needed.

Sometimes he saw you late at night, still working, never resting. But there were moments when you would stop, would find a stack of crates or a hidden staircase and tuck yourself away, closing your eyes and dropping your head into your palms for a brief respite. You looked more and more tired as of late.

But the expression that persisted most in his memory was that moment, what felt like an eternity ago, when he bore witness to a look he hadn’t known from anyone until then. It was distinct to him, that day in your workshop. Your eyes had sat half-lidded, lips parted slightly in awe as you brushed your fingers up his forearm.

You gazed at him as if he was something precious.

No one, not omnic nor human alike, had ever looked at him like that. The overwhelming sensation of his processor surging to life as it computed the rise of an emotion he had never felt before would have been hard to forget.

And then you had turned your gaze up at him, and his disposition nearly crumbled entirely when your eyes pierced right through the steel shell of his face, meeting his optics dead on.

You always, always made eye contact with him.

When he had inevitably crossed paths with humans on his pilgrimages, long before his desire for connection was crushed underfoot, he had found that even those most sympathetic to his people’s plight could never look at him directly. Their eyes would flit across his body in a panic before meekly settling on his chin or neck, a poor facsimile of his gaze that they could not bear to return. No matter the fact that he was adorned in the robes that denoted peace, no matter the fact that he carried neither weapon nor malice, his body, his face alone would always be unwanted reminders of the pain from times best forgotten. For so many years, he never knew what direct eye contact from humans felt like—only what it felt like to have it avoided.

But with you, it was a constant. It didn’t matter what you were doing, repairing him, arguing with him, even gasping for life against his hand. As certain as the sun was to rise in the east, your eyes would always find him.

He dared even admit that it flustered him at times, how he could never manage to shake your gaze. Yet after having been denied it for so long, he could not help but yearn for it, to feel the way your eyes burned him with their intensity. Perhaps that was why it bothered him when you passed by as if he wasn’t there, having finally picked up the habit that had become second nature to the rest of your species.

What a ridiculous notion. As if he could be encumbered by something so sentimental. If anything, he was more frustrated at your stubborn refusal towards gaining anything of import from him at the expense of your own privacy. Only humans could be so illogically inefficient.

A series of beeps chimed from the keypad outside the door, a sound he had grown to expect from the ape’s repeated visits, and which barely caught his attention now. But it was when he saw the muted blue of his visitor’s coveralls that he realized who had come to see him.

You were as easy to read as always, tense jaw and rigid shoulders betraying your discomfort. But there was a smudge of grease on your cheek, a humbling blemish that undercut your apprehensive expression.

His optics lingered on you for a moment, before his head turned back to face the wall. “I believe I said your presence was unnecessary.”

Your reaction was exactly what he expected. You clicked your tongue in annoyance and crossed your arms over your chest, though your eyes remained locked on him.

“The matter is out of my hands now,” you muttered. “So I suppose we’re both disappointed.”

Ramattra did not respond, studying your appearance. There were flecks of paint speckling up the legs of your coveralls and up to your abdomen, stark against the dark fabric. Black tinged your fingertips, and he could see every trace of their touch left in shadowed impressions on your forearms and face.

“Were you working on something?” he asked, feeding the spark of curiosity.

You tilted your head, confused, before finally glancing down at your hands and noticing the grease caked on your finger pads. It seemed to embarrass you, as you brought your left hand up to grasp the side of your face before remembering and quickly dropping it back down again. Of course, that only left even more fingerprints behind.

“It helps me think,” you answered finally, wiping your hands against your legs.

The words struck him with a strange feeling—a strong sense of familiarity that sat heavy in his chest. A long time ago, his brother had asked him something similar after he spent a day cooped up in his room in the monastery. Your answer was the same as his.

“That, we have in common,” he murmured softly.

You lifted your chin, eyes carefully studying him. Though he lacked facial features like yours, the way you watched him made him feel as though his thoughts were plastered on his face plate, plain as day. It was unsettling, and for a moment he feared that if you stared at him any longer, you would unravel everything that he was thinking without uttering a single word.

But your shoulders only slackened, rigid tension softened by his admission. You sat down in front of him, mirroring his cross-legged position.

“I can’t tell you why Talon wants me… for now.”

For now. Those two words seemed to fall out of you unwillingly, as if they had clung to your tongue until the very last moment. Such a simple phrase, yet it changed the entire meaning of everything that preceded it.

Ramattra’s chest rose, somewhat pleased with the implicit promise hidden in your words. But it still wasn’t the answer he wanted, so he decided only to answer the question you had not asked.

“I was not in Oasis for you.”

“Then for what?” you asked. “Business, or…” Your tongue poked out between your teeth coyly, as if you just couldn’t help yourself. “Pleasure?”

Ramattra scoffed. Frivolous companionship was not a priority of his, and certainly not something he would ever waste time and resources traveling for.

“Coincidence,” he deflected succinctly, and you frowned, clearly disappointed.

“Then why were you at the university?” Denied a reaction to your jape, your sharp interrogation quickly refocused. “I don’t mean to insult you, but,” you said as you leaned back, peering at him through narrowed eyes, “I find it hard to believe it was for scholarly purposes.”

Ramattra was not sure how your words could be taken as anything other than insulting, but he had to admit that your observation was not entirely incorrect. Still, his internal fans whirred a bit faster as they vented out the heat circulating his chassis.

“I was in the area when I heard an explosion, so I went to investigate.”

Your eyes lit up instantly. You had proven to be much more observant than he originally gave you credit for. Every word of his was scrutinized, not a single drop of information slipping through the cracks of your perception.

“So you were nearby, then? What were you doing?”

Ramattra nearly let the answer slip from his synthesizer, teased out of him by the alluring rhythm of your voice. He rushed to delete the task from his internal stack, stifling the process immediately. Thankfully, you seemed not to have noticed, and he allowed himself a moment to resume his mask of impassivity.

“Ask me again after you return the favor.”

Your face twisted in annoyance instantly. “Are you serious?” You gestured at the empty room surrounding both of you, eyes wide with disbelief. “There is absolutely nothing else for you to do here, and you still insist on being this stubborn?”

But Ramattra ignored you, manually dampening his aural processors until the muffled sound of your voice gave way to a dull buzz. He was getting too comfortable talking to you, enough that he had nearly made a grave error. If things continued like this, it would only result in the loss of all his leverage.

Your mouth was still moving, but Ramattra heard nothing of what he assumed was a particularly rude admonition. You snapped your fingers in front of his face, as if his continued silence had something to do with his ability to see.

Eventually, you surged to your feet and stormed to the door, leaving him with the vibration that shook the ground as you slammed the door behind you once again.

---

You considered yourself a reasonably patient person. Of course you had your limits, but you always thought that your countenance was particularly robust. As an engineer, you had plenty of experience fielding the random requests and persistent questions you got from clients, all with a relative degree of patience.

But this was infuriating.

Winston told you to stall, but at this point the task was untenable. It had been a full two weeks of petty silence from the omnic while you nearly burst a blood vessel trying to weasel out any scraps of information you could from him.

You could be doing so many more useful things, but instead you were now splitting your time between sitting in silence with someone who would no longer acknowledge your existence and working your anger out through the many tedious repair requests piled so kindly for you on your worktable. Every day, the few remaining threads of your sanity wore ever thinner.

You rubbed your eyes, exhaustion setting in as you reached for the mug on your worktable. It was an extra treat on top of an already awful day when you took a sip and found your coffee stone cold, abandoned for too long while you were distracted with work. Staring down bleakly at the liquid swirling in your cup, you dropped your elbows on the table and took another swig. At the end of the day, even bad coffee was still coffee.

You were so tired that you didn’t bother moving from your position when you heard footsteps approaching, only turning your head once the sliding door automatically opened with a soft hiss. The bright green glow of Genji’s visor burned against your weary eyes.

“Oh, hello. Are you picking up your short sword?” you asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

You placed your mug back down before reaching beneath your worktable. As tired as you were, professionalism ensured that you still made the effort to handle the weapon carefully, carrying it in both hands as you presented it to him.

Genji unsheathed the sword immediately, gently dragging the edge of the blade against his thumb. A small flurry of sparks erupted from the point of contact, and he let out a quiet hm in observation.

“Is it to your standards?” you jested, though there was a slight nervousness to your tone. You had excellent faith in your skills, but metalwork was not your specialty, and Genji was notoriously protective of his swords. The fact that he even trusted you at all for this small repair was the highest compliment you could ask for. It would be greedy of you to expect anything more.

He slid the sword back in its scabbard before twisting his arm behind him, securing it at its place on his lower back. “Your craftsmanship is excellent, as always.”

You grinned, pleased with the praise, though part of you couldn’t resist asking him the same question you always asked. “Have you reconsidered letting me take a look at that katana of yours?”

Genji laughed, shaking his head in amusement before patting your shoulder good-naturedly. “Sorry, that’s still a no. And besides,” his head turned to look at the mess of scrap metal and loose wires littering your workshop, “I think you’re busy enough already.”

You shrugged your shoulders, fatigue making them feel as though they weighed fifty pounds each. “It isn’t so bad. Once I rest for a bit, then…”

You raised a hand to your mouth and barely stifled the egregiously long yawn that came out.

“I’ll have plenty of energy,” you finished with a sigh, glancing around lazily for a moment before realizing that your workshop lacked a clock. A problem for later. “What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s seven in the morning,” Genji answered.

You groaned, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets. It would take forever to recalibrate your internal rhythm to a normal sleep schedule again.

“Why are you working yourself so hard?” he asked after a moment, his question laced with concern.

You rolled your shoulders out, sighing in relief as they popped. “Blowing off steam, mostly,” you replied honestly, continuing your stretching as you lifted your arms above your head. You relished the taut pull of your muscles and the satisfying burn that accompanied it.

“Ah.” Genji nodded, suddenly understanding. “I assume you haven’t made as much progress as you hoped with your… assignment.”

The way he tiptoed around the topic was to be expected. You were the only one on base besides Winston who had even spoken to Ramattra. All your coworkers had to inform their impressions of him was your mood after you left the conference room every other day. Needless to say, it was never good, which you assume led to your fellow agents believing that the leader of Null Sector was as cruel and hateful as they imagined.

You didn’t bother correcting them.

“None at all.” Leaning your elbows back against your workbench, you pinned Genji with the most pleading eyes you could manage, though with how exhausted you were you hardly felt your face move. “You must be patient and wise, right? What do you think I should do?”

Genji contemplated for a moment. Then, he drew his katana from where it hung at his hip and brought it closer to you, close enough that you could see the serrated emerald inlay that rippled in the shining steel of the sword’s edge.

You leaned forward slowly, now wide awake. You wanted to say something, but in your current state, the most you could manage was a soft sigh in awe.

Genji ran a metal finger over the flat edge of the sword. “My blade is sharper than any other. With it, I can cut through even the strongest metal,” he explained. “But it is best suited for slashing. If I strike my opponent’s sword edge to edge, it will chip my blade as well.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he repeated, returning the fine sword to its scabbard, “perhaps you are approaching from the wrong angle.”

You turned the words over in your head, trying to parse meaning from the incredibly vague statement, but it ultimately escaped you.

“I suppose,” you acquiesced, before flashing a small smile at him. “Did Zenyatta teach you that?”

Genji chuckled softly. “No, he…” But he only trailed off. You straightened up, set on edge by the way he stilled. “I must go. Thank you again for your work.” Genji bowed curtly in thanks before disappearing through the door of your workshop.

That was odd. But you did not linger on it, instead letting his advice ring in your ears again. Approaching from the wrong angle, he said.

You felt the tiniest murmurs of an idea brew in the back of your mind, but you were too exhausted for any of them to come to fruition.

Weakly slapping your hand against the light switch, you left your workshop and headed straight to your quarters. The leader of Null Sector could stand to wait for a few more hours.

---

Why were you so nervous?

Your heart was beating unusually fast as you stood at the junction where the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room met the wall. Ramattra couldn’t even see you from this position, yet your mind was still restless.

Steeling your resolve, you lifted your chin and strode confidently to the door of the conference room. As usual, Ramattra did not acknowledge your entrance, sitting on the floor with his back straight and staring ahead at the wall opposite him. But instead of cycling through the same questions you always asked, you abruptly sat down and set the square wooden box you brought in front of him.

Finally, his head tilted down at you. Already, you’d made more progress in five seconds than you had over the past two weeks.

“What is this?”

“Chess. We’re going to play.”

He was silent for a long moment, long enough that you worried he had gone back to ignoring you until he finally spoke again.

“You want me to play a game with you?”

You tried not to let his tone shake you as you began setting up the board. Flipping the golden clasps of the box up, you opened and rotated it until the side housing the board faced you. The board was crafted from a gorgeous rosewood, finely polished, and paired with chess pieces carved out of quartz. It must have been incredibly expensive, you realized, having found it shoved in the back of the bookshelf in the recreation room. You almost felt guilty for breaking it out in a situation as unrefined as this, but, well, what else would you have used it for?

“Yes,” you answered bluntly, sliding the box to the side to make space as you unfolded the wooden board and set it between you. He looked at the board, then back to you, crossing his arms.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you refuse.” You collected the pieces from the box and began placing them in their proper positions. They made gentle clicking noises as they tapped against the shiny wooden surface of the board. “But I’m tired of getting nowhere with you, and you must be bored sitting here every day.” You set the last piece down and straightened back up, fixing him with a stern look. “Even if you refuse to talk, at least this way we have something to do.”

No response came, and you were waiting for the inevitable rejection at this point. It was a last-ditch effort that you conjured in the dregs of sleep deprivation. It was not a sturdy plan, with the potential to be undone by any number of things.

But to your surprise, he did not. At least not immediately.

“Why chess?” he asked.

“I’ve been trying to beat Winston for ages, and I thought this would be good practice. I mean, weren’t you built for this sort of thing?”

A growl echoed from his synthesizer, the hum of his fans increasing to a rumble. “I was built for tactical precision and strategic battle planning, not as a toy for humans to practice with.”

You smirked at him, an unspoken challenge hidden in the line of your lips. “But you would be good at it, right?”

Ramattra went silent once again, but it was not long before his pride ultimately won out. “Of course I would. But the chance of you winning against me is so improbable that you may as well not bother.”

“Then let’s play,” you shot back quickly, undeterred by the implicit dig at your intelligence. “If you’re so much better, then it shouldn’t take that long to defeat me. Unless,” you narrowed your eyes daringly, “you’re worried I might beat you after all?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, and for a moment you feared you may have pushed too far. But the indignant rush of air from his body quieted back down to a gentle buzz. “What are the rules?”

Silently, you stretched over the board, plucking a yellowed paper from the empty box and handing it to him. He only glanced at it for a moment before returning it to you, a woeful reminder of the fact that your opponent had the equivalent of a supercomputer for a brain.

You prayed this wouldn’t backfire horribly.

Leaning forward, you considered the onyx pieces on your side of the board as you waited for Ramattra to make his opening move. If you wanted to stand any chance at beating him, you needed to play perfectly—a Herculean task considering the almost infinite number of choices you had and the severe disadvantage of lacking a processor to instantly analyze all of them.

But to your bewilderment, Ramattra did not touch any of his pieces. He only placed his hand on the edge of the board, rotating it until your pieces were on his side.

The words stupidly left your mouth before you could stop them. “You know white goes first, right?”

“Whether or not I move first changes nothing of the probability of your victory against me,” he replied. “But you wish to defeat me, correct?”

You nodded hesitantly, and he chuckled in what could only be perceived as condescension. It lit a flare of irritation within you, before you were suddenly struck with the realization that it was the first time you had heard him laugh since his imprisonment. The sound curled around your spine, its deep bass and sinister lilt sending a shiver down your back.

“Then you will need every advantage you can get.”

[bean-bean2000]

The Maid - Part 6

Pairing: Loki x reader

Warnings: Angst, mentions of violence, depression, mentions of suicide, despair, feeling trapped. Mentions of abuse and rape.

Please read at your own risk. Your own media consumption is not my responsibility. Please read and review the warnings before proceeding.

Thank you and enjoy!

Part 5

Series masterlist Main Masterlist

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You walk towards the middle of the bedroom. You decide to not push your luck and remain silence. It is a pure miracle he has yet to punish you for your disrespectful actions and words. He is a royal, the king, a god. He should be ordering your beheading, or worse.

You shiver at the idea and shuffle in place in the centre of his room.

Loki stalks towards you slowly, hands behind his back with his lips pursed together in thought.

"Sit down." he commands. Before you can point out to him that there was no chair for you to sit, you see a cloud of green smoke and a chair appear right beside you.

You notice Loki's gaze following your every move, trying to decipher your thoughts and feelings. He smirks when he sees you shake your head in annoyance at the appearance of the chair and huff as you sit down.

Loki steps toward his window and opens it, whistling three distinct notes into the sky.

Is he really whistling right now?

Then you hear a caw and the flapping of wings as a crow lands on the windowsill.

"There you are my pet. Were you successful as always?" Loki questions the bird.

You're staring at the interaction with confusion. Is he talking to a bird? It then dawns on you that you do not know the true extent of his powers. All you know is that he is the god of lies and mischief but who is Loki truly?

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear Loki thank the bird who caws in reply and flies away.

"That bird as you call him, is my pet. My most trustworthy friend. He has never failed me."

Your head snaps up "I didn't say anything." How did he know I called it a bird? Was I talking out loud without knowing? I must be very tired.

You're so confused and lost in thought that you don't notice Loki shift uncomfortably at his realization.

She doesn't know that I can hear people's thoughts at times when they are loud enough... does she not know the extent of my powers? Loki thinks to himself.

"Who is this 'snake' you speak of?" he asks, abruptly distracting you from your thoughts.

You look at him in confusion. How can he not know who the snake is?

"He is the Chief in command of the royal guard." you explain.

"Impossible, I appoint only those with my highest regard to such positions of power. I know of no man under the name snake. He is an imposter." Loki declares.

You press your lips into a tight line and say nothing, staring at the floor.

He can't be serious? He appointed him. He orders that monster around. He tells him what to do... who to punish.. and how..

You swallow thickly and shiver from the terrible memories. You shift in your seat and remain silent.

"What are his duties, according to your understanding of his ranking. What has he told you?"

I can't. He'll find out. He knows everything. Deny it all. But he can taste lies... I can't lie... the truth with holes isn't lying.. right? It's just not telling him all the details...

Loki is watching you intently. He hears your thoughts, they are so loud, laced with such extreme fear, it sounds like you're shouting them in his head. You're terrified.

"I asked you a question." Loki says to you calmly. He pulls a chair out of thin air and sits across from you.

You try answering but your voice waivers. Your whole body is shaking. You will yourself to stop, to compartmentalize, for your own sanity.

You sit up straight and wring your hands together, clearing your throat. You cross your legs and notice Loki's eyes shift to your bare legs in his oversized green pyjama shorts. You uncross them immediately.

His eyes shift back up to you. You stare at the floor, avoiding his gaze. He looks at you with sadness. Small indications of a traumatized woman trying her best to survive in the world she was thrown into.

"You are terrified of him. Every time I mention his name you shrink into yourself. You stare at the floor. You begin to shake. You stop speaking and you slow your breathing. You do everything to make yourself as small and invisible as possible. Now, please answer my question."

Your throat feels dry, your hands are clammy and you're heart rate increases. You try to swallow again.

If I lie to him he will know and he will punish me. If I tell him the truth, the snake will punish me. Why do I get the feeling the snake's punishment would be worse than anything the king could ever do to me?

"His- his duties are to watch over the maids quarters. He - he um does the check every night with a few other guards. He said - I was told that he is your first in command. Everything he does is ordered by you." you explain and you continue to wring your fingers together and look anywhere but at the king.

Loki shifts in his seat and leans back, placing one leg above the other knee. You dare to glance at him and see his features flash with frustration and anger.

Oh norns. He knows I'm not telling the entire truth. There's no way he knows. I just didn't elaborate, that doesn't count as a lie, right?

You stare at the window and imagine yourself flying away like a bird. Free to do as you wish, fly wherever and whenever. Freedom and liberty.

"What does he do every night as part of his duties?" he pushes further.

"The check. He does the check." you answer quickly. keeping your gaze on the window.

He sighs heavily and leans forward.

"What is 'the check'? I want specifics." he pushes again.

" The Sn-...He- He checks the maids quarters. He makes us stand up in a horizontal line and makes sure we are all where we're supposed to be."

"That's it? That is 'the check'? This is what has you shaking at the very mention of his name?" Loki keeps pushing.

I can't I can't I can't I can't. Just lie to the king. The snake - if he finds out - he'll... I won't be able to stop him. They can all overpower me. They will torture me until I beg for mercy. I can't let it happen. Even if it costs me my head.

"Yes. That's it." you whisper as you continue to avoid eye contact. You're imagining yourself as a bird flying away, maladaptive daydreaming to maintain your sanity.

"The least you could do is look me in the eye when you lie to me." The king says stoically.

You freeze.

Oh my gods. I'm screwed. Why didn't I just do it faster in the bathroom? This wouldn't be happening right now. I had my chance...

"Look at me." he commands.

You slowly raise your eyes from the window and meet his. They're shining a dangerously dark green.

You immediately cower, shrinking into yourself further if possible, willing yourself to disappear.

"What does he and the guards do during 'the check' of the maid's quarters?" he asks again, slowly, in a threatening tone. He's challenging you to lie to him again.

"Please. I can't. Please let me go. I will not say a word to a single soul, I swear. I can't tell you, he'll - they will. Please. I'm begging you." You feel the tears cascading down your cheeks. A never-ending river. All of the repressed tears over the years, flowing out of the broken dam.

You stop shaking. You realize he did it. The Snake succeeded at what you vowed you would never let happen.

"He broke me." you whisper.

Loki's face falls and his eyes darken with rage and pain.

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Part 7

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