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dakusan · 16 days ago

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S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #kim seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin smut #승민

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botanicsoul · 1 month ago

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Shameless

ssoooooorrrrtttaaaaa bakugou katsuki x reader

-> You have no shame

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun beat down over the dorm’s training field, baking the turf and glinting off the handful of scattered water bottles and sweat-slicked limbs. It was supposed to be a light workout day for the Baku Squad. Keyword: supposed to be.

There was music playing—Denki’s unhinged playlist bouncing between hyperpop and metalcore—and everyone was half-dedicatedly stretching in a loose circle. Except for one person, obviously.

“Where’s Bakugou?” you asked, squinting through the light as you touched your toes.

“He’s over there,” Kirishima said, jerking his thumb toward the far side of the field. “Said, and I quote: ‘Fuck your dumbass group stretches.’”

Your gaze followed the direction of his finger—and oh.

There he was.

Bakugou Katsuki, shirtless, glistening with sweat, aggressively rolling out his quad on a foam roller like it owed him money. His jaw was tight, his muscles flexed with every shift of his body, and every few seconds he let out a deep, guttural grunt that echoed across the field like a threat.

“God,” Sero muttered beside you, stretching his arms overhead. “Get a load of this guy.”

Your voice slipped out before your brain could stop it.

“I’m fucking trying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mina shrieked.

Denki dropped his water bottle. Sero choked on his own laughter.

“Oh my god, dude,” Mina gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Okay but like… look at him,” you hissed, eyes still glued to where Bakugou was now doing explosive push-ups, his entire body taut with energy. “He’s rolling around on that mat like a demon. I’d kill to be that foam roller.”

“I—girl—” Mina collapsed onto her back.

“Please,” Denki wheezed. “You’re gonna get smited.”

“Let me die this way,” you said flatly. “Let it be known I went out doing what I loved—objectifying that man.”

“LOUDLY,” Sero reminded you.

“AND PROUDLY” You snorted, wiping your face with your towel before finally looking away from Bakugou’s aggressive body worship session. “It’s fine. He’s too focused to hear me.”

Spoiler:

he wasn’t.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

#mha #my hero academia #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #botanicwrites #mha bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader #bnha bakugou #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha sero #bakusquad #mha mina #mha kirishima #mha denki #get a load of this guy

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slutla · 2 months ago

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“A” 4 EFFORT ! | MARK GRAYSON X FEM READER

warnings: 18+. nsfw. nerd ! mark grayson, bimbo! bully! reader. mark is a dork n i love him idc. boob job, blow job. marks a virgin. usage of puppy. spit. indecency in a storage room. whimpering. he cries. college au. no powers. pet names, corny nick names but it’s used in a degrading way. degradation. praise. he’s obvi a lil ooc.

summary: mark, smart, awkward, and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, unhinged and relentless, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible. wc: 4.0k-ish

an: minors n ageless blogs dni. i scraped n rewrote this idea like 3 times b4 finally finishing it. whoops.

Mark is hiding—yes, literally hiding—curled up like some sad, oversized hermit crab shoved into the mildew-scented dark of the campus storage closet. Knees pulled to his chest, hoodie bunched over his head, the flickering overhead light doing nothing but throwing sad little shadows across his hunched spine. He’s tucked into himself like if he folds small enough, maybe you won’t find him. Maybe you’ll just assume he’s dead and move on.

He did your assignment again. Like always. Like clockwork. Like the stupid little pet you keep on a leash of guilt and half-smiles and flirty threats. But this time? He tanked it. On purpose. Slipped in the wrong citations, fudged the formatting, “forgot” a conclusion. Got you a solid C-minus. Barely scraped the bottom of passable. And now he’s sitting here marinating in dread, picturing your reaction—the dramatic sigh, the tilt of your head, the sharp, sweet twist of your mouth when you’re disappointed. Or worse, unamused.

He’d tried to convince himself it was a smart move. A soft rebellion. Maybe if you bomb once, you’ll stop throwing your workload into his lap like it’s part of his tuition. Maybe you’ll get the message without him having to look you in the eye and say no.

But now he’s here, heart doing that ugly fluttery thing like it’s trying to crawl up his throat, every footstep outside the door sounding like you in your usual stormcloud mood. Sharp clacking shoes. Soft voice. That sugary venom in your tone when you call his name like you own it. His phone buzzes. A small sound, pathetic even, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way it ricochets through the cramped silence.

Mark jumps, a sharp, startled twitch of limbs against concrete and metal shelving, knocking into a box of dusty paper towels with a soft thud. His heart nearly claws its way out of his ribcage, frantic and feathered, wings beating uselessly against bone. With a hand that barely feels like his, fingers cold and trembling, he drags the phone out of his pocket. Screen cracked, brightness low. It lights up his face like an omen. One message. From you.

“I will find you.” That’s it. No smiley face, no punctuation. Just four words, typed clean and sharp like a promise. His blood turns into static. Because he knows you. Knows the games you play, the way you turn hide-and-seek into warfare. This isn’t a bluff. You will find him. You’ll crawl through every hallway, knock on every door, whisper his name down every corridor until he’s backed into a corner with no exit and no excuse. He swallows hard, breath caught halfway in his throat.

The knob fumbles. A weak, clumsy twist. Mark freezes, every nerve pulled taut like snapped violin strings and watches it turn in slow, gut-wrenching motion. And then you’re there. Grinning like you already won. Framed in the doorway like sin incarnate, all legs and ruined decency.

Your skirt’s a joke, barely there, riding high enough that he catches soft glimpses of plush skin, the smooth curve of your thighs glowing beneath the low hallway light. Your top’s slouched off one shoulder, bra strap peeking out. Lips glossy. Shameless. Entirely too much. Mark feels his soul leave his body. He should’ve picked somewhere with a lock. A church, maybe. A different continent.

“Well, well,” you laugh real pretty, like this is a game and you’ve already decided the ending. He wants to crawl into the mop bucket.

“Why do you look so scared, Marky?” Your voice is syrupy sweet, sticky with fake concern. A pout on your lips, mock-sincere, but your eyes give you away, glinting, bright, sharp like broken glass.

Mark flinches again, visibly, like the nickname itself has claws. He hates that name. You know he does. He’s told you, multiple times, in that tight, awkward voice like he’s trying not to snap. And still, there you go, dragging it out like gum on the sidewalk.

His skin prickles, goosebumps crawling up his arms like your words live beneath them. “I don’t bite,” you add, stepping forward, one slow click of heel against floor after another. But you do. You bite and chew and leave bruises just from talking, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the way your words twist around his spine or the way his traitorous heart jumps every time you say his name like it belongs to you. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s too dry.

He stands up. God knows where he finds the nerve, maybe somewhere between survival instinct and dumb luck but he pushes off the stack of old textbooks and stands on shaky legs, spine straightening like a man preparing for war.

Too late. You’re already on him. The door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, like the last nail in a coffin. You don’t even give him room to breathe, step right into him, cut off his air, your chest pressed flush against his. He feels everything. The soft weight of your tits against his ribs, the heat of your skin soaking through his hoodie, the sweet, toxic scent of your perfume curling into his lungs.

There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to run. And God, he wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch through his sternum.

“L-look…” His voice cracks halfway through, eyes darting to the dusty shelves, the light fixture, anywhere but you. “I’m really sorry… I didn’t do it on purpose.” A lie. Such a bad, obvious, choking lie. It clings to the back of his throat like smoke, bitter and foul. He can feel your smirk before he even sees it

Your face hovers just inches from his, the space between you nothing but shared breath and tension so thick it could choke. Your plum-glossed lips linger just over his, not quite touching like a threat, like a dare. You’re pretty. Pretty in a way that feels curated, intentional. Glossy and shallow like a magazine ad come to life. It makes his ears burn, dusted pink at the tips. He looks like he wants to disappear into the wall. You look like you’d pin him to it for fun.

“Awe, Marky, you’re being so mean to me, you know that, right?” Your voice dips low, not soft, not gentle, but lush and poisoned, the kind of sweetness that sticks in your teeth and leaves a burn going down.

You pout like you’re heartbroken, big eyes all shiny, lips pushed out in that perfect little curve, and jab a single manicured finger into his chest, firm and unforgiving. He doesn’t move. Can’t. It’s like you’ve nailed him to the floor, body locked up, breath hitched.

Your long nail presses into the fabric of his hoodie, right over the solid thrum of his heartbeat. He’s trembling under you, not visibly, not like a coward, but in that subtle way only you notice. The kind of tremble that starts in the hands and climbs up the neck. The kind that comes from being caught.

“I trusted you,” you add, voice dropping just a little more, breathy and laced with mock hurt. “And you went ‘n sabotaged me? After I've been soo nice to you?”

He gulps. Loud and shaky, Adam’s apple bobbing like it’s trying to make a run for it. Poor thing.

“Sweet puppy’s grown a backbone now, has he?” you coo, tilting your head, voice dipped in amusement that’s just short of cruel. You don’t pull away. Of course you don’t, instead, that impossible closeness tightening like a noose.

His shoulders hit the shelf behind him with a soft thud. He can’t back away any further. Your chest presses against his, soft curves molded against hard muscle, and you feel it—feel everything. The way his breath stutters. The way his hands twitch at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you.

And lower, the real betrayal. He’s half-hard, thick and aching, tenting his pants like a loaded secret he can’t tuck away. You smile, slow and lazy, eyes flicking downward, then back to his face.

“Cute,” you murmur, almost fond. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

You slide a hand down. Deliberate. Slow. Like you’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Fingers trail over the thick line in his pants, heat trapped beneath the fabric, swollen and straining—and you wrap your hand around it through the material, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath. His hips twitch. His jaw clenches.

He’s trembling now, a little, but it’s there. A ripple under your palm. You look him right in the eyes, eyes wide and glinting with something unholy. Your thumb strokes once. Soft. Cruel.

“Did me callin’ you a puppy make you hard?” Your voice is low, a velvet drawl, wrapped around mockery like it’s a love song.

“You’re, uhh… too close…” He whispers it. Barely. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, the words won’t count. His whole body is stiff, locked up, trying not to think about your hand wrapped firm around his bulge, the heat of your palm, the way your thumb had moved.

But it’s impossible. You’re too close. Too close. You’re all over him, heat and scent and lips a breath away, voice curling into his ear like silk and fire. And his brain? It’s white noise. He swallows hard, again, like maybe that’ll push the shame back down. Like maybe it’ll kill the way his dick pulses helplessly under your grip. But it doesn’t. Nothing helps.

You can feel it too, the way his body betrays him, twitching under your hand like he’s trying so hard to behave, to not give in. It’s adorable, You think.

You half-smile, head tilted, lip gloss catching the light like temptation bottled up. “Let’s make a deal,” you hum, voice flat and casual, like you’re discussing lunch plans, not unhinged propositions. “I’ll suck your dick, and you do my work properly.”

He chokes. Not metaphorically, he literally chokes, breath catching mid-gasp like his lungs betrayed him. His face flushes immediately, that soft, pale pink crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“W-what… what do you—” His voice breaks, small and high and strangled, as if saying it out loud would summon lightning. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical, exasperation oozing off you like perfume. “What’re you actin’ dumb for?” you snap, grip tightening just a little around his cock, enough to make his hips twitch again.

“You’re already hard.” Your words hit him square in the gut, shame blooming behind his eyes, his mouth working silently like he wants to say something, protest, maybe—but all he manages is a sound. A low, broken exhale that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

He’s not pulling away. And he’s not saying no. You notice. And he’s cute, you think so now. In a nerdy, helpless, needy kinda way. The flushed ears. The twitchy hands. The stutter in his voice like he’s not used to being handled. It’s charming. Pathetic. A little funny.

So really, it’s a win-win. He gets to feel the touch of a woman—maybe for the first time, if you had to guess, and you get guaranteed grades for life. Straight A’s and a warm mouthful of praise every time you strut past your professors. Everyone’s happy.

You lean in, your nose brushing his, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, soft enough to be dangerous. “You gonna be good for me, Marky?” you whisper, voice sticky and slow.

“I’m a real good fuck, actually,” you say, so breezy, so matter-of-fact it’s almost cruel. Your smile’s all teeth and glittering pride as your knees bend, thighs spreading just a touch as they kiss the cold linoleum floor. He looks down at you, eyes blown wide and lips parted like he’s watching a dream and a nightmare crawl into his lap at the same time. You tilt your head, all smug satisfaction and sweet venom.

“You got lucky,” you hum, palms sliding up the inside of his thighs now, thumbs hooking the waistband of his pants like a promise. And he knows it. Knows he’s in over his head. Knows you’ve got him right where you want him.

You make a show of it. Fingers slow and precise, unbuttoning him like you’re unwrapping a present you already know you’ll like. The zipper drags down with a lazy hum, and his breath stutters. He clenches the fabric of his hoodie like it might anchor him.

You tug his pants down just far enough, and then the boxers. He twitches when the cold air hits him, body jerking like he wasn’t ready, like he should’ve been, but wasn’t. And yeah. He’s big. Your lashes flutter. A slow, lazy grin curls on your lips like sin itself is stretching out to get comfortable. It’s better than you expected—thick, flushed dark, heavy where it hangs, and already leaking like his body’s ahead of his brain. Small pearls of pre ooze from his slit, leaving a slimy trail all the way down to his heavy balls and a light dusting of hair.

You glance up, just to watch his expression twist, poor boy, caught somewhere between pride and terror. His mouth parts like he might say something, but nothing comes. You look back down and press a soft kiss to the tip, soft and sweet. The mess sticks to your gloss, shines faintly when you pull back just an inch.

He whispers something—barely, like even his voice is too embarrassed to say it out loud. But your hand’s already moving, slow and deliberate, working him up with lazy strokes that make his legs twitch. You tilt your head, smile playing soft on your lips like you don’t know he’s on the verge of breaking.

“What’dya want, baby?” You purr it, like honey slipping off your tongue, like he has any real say in the matter. A mercy, letting him speak at all. He stutters, Red all the way down his neck now, lip caught between his teeth as his voice cracks.

“Y-your tits…” A breathless pause. “Wanna… feel them.” His hands hover, fingers twitching mid-air like he’s too scared to ask properly, like he’s afraid you’ll laugh.

You blink once, then laugh anyway—not mocking, more amused, indulgent. You lean forward just enough for your chest to brush against him, soft and warm through the thin fabric of your top.

“You wanna feel these?” Your voice drips slow, the words curling at the edges, soft like something wicked in silk. He nods before you’ve even finished the sentence—frantic, desperate, practically drooling like a mutt starved for affection. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It’s everything.

You bat your lashes, long and thick, gaze dipped half-lidded as your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You tug it up slow, just to watch the hunger flicker in his eyes, then reach behind your back, a quick flick, and the bra slips off like it was never really meant to stay on.

They bounce free, soft and full, skin warm and glowing under the harsh closet light, and his breath catches so sharp you swear he might choke on it. You cup them lightly, just enough to make them spill between your fingers, teasing him without saying a word. Then, voice dropping lower, sweeter, with a tenderness that makes it sting:

“You wanna feel ’em with your dick… or your hands, puppy?” You watch his brain short-circuit, like he doesn’t know what’ll kill him faster. He doesn’t answer —can’t. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky breath and a helpless look, red-faced and wide-eyed, every ounce of his nerve short-circuiting all at once.

So you make the choice for him. You lean in, slow and deliberate, gaze fixed on his like you’re daring him to look away. One hand slips between your tits, the other trailing down with intention, You press your breasts together again, as his leaky ‘n throbbing cock slides in between them.

His knees nearly buckle. His breath comes in short, desperate little bursts, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch, if he even can.

You tilt your head. “Feels good, huh?” Voice velvet-soft now, syrupy and slow. “Bet you’ve never had anything close to this.” And he hasn’t, And he knows it. Your slick, glistening breasts slide along his throbbing cock, coated in his warm precum. As you glide them up and down, your tongue flicks deliberately at his sensitive tip, teasing with slow, hungry licks. Mark’s body trembles, his muscles clenching with every shuddering breath. He ruts eagerly against your soft, yielding tits, like a dog in heat lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Nothing he’s ever fucked—his hand, a pillow, a toy—comes close to the wet, enveloping warmth of your breasts and mouth.

Your tongue swirls and laps at his pulsing cock, wet slurps and soft gags echoing through the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of his balls against your slick, heaving tits. Mark’s groans are deep, guttural, his chest rumbling as you gently squeeze his balls, sending a jolt through his trembling frame. “You’re pretty big,” you coo, voice dripping with praise, “such a shame it’s attached to a dork who doesn’t even know how to use it.”

Mark lets out a desperate whine as you guide his throbbing shaft into the tight, wet warmth of your throat, deepthroating the length not already enveloped by the soft, plush fat of your tits. His cock throbs with every bob of your head, slick and warm in your throat. Mark’s in bliss, thinking if he died now, he’d go out happy, his dick devoured by such a pretty girl. Your soft pants, warm puffs of air teasing his sensitive tip, push him closer to the edge. His balls tighten, hips jerking as he feels the surge building, ready to unleash his pent-up load across your face and dripping tits.

“Hah—‘m gonna cum,” Mark chokes out, voice shattered, breathless, like he’s unraveling at the seams, pleasure swallowing him whole. You hum, low and smug, a wicked edge to it, and double down. Your head bobs faster, throat clenching around his pulsing cock, gurgling slurps and wet gags filling the air—loud, obscene, a filthy symphony just for him. Your tits, slick with spit and precum, squeeze his shaft tight, a perfect, plush vise. His dick’s buried in heaven, warm, wet, yours to ruin.

His legs quake, thighs trembling like they might give out. Head thrown back, it thumps against the wall, his only anchor as he falls apart. You catch the way his fingers claw at nothing, fists white-knuckled, and that pathetic, broken whimper slipping from his lips? It’s fucking music. His balls tighten, hips jerking erratic, desperate. He’s a mess, sweat-slick, eyes glassy, whimpering like he’s never been touched before.

“Poor Marky,” you say with a pop, voice dripping with mockery, using your hand to finish him off. “Thought you could handle me. Big cock, no clue how to use it.” Your pace doesn’t falter, lips slick, hand relentless, tits bouncing with every move. “Gonna blow already? Such a shame.”

And with that little remark, that teasing curl of your lips, that tone too smug to be anything but wicked, he falls apart. All messy ‘n sloppy, big fat load creating a warm and wet mess all over your breasts and dirtying your pretty face. A few stray droplets kiss your cheek, cling to your lashes. You blink slow, licking your lips like it’s nothing. Like this happens all the time.

You blink slow, all lazy-lidded and smug, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back more laughter—the kind that would make him shrink even further if he had anywhere left to run. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there, looking absolutely devastated by his own body, like his soul left him mid-spill and hasn’t come back yet.

“Tears?” you croon, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You cryin’ over this? Oh, baby.”

You reach up and swipe your thumb across the corner of his eye, not gently. It’s teasing, purposeful, like you want to see if the contact will shatter him completely. And it nearly does. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed like even that’s too much. His lashes are damp. His cheeks hot. He’s blushing so hard it looks painful. Shame clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t tell me that was your first time gettin’ off with someone watchin’,” you murmur, tilting your head, lips twitching again. “God, that’s actually so cute. I could eat you alive.”

And he doesn’t answer—just stands there, stiff and red and broken open in the prettiest way. You lean in close, your voice a whisper now. “Bet you’ll do anything I ask now, won’t you?”

He nods, slow and small like he’s ashamed of it — like even that’s a surrender too humiliating to admit out loud. But it’s there. Clear as day. He’s yours now. All soft eyes and trembling hands and a brain melted to mush. You smile, bright and sweet like you didn’t just break him down into dust.

Your fingers trace lazy circles on his bicep—featherlight, affectionate, like you’re rewarding a pet after a trick well done. And your tone? Cheerful. Too cheerful. Like you’ve moved on already.

“Great!” you chirp, lips popping on the G. “You can resubmit that assignment for me.” He stares, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon, lips parted like he wants to protest—like he’s got dignity left in some corner of his soul. But he doesn’t speak. Just swallows hard and looks away.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Marky,” you purr, already turning to adjust your skirt, unfazed. “You came, I smiled, we both got something outta it. Now go on. I want that A.”

You wink over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, stunned, pants around his thighs, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation when he was trying to get out of it the first time.

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #invincible #៹ archive !

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jareaufiles · 7 days ago

Text

LIVE STREAM - a.hotchner x female reader

PREMISE: You’re doing a live-streamed cam session for fans. Aaron surprises the audience by joining. You try to maintain composure as he takes control slowly, his hand between your thighs as he murmurs, “Let them watch what’s mine.”

WARNINGS: pornstar AU, possessive dominance, cockwarming, face-fucking/deepthroating, cumplay (cum on face and in pussy), overstimulation, dirty talk, public (livestream) sex acts including oral sex, rough face-fucking, intense orgasm descriptions, soft possessiveness/obsessive language (“mine,” “good girl”), mild degradation (filthy teasing and verbal ownership), implied breeding kink (references to being “full” and “bred”), intense marking (facial, internal, and bodily cum mess emphasized), and explicit aftercare scenes including cleaning, dressing, caretaking, emotional tenderness post-scene, and hints of growing emotional intimacy between characters.

WORD COUNT: 6.3K

A/N: scheduled post!

NAVIGATION

The little red light above the webcam blinked on, and instantly the chat blew up. You let a sly grin spread over your lips, leaning back in the big velvet chair, which was your favorite one, the one everyone knew by now, deep crimson with arms you could grip when things got messy. The silk robe you had on was barely staying put, slipping off one shoulder as you shifted, letting the camera catch a teasing glimpse of skin, the way your tits rose and fell with every breath.

You weren’t wearing anything else. That was the point. Just you, a late night tease, soft lighting making your skin glow, the silk brushing against your nipples, leaving them stiff and aching. The robe hung open just enough to show the curve of your cleavage, the soft slope of your belly, and lower to the bare, neat lips of your pussy, already a little slick because you knew what you were about to do. You had planned to take it slow, work yourself open, let the chat beg while you teased your clit with lazy, slow circles of your fingers.

And the chat was already unhinged.

[“LOOK AT THAT FUCKING BODY.”] [“THAT ROBE. SHE KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT SHE’S DOING.”] [“CLOSE UP OF THAT PUSSY PLS.”]

You laughed under your breath, a soft, breathy sound that made donations ping across the screen. You spread your legs just a little wider, showing them the soft folds of your cunt — pink and swollen, glistening faintly under the soft glow of the overhead light. Your lips were plump, perfect, with the barest hint of wetness starting to gather where your folds met. Your clit peeked out, flushed and needy. It was obscene how ready you were without even touching yourself.

You were about to dip your fingers between your thighs when you heard it. The soft creak of the trailer door. Heavy, measured footsteps. And then — that voice.

“Didn’t I fucking tell you not to start without me?”

You froze. Your stomach dropped, cunt clenched, heart hammering in your chest. You turned your head slowly, already feeling the heat rise under your skin, and there he was.

Aaron Hotchner.

Tall, broad, dressed like he’d just walked off a crime scene (a/n - pun intended, lmao)— black button-up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, belt still on, hair slightly mussed. He looked every inch the predator, sharp-eyed and entirely unbothered as he stepped into the frame. You could already hear the chat blowing the fuck up.

[“IS THAT HOTCH?”] [“COLLAB OF THE YEAR I’M FUCKING SCREAMING.”] [“PLEASE LET HIM RUIN YOU.”]

You opened your mouth to explain that this wasn’t supposed to be a joint stream, but before you could get a word out, he was behind you, one hand heavy on your shoulder, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear.

“Spread your legs, sweetheart. Be a good girl for them.”

Your breath hitched. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up, your knees were parting, the robe falling open completely now. You were bare, flushed, and soaked, and the cam had the perfect angle on it. The soft lips of your pussy gleamed, your clit swollen and throbbing, your skin flushed from your chest down to your belly.

The chat absolutely exploded.

[“LOOK AT THAT PUSSY FUCKKKKK.”] [“TIGHT LITTLE CUNT I’M LOSING IT.”]

“That’s it,” Aaron murmured, his hand sliding down the length of your thigh, big palm warm against your skin. His fingertips brushed along your inner thigh, then drifted up, knuckles grazing your slick folds. You were already so wet it left a smear of shine on his skin.

He pushed your chair back a little so the camera caught every angle — your face, your tits, your messy pussy glistening in the light. And then he cupped you fully, palm pressing against your slit.

“Smile,” he muttered, “or I stop.”

You forced a trembling grin as his thumb slid over your clit, pressing down hard enough to make your hips twitch. Two thick fingers slid between your lips, parting them, teasing the entrance of your cunt before sinking inside. You were so wet they slid in to the second knuckle with barely any resistance, the obscene squelch of your slick loud in the quiet trailer.

“Jesus,” he groaned, leaning down, lips against your ear. “You were this fucking wet for them? Or was it for me?”

You couldn’t even answer — your head tipped back as his fingers started to move, slow and deep, curling up to stroke that spot that made your vision blur. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless and rough, and the way he fucked you with those fingers — thick, strong, curling and pressing — had your thighs shaking in minutes.

The chat was losing it.

[“I CAN HEAR HOW WET SHE IS HOLY SHIT.”] [“FINGER HER FASTER KING.”] [“LOOK AT HER FACE SHE’S GONE.”]

He added a third finger without warning, stretching you wide, and you cried out, body arching, cunt clenching around him. He fucked you hard, fingers pumping fast now, his thumb never easing up. Your clit was throbbing, your slick running down onto the chair beneath you.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he muttered, watching your face. “Come on, let them see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

You shattered in seconds. A loud, broken cry, your cunt squeezing down around his fingers, your legs shaking, juices coating his hand. You came so hard it made your vision go white for a second, the pleasure sharp and brutal.

He kept going, fucking you through it until your hips bucked, until you were whimpering for him to stop. Then, finally, he pulled his fingers out, wet and messy, slick glistening in the low light. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with a low, satisfied hum.

“Tastes like heaven,” he growled, licking his lips.

The chat was a fucking riot.

[“I’M FUCKING CUMMING.”] [“LICK HER CLEAN YOU FILTHY GOD.”]

And then he was on his knees between your legs, grabbing your thighs and yanking you to the very edge of the chair so your pussy was right in his face. He didn’t tease, didn’t waste a second. His mouth latched onto your cunt like a man starving, tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit before flicking it hard. He groaned against you, the vibration making your whole body twitch.

He ate you like he meant to ruin you. His tongue fucking inside you, then lapping up the mess he made, sucking your clit into his mouth until you were gasping, your nails digging into the arms of the chair. You could feel your orgasm building again, fast and ruthless.

Aaron pulled back just long enough to speak, his lips shiny with your slick. “I want them to see your face when you come on my tongue,” he growled. “They can jerk off to it — but I’m the one who gets to fuck you after.”

Then his mouth was back on you, relentless, tongue flicking and curling, sucking your clit until you shattered again, louder this time, hips jerking, thighs closing around his head. He held you there, kept licking you through it, not stopping until you were sobbing his name.

When he finally pulled away, his face was a mess, eyes dark and fucking feral.

And you were wrecked.

And the chat had officially lost its goddamn mind.

Your hands were trembling, pussy still throbbing from the aftershocks of his tongue, but you didn’t hesitate. You grabbed Aaron by the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric tight in your fist, and yanked him up toward you.

His breath was hot against your mouth, lips slick with your own taste, and you moaned as you kissed him, deep and filthy. The taste of yourself on his tongue made your head spin, your hips still twitching involuntarily.

You licked his face between kisses, slow and deliberate, chasing every drop of slick he’d left there. Your tongue traced his jaw, licked over the stubble on his chin, tasted the corner of his mouth. His breath hitched, eyes hooded and dark as sin, and you knew the chat was losing their collective minds even before you glanced at the screen.

[“SHE’S FUCKING LICKING HERSELF OFF HIS FACE OMFG.”] [“KINKIEST STREAM EVER.”] [“BRO IM GONNA CUM ALREADY.”]

Without breaking eye contact, you reached down, fingers working his belt open, tugging it free with a sharp snap. You made quick work of the button and zipper, then shoved his jeans and boxers down in one motion, his cock springing free, and just like you remembered, he was perfect.

Big. Thick. Heavy, the flushed head leaking precum, a drop glistening at the tip. His cock was smooth, clean-shaven just like the rest of him, not a single hair from his balls up. The veins running along the shaft made your mouth water, and his balls hung heavy and tight beneath, the sight of him making your already sore cunt clench again.

[“HOLY FUCK LOOK AT THAT COCK.”] [“CLEAN SHAVEN KING. I’M DEAD.”] [“SHE’S GONNA CHOKE.”]

You smirked at the chat and stood up long enough to push him down into your chair, making sure the cam caught every second of it. Aaron spread his thighs, cock standing proud against his stomach, and you dropped to your knees between his legs like you belonged there.

“You gonna be good for me now, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice low and rough, hand brushing your hair from your face.

You didn’t answer with words — you just wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, the heat and weight of him making your palm tingle. You gave him a few slow strokes, spreading the slick over the head with your thumb before leaning in and licking a long, teasing stripe from base to tip. He let out a soft grunt, hips twitching, and you swirled your tongue around the head, tasting salt and heat.

Then you took him into your mouth.

The first stretch of your lips around him made your jaw ache in the best way, the thick head pressing against your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks. Your spit mixed with his precum instantly, dripping down your chin as you started to work him deeper, your hand twisting at the base while your lips slid down his shaft.

The chat was fucking losing it.

[“I’M FUCKING DONE SHE’S TAKING ALL OF IT.”] [“THAT SUCKING SOUND OMFG.”] [“CHOKE ON IT BABY GIRL.”]

You gave him a sloppy, wet blowjob; spit trailing down your chin, pooling at the base of his cock. Your lips stretched wide around him as you took him as deep as you could, gagging just a little when he hit the back of your throat. The sound only made him groan, his hand threading into your hair, not forcing you but guiding you, holding you there.

You bobbed your head, mouth slick and hot around him, tongue flicking over the underside, tracing the thick vein there. You pulled off with a gasp to catch your breath, stroking him while spit connected your lips to the head of his cock in a shining string.

“Messy fucking mouth,” Aaron rasped, thumb wiping your chin before shoving the digit into your mouth for you to suck clean.

You swallowed around him again, faster this time, your throat working around his cock, spit dripping onto your chest. Your hand twisted at the base in time with your mouth, making obscene, wet sounds that had the chat melting down.

[“SHE’S GONNA MAKE ME CUM JUST FROM THIS.”] [“THAT COCK DESERVES TO LIVE IN HER MOUTH.”]

His breathing was getting rougher, jaw tight, but he didn’t let himself go, pulling your head back by your hair before he could tip over that edge.

“Not yet,” he growled, his cock glistening with your spit. “You’re not getting my load until I’m buried in that tight little pussy.”

And fuck if your cunt didn’t clench at just the sound of it.

Your throat was sore, lips swollen and shiny with spit, and your chest was rising and falling in sharp little breaths when Aaron’s hand curled in your hair and tugged you off his cock with a wet pop. Your jaw ached in the best fucking way, drool running down your chin, strands of it still clinging between your lips and the flushed, slick head of his cock.

He didn’t give you a second to recover.

“Come here,” he rasped, voice thick and dark as sin. His big hands gripped your hips and hauled you up onto his lap like you weighed nothing, making sure the camera caught every second of it. His cock was hot and heavy against your belly as you straddled him, your slick cunt leaving a glossy trail over his length.

The chat was nothing but chaos.

[“FUCK YES FUCK YES FUCK YES.”] [“SHE’S GONNA RIDE HIM LIVE.”] [“HOTCH YOU LUCKY BASTARD.”]

You grinned, dizzy with it all, the room feeling too hot as you reached down, guided the thick head of his cock to your soaked entrance, and slowly, so fucking slowly, sank down onto him. You both groaned, the stretch making your eyes roll back as your pussy took every thick inch of him. He filled you up so good, the delicious, almost painful stretch leaving you trembling. It was obscene how well you fit together, like your body was made to take him.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” Aaron growled against your ear, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Once he was fully seated inside you, the base of his cock pressed snug against your slick lips, you let your back fall against his chest, his strong arms coming around to hold you there. His cock was so deep you swore you could feel it against your cervix, your cunt already fluttering around him from how good it felt.

But you didn’t start moving. Not yet.

You sat there, cockwarming him, keeping him buried to the hilt inside you while you both turned your attention to the stream. Your face was flushed, your skin damp, hair sticking to your temples, and your nipples were hard, aching, the silk robe still hanging loose around your elbows now, forgotten.

Aaron reached up and palmed one of your tits, fingers pinching your nipple as he addressed the camera, his voice smug and dark.

“You like the view?” he murmured, his other hand sliding down to cup your mound, the base of his palm pressing just above where you were stretched around his cock. “Look at her. Stuffed full and still smiling for you.”

[“I’M FUCKING CUMMING BRO.”] [“THIS IS THE BEST STREAM I’VE EVER SEEN.”] [“SHE’S SO FUCKING FULL OMFG.”]

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips a little, the movement grinding your clit against his pubic bone. The drag of his cock inside you, even with those tiny movements, made your toes curl. Every now and then you rocked your hips just enough to feel him shift inside you, enough to hear that soft, filthy wet sound your pussy made as it clenched around him.

Aaron’s fingers toyed with your tits, pinching, rolling your nipples between his rough fingertips until you were squirming in his lap, the ache in your cunt impossible to ignore.

“She can’t sit still,” Aaron murmured for the chat, his hand sliding down your belly, fingers tracing the subtle bulge where his cock filled you so deep. “So greedy for it she keeps trying to fuck herself on my cock.”

You moaned, breath catching as his hand pressed down, adding pressure to that spot, making the sensation of fullness even more intense. You bit your lip, but you couldn’t help it — you rocked your hips again, your cunt clenching hard around him.

The chat blew up.

[“FUCKING BURY IT DEEPER.”] [“LOOK AT HER SQUIRM.”] [“FUCK I WISH THAT WAS ME.”]

You turned your head, licking up the side of Aaron’s throat, tasting sweat and your own slick still clinging to his skin. “They’re fucking loving this,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a soft, fucked-out purr.

He grinned, teeth flashing as he pinched your nipple harder, making you gasp.

“Good,” he growled. “Because they can watch you take it, they can jerk off to your face when you come, but this pussy’s mine.”

His hand slid between your legs again, two fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles as you sat stuffed full of him, back against his chest, your cunt stretched and drooling around his cock.

You moaned loud and open-mouthed, the sound making the chat absolutely explode. Every roll of your hips made you feel the thick, hard slide of him inside you, even though you weren’t bouncing on him yet, just keeping him buried deep while you teased them both.

The longer you sat there, the more desperate you got. And judging by the twitch of his cock inside you, the tightness of his grip on your tits, Aaron wasn’t far behind.

Your whole body was buzzing. Your pussy was stretched wide and soaking, wrapped around every inch of Aaron’s thick cock while he sat still beneath you, just holding you there — full, twitching, leaking, but not letting you move. Your cunt throbbed around him, clenching with every breath, every slow twist of your hips. It was torture, your clit swollen and slick from how often it rubbed against the thick base of his cock or the rough skin of his lower stomach every time you shifted just a little.

You could feel the veins in his shaft pulsing against your soaked walls. You were so full you could barely think straight.

“Aaron,” you whined, breath hot and desperate against his jaw, “please. I need it — I need you to fuck me. Please.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just kept palming your tits with one hand, teasing your nipples, rubbing soft circles over the bulge in your belly where his cock sat buried inside you.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder. “I can’t take it anymore,” you whispered, moaning through the words, rocking your hips in tight little circles just to feel some kind of friction. “Please, Aaron. Fuck up into me. I want them to see what you do to me.”

That was what broke him.

His hands clamped down on your hips, and before you could even gasp, he planted his boots on the floor and fucked up into you — hard.

You screamed, your whole body jolting as his cock slammed into your deepest point, the stretch instantly overwhelming. He didn’t ease into it. He held you down by your hips, locking you in place, and drove up into you again. And again. And again. Deep, brutal thrusts that made the sound of skin slapping skin echo through the trailer, your pussy squelching around him, wet and obscene.

The camera caught everything.

[“FUCK FUCK FUCK.”] [“LOOK AT HER BOUNCE.”] [“THAT PUSSY’S SO LOUD BRO I’M DONE.”]

You could barely breathe. Each thrust shoved you forward, your hands scrambling to grip the chair’s arms for balance, your back arching away from his chest. But he followed, pressing his body up into yours, breath hot at your ear, voice a low, gritted growl.

“You want them to watch?” he rasped, fucking into you even harder. “Want them to see how fucking deep I am inside you?”

You couldn’t even speak — just nodded frantically, mouth open in a silent moan, the heat building in your gut unbearable. He was so deep, the head of his cock punching into your cervix, the friction dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. Your pussy was soaked, slick dripping down his balls and your thighs, the chair beneath you shiny with your mess.

Aaron’s hand moved from your tit to your throat, not choking, just holding — firm, possessive. He tilted your head back, forcing you to look at the camera.

“Look at them,” he growled. “Let them see your face when I ruin you.”

And ruin you he did.

He fucked up into you like he wanted to break you open, his pace brutal, fast, relentless. You bounced in his lap from the force of it, your pussy making the wettest, filthiest sounds with every thrust. His other hand worked your clit, rough circles that had your whole body jerking, your orgasm racing toward you like a goddamn freight train.

“I’m gonna — I’m gonna cum,” you sobbed, voice high and wrecked. “Aaron—fuck—please.”

“Cum on my cock,” he growled into your ear. “Let them watch this tight fucking pussy cream for me.”

Your orgasm slammed into you with no warning; your body tensed, then shattered, your cunt clenching so hard around him it forced a groan from deep in his chest. You cried out, full-body trembling, nails digging into the arms of the chair, pussy fluttering and gushing all over him. You could feel the mess, the slippery rush of wetness as you came around him.

Aaron didn’t stop.

He grabbed your hips and fucked you through it, still grinding his cock deep into your spasming cunt, still using you like his own personal toy. You were half-crying, half-laughing from the pleasure, babbling nonsense, barely aware of the chat blowing up in the background.

[“SHE’S CREAMING HOLY SHIT.”] [“I CAME I CAME I CAME.”] [“RUIN HER KING.”]

Then Aaron gave a deep, broken grunt and slammed up into you one last time — hard, deep, staying there as he came. You felt it, the pulse of his cock, the way his cum spilled out in hot thick waves, coating your walls. His grip on your hips tightened, and he held you down, making sure you took every drop.

You sat there, trembling, stuffed full and soaked, his cock twitching inside your messy, stretched cunt. His arms wrapped around you again, one palm flat on your stomach, the other between your legs, pressing possessively against your swollen pussy.

“Smile for the camera,” he whispered, breath ragged, still inside you. “They just watched you get fucking bred.”

Your body was still twitching, nerves fried, clit throbbing, your chest heaving against the sticky warmth of Aaron’s chest. His cock was still buried deep inside you, the thick, satisfied weight of it pressing up against your tender walls, his cum already seeping around the base. You could feel it — hot, thick, the obscene fullness making your overstimulated cunt flutter all over again. The trailer was humid with sex, the air thick with sweat and the filthy scent of your combined orgasms.

You swallowed hard, your lips parted in a fucked-out grin as you turned your head to nuzzle his jaw. “They’re not done,” you murmured, voice wrecked and breathy.

Neither was he.

With a shaky hand, you gripped the arms of the chair and slowly lifted your hips. The thick drag of his cock pulling from your swollen, used pussy made you moan, your walls clinging greedily to him on the way out. You both watched, and the stream definitely saw, the way his cock glistened, slick with both your mess, pearly streaks of cum clinging to the shaft.

And then it happened — the thing the chat had been begging for.

As soon as you lifted high enough for him to slip free with a wet, lewd sound, a thick, milky drip of his cum slid from your stretched hole, trailing down your folds and onto his cock, pooling at the base. You bit your lip, rolling your hips to tease it out, watching another slow, viscous string spill down, catching the light before landing on his stomach.

Aaron groaned deep in his chest, a dangerous, satisfied sound. “Look at that,” he muttered, grabbing the base of his cock, stroking it lazily through the mess as he stared at your ruined cunt. “Fucking wrecked. You see that, chat? This is mine.”

The chat exploded.

[“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”] [“CUM DRIP OMFG I CAN’T BREATHE.”] [“SHE’S STILL LEAKING JESUS.”]

Aaron wasn’t done showing them, either.

Before you could even lower yourself fully, he slapped your pussy — a sharp, wet smack against your swollen, messy lips. You cried out, your whole body jolting, another little gush of his cum spilling from your hole at the impact.

“Keep that shit inside next time,” he growled against your ear, grabbing your hips tight and pulling you down hard onto his cock again.

You moaned loud, back arching, feeling every swollen inch stretch you open all over again. The squelch as you bottomed out was obscene, cum squishing up around the base of his cock. Aaron held you there, his hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit in slow, lazy circles while you both turned back to the cam.

You were a mess. Hair sticking to your face, lips kiss-bruised, sweat slicked, tits flushed and rising fast with every panting breath. The robe was long gone, crumpled on the floor. And you didn’t give a single fuck.

Aaron nipped your earlobe and spoke for the stream again. His voice low, wrecked but smug. “That’s what happens when you fuck with a real man, sweetheart,” he rasped, grinding up into you once, your whole body jerking. “You’ll drip for hours.”

You giggled, biting your lip and resting your head back on his shoulder, still cockwarming him, feeling his cum mix with your slick deep inside.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” you purred at the cam, voice rough and sweet at once. “Bet you’re all sitting there with your dicks in your hands wishing you could be this full.”

The chat went feral.

[“I’M CUMMING AGAIN I SWEAR TO GOD.”] [“FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.”] [“PLEASE LET ME CLEAN HER UP.”]

Aaron chuckled darkly, pinching your nipple and making you squirm on his cock.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen, one hand still working lazy circles over your clit, “she’s not done yet.”

Your pulse was still pounding in your ears, pussy still stretched and messy, but the desperate, lingering ache in your throat had you craving something else. You could feel Aaron twitching inside you, still hard, thick and impossibly hot, his cum thick inside your cunt, but you needed the taste of him.

Needed it down your throat, coating your tongue, owning your mouth the way he’d just owned your pussy.

You shifted in his lap, your soaked cunt making a wet, filthy noise as you lifted off his cock, another slick strand of his cum clinging to your inner lips, trailing down as you dropped to your knees between his thighs again.

The webcam caught everything; the way your used pussy clenched, the creamy mess smearing down your inner thighs, your tits bouncing as you settled on your knees like you belonged there, mouth already parted and hungry.

Aaron’s cock was a beautiful fucking mess. Slick, flushed, still so hard, smeared with both of you, and glistening in the soft light. Your stomach fluttered at the sight of it, thick veins standing out along the shaft, his balls heavy and tight beneath. You grinned, wiping your spit-slicked chin with the back of your hand before wrapping your fingers around the base.

The chat was already going absolutely feral.

[“SHE’S FUCKING GOING AGAIN.”] [“DEEPTHROAT HIM BABY GIRL.”] [“I’M SO FUCKING HARD I CAN’T TAKE IT.”]

You didn’t tease this time. You leaned in, lips parting, tongue tracing the underside of his shaft from base to tip, savoring the mix of your combined slick. He groaned low, the sound punching straight to your core, and you flattened your tongue, taking the head into your mouth and swallowing him down.

His cock hit the back of your throat in one smooth, practiced motion, the stretch making your eyes water instantly. You gagged softly around him, throat spasming, but it only made him growl. His hand shot to the back of your head, fisting your hair, holding you there while your throat convulsed around his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, hips lifting just enough to bury the last thick inch of him down your throat. “God, you take me so good.”

You moaned around him, the sound muffled but filthy, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth, drool slipping down your chin as you started to work your throat around him. Your nose pressed to the base, the dark hairless skin against your face, his scent thick and raw. You swallowed around him, muscles squeezing his cock, and his grip tightened in your hair.

The chat was pure chaos.

[“FUCK THAT DEEPTHROAT.”] [“GAG ON IT BABY.”] [“I’M CUMMING I SWEAR TO GOD.”]

Tears stung your eyes, your throat raw and aching in the best way, your cunt still twitching from the fullness, but you didn’t stop. You pulled back enough to catch your breath, spit trailing from your lips to the flushed head, before sinking back down, faster now, fucking your throat on his cock with slick, messy sounds that filled the humid air.

Aaron’s breath hitched, his muscles tensing under your hands as you gripped his thighs for leverage. His balls drew up, cock twitching hard against your tongue, and you felt the telltale jerk of his hips.

“Shit — fuck, baby, I’m gonna—” he managed, voice wrecked.

You whimpered around him, moaning eagerly, and that was it.

He pulled you off his cock at the last second, his hand tight in your hair, and stroked himself twice, fast and rough. The first thick rope of cum painted your cheek, hot and heavy, followed by another across your lips, your chin, splashing onto your tongue as you opened your mouth to catch it.

Aaron groaned deep, head tipped back, chest rising in sharp, ragged breaths as his load spilled over your face, marking you, claiming you in front of everyone.

The chat absolutely lost it.

[“CUM SHOT FUCKKKKKK YES.”] [“ON HER FACE OMFG I’M CUMMING.”] [“SHE LOOKS SO FUCKING GOOD LIKE THAT.”]

You sat there, cum dripping from your chin, smeared across your lips, your throat aching and your cunt still soaked, grinning like the filthy, cockdrunk girl you were. You licked your lips, swallowing down what landed there, and looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Told you they’d love that,” you rasped.

Aaron’s smirk was lethal as he pulled you up by the hair and kissed you, messy, filthy, cum-slick kiss for everyone to see.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled against your lips.

And you were.

You could still feel his cum cooling on your skin, thick streaks on your cheek and jaw, a few drops slipping down to your chest. Your throat was raw, your pussy tender and aching, the room stinking of sweat, sex, and slick — and you were so goddamn satisfied you could barely keep your eyes open.

The chat was still a riot of unhinged, desperate messages.

[“I JUST BUSTED THE HARDEST NUT OF MY LIFE.”] [“BEST STREAM EVER NO DEBATE.”] [“PLEASE LET HIM FUCK YOU AGAIN TOMORROW.”]

You wiped your lips with the back of your hand, snorting out a breathless laugh as you pushed your damp, tangled hair out of your face. Aaron was still sprawled in the chair, lazily stroking your thigh, his cock finally softening against his stomach, a smug, worn-out grin on his face.

“Alright, you filthy little pervs,” you rasped, leaning in close to the camera, still smeared in his cum, your lips puffy and eyes heavy-lidded. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

A chorus of heartbreak filled the chat.

[“NOOOOOOO.”] [“ONE MORE ROUND PLEASE.”] [“I’LL PAY ANYTHING.”]

You giggled, biting your lip, giving them one last, messy smile. “Maybe next time,” you teased, glancing back at Aaron, your voice low and sultry. “If he promises to behave and not crash my fucking stream again.”

He just smirked, unrepentant, giving your ass a sharp smack that made you yelp and laugh.

“Say goodnight, baby,” you murmured, nuzzling under his jaw.

Aaron lifted a brow, leaning in close enough so the camera caught his smirk. “Goodnight, degenerates,” he rasped, voice still wrecked from growling in your ear all night. “She’s mine now.”

You both reached out and hit end stream together.

The little red light blinked out.

Silence.

For a second, it was just the hum of the trailer’s AC unit and the heavy sound of your breathing, your body still trembling from everything. Aaron’s hands slid up your sides, pulling you closer, his lips pressing against your temple.

“Jesus,” you sighed, letting yourself collapse against his chest. “I am so fucking sore.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through you, his palm rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down your back. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You smirked into his neck, too content to move. “Good. The best. The kind that means you owe me breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’ll make it,” he promised, kissing the top of your head.

A beat passed before you pulled back, grinning at him.

“You know you totally hijacked my stream, right?” you teased, tracing a lazy pattern over his chest. “That was supposed to be me teasing them with my fingers for like twenty minutes, maybe a toy… and then you kicked the door in like some jealous mob boss and ruined my whole plan.”

Aaron grinned, completely unrepentant. “Jealous? No. Possessive? Always.”

“Mmm, you’re lucky you fuck like that, Hotchner,” you purred, leaning in to kiss him slow and deep. “Or I’d be mad.”

“You weren’t complaining when you were creaming all over my cock,” he murmured against your lips.

You snorted, rolling your eyes and settling back against his chest, still basking in the lingering heat of it all. “Next time, you let me start the stream alone. Then you can crash it.”

“Deal.”

You sighed happily, melting into him, his arms tight around you as you both let the post-fuck haze settle, the world outside that trailer forgotten for a while.

The sticky heat of the room was starting to settle into that soft, heavy afterglow, the kind where every part of you felt loose and sore and satisfied.

You peeled yourself off Aaron’s lap, your legs shaky and your inner thighs slick with a mess that had no right being as obscene as it was. Your skin was tacky with sweat and dried cum, and your throat still felt raw from how deep you’d taken him.

You grabbed the packet of wipes from the counter, grinning to yourself as you pulled a few out. “Alright, come on, porn god,” you teased, tossing one at him as you started dabbing at your face and chest. “Let’s clean this mess up.”

Aaron just smirked, catching the wipe one-handed, but instead of using it, he reached for yours, tugging it gently from your fingers. “Nah,” he said, low and easy, voice softer now, eyes warm in a way that always caught you off guard. “Let me. I’ll take care of you.”

You paused, heart giving a little skip in your chest, and let him.

He wiped your face first, slow and careful, clearing the streaks of his cum from your cheek, from the corner of your mouth. The way his eyes followed the movement of his hand, the way his thumb brushed your jaw after, like it was instinct, made your stomach do a slow, stupid flip.

He worked down your chest, across your stomach, making sure you were clean before reaching between your thighs. You hissed a little at the sensitivity and he gave a crooked grin.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, so gentle now it was almost funny after how he’d split you open minutes ago. “Still a little tender, huh?”

“Gee, wonder why,” you muttered with a grin.

Aaron cleaned himself up next, tossing the used wipes aside, and it struck you how normal it felt now — the easy way you moved around each other, the way he knew where your towels were, how you kept a bottle of water on the counter after streams. It wasn’t just this scene. It hadn’t been for a while.

Ever since your audition a month ago, when you’d shown up a little too cocky and he’d called you out in front of the crew — then later bent you over his trailer couch for a chemistry test neither of you admitted to but both of you kept repeating — things had blurred. The casual scenes, the streams, the backstage teasing. It wasn’t just porn. It was… something else.

You stepped into a fresh pair of panties and grabbed your phone, starting to gather your things as the night wound down. Aaron tugged his jeans back on, zipping them up, and grabbed his keys off the counter.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said casually, like it was obvious.

You gave him a look. “I can call a car, you know.”

“I know,” he replied, shooting you a half-smile, leaning in the doorway as he watched you wriggle into a clean tank top. “But I’m driving you anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning as you turned away to grab your robe from the floor. When you caught him staring, that soft look in his eyes that made your chest tighten, you raised a brow.

“What?” you asked, smirking.

Aaron just shrugged, stepping closer, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear with his knuckles. “Still makes me chuckle,” he said, voice rough and fond. “You’re the only one who calls me by my first name.”

Your heart did another dumb little flutter. You sighed, shaking your head fondly as you pressed up onto your toes and kissed him, slow and easy, tasting the ghost of earlier on his lips. “Must be a crush,” you teased softly against his mouth.

He laughed, a real, deep laugh that made you grin.

“Come on, trouble,” you said, playfully shoving him toward the door. “You can brood behind the wheel while you drive me home.”

He grabbed your hand before you could pull away, lacing your fingers together for a second, giving them a squeeze before letting go. And just like that — easy, unspoken — you both stepped out into the night, into the cool air and the dark lot outside the trailer, something warm and quiet humming between you.

And fuck… it felt good.

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comatosebunny09 · 9 months ago

Text

heel | sylus

sum: he knows without looking that you’re beside him once more. you always are. like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. he wouldn’t have it any other way.

cw: reader is implied to be female, reader has hair, guns, mentions of violence, implied minor character death, innuendos, you’re a little unhinged and sylus is here for it, & maybe he has a thing for you, scent kink (?), mdni

notes: idk what this is. i just wanted to write something about sylus having a bad-ass lapdog. inspired by that unleashed movie with jet li. might continue this. thank you for reading!

He can’t focus. Not with you smelling like that behind him.

It’s an arresting scent. Sweet, floral, nostalgic. Intertwined with your natural fragrance, it’s quite a heady mix.

He first catches wind of it when you angle yourself over the table beside him to place a case—heavy with military-grade weapons—onto its polished surface. Your warmth fades along with the aroma, the wispy tendrils of your hair grazing his neck.

Sylus finds himself chasing the smell when you ease back to rejoin the twins. He peers at you over his shoulder as if to convince himself he isn’t imagining things.

You bear a deceptively innocent smile. Acknowledge Sylus with a nod, and your eyes darken into something indistinguishable. Mischief? Admiration? Murderous intent?

You’re always itching for a good fight. Vibrating with the need to protect and maim at the drop of a hat. At the subtle tremor of Sylus’ fingers.

Sylus shakes his head to dispel the tension, smirking down at his lap and returning his attention to the table. Regains his composure, fixed on the gentleman seated across.

“Ten million,” Sylus simply states through the lazy furl of cigar smoke. Beneath the sepia-toned veil cast by the filament lights overhead.

The portly man on the opposite side of the table harrumphs. Gradually erupts into a fit of laughter mixed with coughing and wheezing. Sylus winces. Maybe he should give the cigar a break.

As if reading Sylus’ thoughts, the gentleman does just that. Signals to one of his bodyguards—one of ten. For little old Sylus? He then snuffs out his smoke on the summoned guard’s palm, not batting an eye.

Disgusting, Sylus thinks, lips twitching with the urge to sneer. How could humans make themselves so disposable?

“Mister Sylus,” the gentleman begins, disrupting Sylus’ inner monologue. He folds his fat, liver-spotted hands on the table and leans forward until his chair creaks. “My family has worked with you for years—”

“Your point?” Sylus interjects, his brow ticking. He’s trying to keep his cool. Trying to maintain that poker face. Between this deal sapping up more time than he initially anticipated and your heavenly scent beckoning to him like ghostly tendrils curling under his chin, he’s more than a little antsy.

The gentleman clears the phlegm from his throat. Tugs on the round of his tie, disbelieving Sylus’ gall. He tries again, sitting up a little straighter.

“My point, Mister Sylus, is that ten million is a little…eh, steep.” Leaning back, the man’s lips crook into a smirk. Sylus narrows his eyes. He knows this song and dance. This fool thinks he’s already won. “Especially given that these weapons are mere prototypes—”

Sylus doesn’t have to speak. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, that fragrance once again pervading his senses like creeping mist. It’s accompanied by a swift breeze caressing his cheek. By the clack of something metallic set on the table. He knows without looking that you’re beside him.

You always are. Like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. He feels it rolling off you in waves. The vitriol, the malice.

Down, girl, Sylus thinks, eying you in his periphery. Swells with pride. Leans back in an easy slouch, crossing his legs with humor gracing his features. He pushes that bewitching smell to the backburner. There’s money to be made and a scourge to be wiped from the face of the planet.

The room had lapsed into an impenetrable silence when you slammed a pistol on the table. A show of power. A threat bleeding into a promise.

All eyes are on the shiny gleam of the revolver.

The gentleman swallows thickly, fretting with his tie, Adam’s apple bobbing. He glances between you and Sylus, and it’s comical how a bead of sweat forms on his mottled temple.

He swiftly feigns nonchalance, throwing his hands up as he cackles with his guards over his shoulder. Red-faced like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “What is this? Am I—am I really supposed to be intimidated by that?” He gestures to the revolver like it’s something of child’s play.

Another gust of air grazes Sylus’ skin. He’s bereft of the scent you carry, finding his wits scurrying back to him. Like you released him from a spell.

In an instant, you’re behind the gentleman. A deviously soft hand presses between his shoulder blades. You pitch yourself forward over his shoulder, your lips brushing the outer shell of his ear.

“No,” you whisper, and the man shirks away with a shriek pinched from his throat like he’s seen a ghost. Your accompanying giggle bodes danger. “But you should be scared a’ me.”

The click of various weapons shifting to semi surrounds you. Ten guns aimed at your back, threatening to rend you to sinew and bone. But you’re too quick. In the blink of an eye, you’re seated on the table before the gentleman, one leg crossed over the other, leant back on your hands, your head coyly cocked to the side.

You’re a cheeky little shit. Sylus wouldn’t have you any other way.

The man’s tie is suddenly between your fingers. You’re admiring the texture of it, lids lowered, lips pursed whilst you tug him forward. Your breath fans over his blanched skin, and you scrutinize his features like a curious feline. He’s petrified, his men’s weapons poised at his back.

You grin something sultry, toying with the gentleman’s tie. Gaze flits between him and his goons, signaling for him to call them off. They’ll have to riddle him with holes to get to you. Have them do the dirty work for you. Crafty little thing.

His bodyguards acquiesce when the man raises a trembling hand. Reluctantly lower their weapons, a symphony of quickened heartbeats and clenching buttholes invading the air. The man’s stricken by your beauty and otherworldly speed. He thought this would be cake. Figured he could pull one over on Onychinus’ notorious kingpin, unaware that he would drag his guard dog into the fray.

Sylus sighs, shifting in his seat. Stuffs a hand in his pocket, nothing short of amused. “And here I thought you were a smart man,” he huffs, examining his nails. “This could’ve all been so very easy.”

“But you had to make it hard,” you tack on against the swell of the gentleman’s lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

At some point, you pilfered the man’s phone from his pocket.

You hold it to his face, unlocking it with his biometrics. His bank app has already been cued up with Sylus’ information. Your humored visage ebbs in and out of focus as the gentleman peers between you and the screen.

The man swallows again, his throat clicking. He cautions another look at your boss, silently willing him to call you off. Sylus does no such thing, instead holding his hands up in mock surrender.

Shakily, the gentleman keys in the proffered amount. Presses send, the chime of it the only sound heard in the tense atmosphere.

You look at Sylus over your shoulder. Smile sweet as sugar, and something in Sylus’ chest pulls. He nods once he’s received the transaction. Quietly praises you with a smoldering look before maneuvering to dismount his seat with a flourish of his coat. Luke and Kieran flank him without a hitch, snickering at his sides.

Sylus smiles, playfully waving his phone in the air. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, moving to the room’s only entry point with the twins in tow.

The man bristles, sweat coasting in rivulets down his neck. He moves to stand, but you bar him, blotting out everything from sight that isn’t you. You twist his tie around your fist, wordlessly telling him to heel. He’s already lost. Already tried to undermine the devil and failed. No sense in prolonging his sentencing.

Not that Sylus intended to let him live from the start.

“Oh, and, sweetie,” purrs Sylus, halfway through the threshold over his shoulder. Your gazes interlock for the briefest of seconds. He does so love it when you look at him like that. “Have fun.”

You need no further goading as the door slips shut with Sylus’ exit.

Your body hums with the prickle of your Evol, and a crazed smirk warps your countenance as the gentleman’s bodyguards close in.

#sylus x reader #sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #qin che #l&ds sylus #lads x reader #lnds x reader #lnds x you #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 9 days ago

Text

isekai and in over my head.

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn’t a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT | 3.1k words. f!reader x 5 LI (non-romance so far). slice of life.

TAGS | isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: i’ve been spiraling a bit—writing, life, family stuff. so i’m putting angst on pause for now. i just want to write something light, a little unhinged, maybe even fun. here’s a side of me you probably haven’t met. either way, let’s laugh a little.

INDEX | chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

THE FIRST THING...I noticed was the light.

Not warm sunlight. Not even the dim, flickering sort that hums overhead in hospitals. This was harsher—clinical, fluorescent—like someone had screwed neon tubes directly into my skull. It sliced through my eyelids in angles too precise, too sharp, and far too awake for whatever this was.

I groaned.

My head didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt... full. Like someone had replaced my brain with a bag of cotton wool and static. My mouth was dry, my tongue unfamiliar, clumsy against my teeth. My hands twitched beneath me, brushing against something cold and unwelcoming—metal, maybe. Or concrete. Hard to say. My brain hadn’t quite caught up to the part where things had weight and texture.

For a long, uncertain moment, I just lay there. Staring.

The sky above me wasn’t blue.

It was a pale, silvery sheen, streaked with bright, swirling fractures—like someone had smashed a mirror and scattered the shards across the clouds. They hung there, glinting, suspended in air like pieces of broken glass refusing to fall.

Which, all things considered, wasn’t ideal.

Around me, the skyline stretched upward in angles that didn’t quite make sense—black spires, too smooth, too symmetrical, like a fever dream of the future. Buildings that shimmered with their own light. Towering structures that bent the laws of physics just enough to make my stomach turn.

And the ships.

They hovered midair, motionless yet humming. Too steady for helicopters, too sleek for jets. Like someone had redrawn the rules of flight while I wasn’t looking.

Okay.

I closed my eyes again.

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out.

This was fine. This was probably fine.

Because obviously, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. No version of reality I knew included silver skies or floating ships or buildings shaped like knives. Which left me with one of three options:

One: Dream.

Two: Coma.

Three: Hallucination.

I went with coma. It sounded marginally less embarrassing than hallucinating a sci-fi skyline. People fell into comas all the time and woke up in places their brains had cobbled together from memory, TV shows, and the occasional Reddit spiral. Right? It happened.

Because the alternative—the one brushing against the frayed edges of my thoughts—was just too absurd.

I swallowed.

The absurd thing had a name.

Love and Deepspace.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head. Or tried to. It was like moving through syrup. My body wasn’t quite mine yet.

This wasn’t that. This was just... brain noise. A side effect of too many sleepless nights and maybe a mildly enthusiastic mobile game phase. That was all. People dreamed about video games all the time. That didn’t mean I’d somehow ended up inside one. That would be ridiculous.

So ridiculous, in fact, that my heart was starting to beat a little too fast just thinking about it.

I sat up slowly. The ground beneath me tilted, a slow, nauseating see-saw. Balance wobbled, but held.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—sharp, synthetic bursts echoing against the skyline like a warning shot. I turned toward the sound.

Figures moved in careful formations, small as ants against the horizon. Uniformed, some of them. Black silhouettes flitting between metal towers, fast and focused, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

I squinted.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes, a quiet, steady throb—don’t look too hard.

Another breath. Shallower this time.

Dream. Coma. Hallucination.

Pick one.

The air tasted like metal.

That strange, sterile tang—part scorched wire, part hospital corridor. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled. A pulse of heat rolled through the street like an aftershock, brushing against my skin with the vague threat of combustion.

I pushed myself upright, limbs reluctant but intact. This time, my knees held. Small victories. I’d take them.

A voice rang out in the distance—male, sharp, cutting through the static of my thoughts.

“—Pipsqueak!”

I didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t for me. Obviously. Why would it be?

Another burst of static cracked above. A ripple of... something—energy? reality?—shimmered across the silver sky like heat on asphalt. My brain tried to explain it, failed, and quietly replaced the gaps with white noise. I moved forward. Or wandered, really—aiming vaguely for the direction that seemed least likely to kill me.

“Pipsqueak!”

There it was again. Closer this time.

A chill climbed my spine.

I slowed. My heart stuttered in its rhythm, and logic gave up entirely.

Just look. Not hard, not long—just enough to confirm this is all a mistake.

I turned.

And froze.

He was running toward me.

And by he, I mean him. The man. The myth. The military-grade mistake of my emotionally stunted dreams. The colonel. The fan edit. The character who had no business being that hot in a pixelated cutscene.

Caleb.

And—dear god—it was really him.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. I just stood there, limp and blinking and deeply malfunctioning, as he sprinted toward me across the broken street like the chaos was just backdrop and he’d been waiting for his cue.

His boots hit the ground like a metronome. His coat flared behind him like it had been programmed to. And that face—that face—wore the expression. The one he always had right before everything went to hell: intense, focused, softer than it had any right to be. Brow furrowed just enough to look concerned. Jaw set. Eyes sharp enough to slice through time itself.

And then—swear to god—I heard it.

That song.

The edit song. The one with the slow drum and the breathy vocals that every Caleb stan on the internet had synced to his most dramatic cutscenes. The one where the MC catches him mid-fall, wounded but weightless, the entire galaxy burning behind them.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a full string section began to swell.

I actually shook my head. “Stop it,” I muttered, half out loud. “Get a grip.”

It didn’t help.

Because the way he was looking at me—as if the universe had cracked open and I was the only piece left that mattered—was exactly like the game.

He shouted something again. I didn’t catch the word. Just the sound of it: urgent. Certain.

I stumbled back a step.

Because this wasn’t some lookalike. This wasn’t some glitch of the coma-dream matrix. This wasn’t fan art or hallucination.

This was him.

Real. Undeniable. Breathtakingly—infuriatingly—three-dimensional.

Which meant… which meant…

I swallowed hard. My throat rebelled. My palms had gone slick.

He was almost close enough now that I could see the shift of his muscles beneath that damn coat. The way each step sent a ripple of motion through his body, grounded and graceful, like even gravity didn’t want to get in his way. His boots struck pavement with military certainty. His voice carried like a commandment.

He was real.

Too real.

This wasn’t a face cobbled together from bad lighting and wishful thinking. This wasn’t the result of scrolling too many fan pages at 2 a.m. He had weight. Presence. Light clung to his skin like it didn’t want to let go. His voice resonated. His gaze held.

And me?

I wanted to drool.

Right there. Mid-apocalypse. Mouth open. Brain buffering. One click away from falling flat on my face in front of an emotionally unavailable fictional war god.

I was about to be scooped up into the arms of a man who, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t supposed to exist—except with abs that could end world peace and a voice that sounded like safety and sin rolled into one muscular, tactical daydream.

He was nearly upon me when survival instincts kicked in—and promptly malfunctioned.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I shut my eyes, slapped my face, and hoped I’d pass out.

I didn't.

The sting rang out louder than expected. My palm left a warm print across my cheek, and my dignity evaporated on contact.

When I opened my eyes again, he was there.

Right there.

Towering over me like a verdict.

“Pipsqueak.”

His voice was lower now, wrapped in something between relief and reprimand. Like someone who’d been holding his breath too long and only just remembered how to exhale.

I stared up at him, utterly silent.

Because what exactly do you say to a man who thinks he knows you better than anyone in the universe—when you’ve only ever known him through a screen?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, already reaching for me. “Did you hit your head?”

Yes. On the pavement of delusion.

“No,” I said quickly, even though my voice cracked like it had been in storage since 1998. “I mean—yes. Maybe. I don't know.”

His hands found me before I could back away.

One cupped the side of my face, angling it gently toward the light. The other hovered under my elbow, like I was something fragile—something that might fall apart if left unattended for too long.

Which wasn’t... inaccurate.

But his touch. God.

Warm. Grounded. Steady. So deliberate, like he’d done this before. Like this was muscle memory. Like he’d held this face in his hands a hundred times—knew it from the curve of the brow to the line of the jaw.

I couldn’t breathe.

And I couldn’t lie, either. Not well. Not under pressure. My face was a glitching disaster of emotions—shock, awe, guilt, and a flash of something primal I will not be taking questions on at this time.

He misread it, of course.

“Still in shock,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone.

I shivered. Not helpfully.

“You're freezing.”

No. I was combusting. Actively boiling inside my skin. My bones were sweating. If he touched me for one more second, I’d melt straight through the pavement.

“Pips, your vitals are all over the place,” he said, checking some kind of wrist scanner he’d unclipped with infuriating efficiency. “You must've been close when the second pulse from the rift hit.”

Second pulse? Rift hit? The hell was he talking about...

My brain could not compute. It was juggling too much: his nearness, his impossible voice, the nickname he kept using like it belonged to me.

“Stop calling me that,” I said.

Too sharp. Reflexive.

He blinked. His hands stilled, but didn’t fall away.

My breath caught.

And then, without thinking, I moved.

I pushed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not even forceful. Just a small, shaky shove to the chest—barely enough to make him step back. But he did. Instantly. Like the spell broke the second I touched it.

We stared at each other.

His face shifted. Only a little. A flicker of confusion, chased by something quieter. Something dangerously close to hurt.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted. “I just—don't touch me.”

It came out worse than it felt.

Inside, I was clawing at my own ribs, trying to make space to think. His closeness had short-circuited something critical.

He straightened slowly. Not offended. Just... recalibrating.

“Alright,” he said softly. “No touching.”

The way he said it—careful, like it hurt—made my stomach twist.

Like he'd done something wrong.

Like I had.

“I didn't mean—” I started, but the words tangled and fell apart in my mouth before they could reach air.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He wasn’t supposed to exist. Not like this. Not with real muscles and real warmth and real concern folding into every breath. He was supposed to be code. Character art. A game.

And yet, somehow, he was looking at me like I’d just broken his heart with one uncertain step.

He stepped back. Half a pace. Just enough to give me room. Just enough to let the cold rush in.

“It's okay,” he said. “We can talk about it later...”

His voice was softer now. Like I was made of glass, and he’d already heard the first crack.

He turned his head, muttered something into a comm clipped to his collar. I caught fragments—medical, stabilized, containment zone—but none of it landed.

I stood there, adrift in my own body.

Because he thought I was her.

The real her. The MC.

And I... wasn’t.

Not the one who’d grown up with him, trained beside him, made him laugh, made him stay. Not the one who teased him into softening, or shattered him just enough to help him heal.

That was her story.

Not mine.

But he didn’t know that.

And I couldn’t tell him.

Because if I did, I might lose the look on his face.

This softness. This impossible tenderness—woven through ash and urgency and dust and dread.

So I said nothing.

Besides, I needed answers. How I got here. And—if it was even possible—how to get home.

Caleb turned his head again, murmuring into his comms, his voice clipped now—brisk, efficient, all that earlier warmth folded beneath military precision.

“Secure the perimeter. Prep evac. She's coming with me—yes, I'll bring her in for assessment. Zayne's on standby, right?”

I blinked.

Zayne?

The name hit like a spark to dry kindling.

My head whipped up. “Wait—did you just say—?”

But he was still talking, still barking words I couldn’t follow—containment, bio-signal, integrity, elevated charge—his mouth moving around the vocabulary of a world I wasn’t supposed to be in.

I took a step forward, breath lodged high in my throat.

Did he just say Zayne?

As in... ZAYNE?

As in Doctor Zayne?

As in sweet-tooth, sharp-witted, god-tier-with-a-scalpel Zayne? The one with the voice like melted chocolate and hands that made the fandom lose structural integrity?

As in Dawnbreaker Daddy?

I stared at Caleb, genuinely unraveling.

Because that name wasn’t background noise. That name was legend. That name wore glasses and saved lives with one hand while tearing through enemies with the other. That name had a two-part origin myth, a drop rate lower than mercy, and an entire corner of the internet dedicated to his jawline.

And now he was apparently… on standby?

Like this was just a normal Thursday?

“What—”

A sharp beep cut through the air.

Then another. Then a rising whine, mechanical and shrill—like a futuristic kettle winding itself up to panic.

I looked down.

A device. Strapped to my wrist. Sleek and unfamiliar, pulsing blue at the edges. Numbers scrolled across the surface—fast, tight, cryptic. A countdown? Coordinates? Diagnostics?

“What the hell is that?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Caleb turned.

No—snapped.

He crossed the space between us in two strides, wrapping one hand around my wrist and lifting it for a better look. His eyes scanned the display, jaw tightening.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Metaflux spike. Too soon.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be worried, terrified, or offended that metaflux wasn't just a word in a game, but a real thing in my current reality.

Before I could settle on a reaction, he looked at me again—different now. Sharper. Command-mode fully engaged.

“You still have your handgun?”

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your sidearm. On your thigh.”

“My gun?”

He gestured—two fingers, quick and precise—toward my leg like it was obvious.

I followed his gaze.

And choked.

Strapped to my thigh—like a casual accessory—was a matte black firearm. Sleek. Polished. Very real. It hugged the curve of my leg like it had always been there. Like I belonged with it.

My stomach flipped.

I hadn’t even noticed it. I had a gun. I had a gun.

I. Had. A. Gun.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. That's... a lot.”

Caleb’s face didn’t shift, but something eased slightly around his eyes. Like he registered the rising panic and adjusted for it in real-time.

“I know your head's still scrambled,” he said, calm and even. “But we don't have time. Wanderers are breaking through the breach.”

Wanderers.

As in the actual nightmare fuel from the game?

The voidborn horrors with spindly limbs and glowing mouths and movement patterns that made your skin crawl?

I swallowed.

Hard.

This wasn’t funny anymore.

(Okay, it had stopped being funny about three hallucinations ago, but this was now fully entering run-screaming-into-the-sunset territory.)

Caleb saw it—the shallow breath, the inching step backward, the way my fingers curled like I could vanish into my own palms.

And to his credit, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t push. He just stood there—still, grounded. Like he’d wait forever if I needed him to.

“You're safe with me,” he said quietly.

And I hated—hated—that it helped.

That those four words landed somewhere deep and shaking. That they loosened something I hadn’t realized I was holding. That they made me want to believe him, even though everything in me screamed don't.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he said them.

Not we'll keep you safe. Not you'll be fine. But you're safe with me.

It was personal.

It was protective.

It was too much.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

Once.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might scream.

Caleb shifted beside me, speaking into his comm again—voice low, clipped, all business.

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

The air had changed.

Not the temperature. Not the pressure. Something else. Something… off. Sharper. Thinner. Like reality itself had sucked in a breath—and forgotten how to exhale.

Then the light bent.

Not dramatically. Not with thunder or fanfare. Just a shimmer—subtle, glassy—like a mirage on hot pavement.

Except it moved against the breeze.

Wrong.

Wrong in a way that prickled across my skin like static. Like instinct. Like the deepest part of my brain had already decided we are not supposed to see this.

Caleb snapped to attention. “Get behind me.”

And then I saw it.

The tear opened twenty meters out—ripping clean through the air like a mouth mid-scream. A sickly blue glow spilled from the breach, curling around something moving.

No—emerging.

Limbs.

Not arms. Not legs. Limbs. Jointed too many times. Bent in ways bones should never bend. Skin like wax stretched over sinew, too smooth, too long. It pulled itself from the rift as if being born—and hating every second of it.

A Wanderer.

An actual, canon-accurate, Wanderer.

And up close?

It wasn’t just nightmare fuel. It was too real.

Flickering sigils twisted across its body, pulsing with something foul and alive. Its face—or whatever it had instead—turned toward us, blind but searching. It clicked.

Once. Twice.

Like bone tapping bone.

Caleb stepped in front of me.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because my body had gone ice cold from the inside out.

This wasn’t a cutscene.

There was no turn order. No dodge button. No pull to restart.

The creature roared.

Sound cracked through the sky like a warning shot from hell itself. The ground shook. Caleb raised his weapon.

And me?

I just stared, lips parting, voice flat with disbelief as my nervous system gave up entirely.

“Oh, fuck no.”

To be continued...

176 notes · View notes

loveindefinitely · 2 years ago

Text

༊*·˚ NEW JOBS AND DEATH THREATS — cod x reader

CRAVE YOU — call of duty x reader CHAPTER ONE

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + alejandro vargas + rodolfo 'rudy' parra + könig + keegan p. russ

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, prison au, serial killer au, reverse harem, therapist/patient, medical inaccuracies, graphic violence, depictions of murder, everyone's unhinged, poly tf141, minor ships, threesomes, foursomes, gangbangs, this is not medical advice!!

series masterlist. read on ao3.

Life was hard. That was a fact.

Bills and groceries didn’t pay for themselves. That was also a fact.

Adding these two factors together, the final product will be a high-risk job in one of the highest-risk places on Earth. That’s… not a fact.

And yet, here you are, standing at the visitor entrance of Las Almas Prison, sporting a disgruntled grimace and a new pair of black slacks that you’d splurged on. They, at least, made your ass look good, although that was truly the least of your worries.

No. Your current list of worries looked something like this;

Getting Murdered

Getting Attacked

Vomiting Within The First Five Minutes Of Your New Job?

…Yeah. Something like that.

The early morning sun is blinding where it sits, just off to the side of the giant concrete building that was the main offices and Visitor Centre. The fact that you were standing in front of what was only a small part of the overall prison grounds was… alarming.

You were well aware that this was the largest prison in your country, housing the most lethal and awful of criminals. Some you’d seen either on the news, or heard of in passing conversations.

This was the real deal. And, somehow, you’d managed to find yourself being hired to work here. You. Work with serial killers. The worst of the worst.

With the stress on your bank account, and the endless struggle that was trying to find a stable career in the current job market, you simply had no other choice but to accept the offer. It paid extremely well, had great benefits, and your safety was… fairly considered.

The amount of NDAs, liability clauses and agreements, however?

Not the best at calming your nerves, to say the least.

The biting chill of the winter wind has you wrapping your arms around yourself, leather bag slung over your shoulder as you finally step through the automatic sliding door.

You’re not surprised to find that the chill only deepens inside the concrete walls of the building, with no heaters or air conditioning from what you can see. There is, however, bright white overhead lights that do nothing except aid the throbbing in the side of your head – probably due to the restless sleep you’d had the night before, anticipation and anxiety warring inside of your thoughts.

There’s an office in front of you as you step in, with only a few decades-old couches to your right, in front of a dingy TV that’s turned off. Saving their budget for more important things, you suppose.

The walls are a pale, grimy yellow, with sparse photos hung about, framing newspaper articles that are surely from the last century, and black and white pictures of the prison’s opening.

It’s an unsettling place, that much you’ve already gathered.

You haven’t even actually been inside the prison, you remind yourself, your stomach churning where it now lays at your feet.

Without a second thought, you continue with hurried steps to the front desk, where scratched plastic encases the sole woman inside, sitting behind a monitor. There’s a circle of holes that allow for sound to pass through, but other than that, there’s no way of entering from this room. With a quick study of your surroundings, you see a steel door to the left of where the desk sits, with a small square window covered in iron bars.

…Jesus christ.

“Can I help you?” The woman drawls, sliding her glasses further up her nose. Her voice is nasally, and the words come out in a slow drawl as she looks you up and down, unimpressed.

You give her your best smile, although even you can tell that it’s an uneasy one. “Yes! This is my first day, I think I’m supposed to be meeting Kate Laswell?” You ask, nerves betraying your voice with unsteady breaths.

The woman snaps her gum.

You stand there.

She blows it again.

You continue to stand there.

Her gaze is bored and completely void of any thought, before she nods slowly. “Laswell… I’ll call her.”

Really, you couldn’t be more shocked if you tried. What the fuck was happening? How could one lack so much… professionalism?

“Hi, Kate. Yes, it’s Jenny. I have a new hire who apparently wants to see you…” Her voice remains that unbearably slow, sloth-like delivery, before her eyes unhurriedly meet yours again. “What’s your name…?”

You give it to her, tone only the slightest bit impatient as you roll back on the heels of your feet. You can only hope that your black boots are appropriate; you’d figured that they were safe, closed-toe and still somewhat professional.

Time would tell. Jenny was giving you the impression that they were more than acceptable, because at least they got you to do your job in a timely manner.

Jenny says a few more words to who can only pray is Laswell on the other end of the phone, before she places it back in its holder.

“Laswell will be here any…” She pops her gum once more, and maybe, just maybe, you can understand the urge to murder. “Moment.”

You give her a tight, painful smile. “Thank you, Jenny.”

She doesn’t respond, and you decide to just stand back and wait. You certainly weren’t complaining – any more conversation with her would’ve ended with a severe lack of hair on your head.

A minute passes, before a buzz in the pocket of your slacks has your throat tightening.

Pulling out your phone, your next exhale comes out shaky as you read the text.

Charlie: get milk otw home used it all

No ‘good luck’. No… ounce of care for you, or the absolute stress that comes with a new job, let alone one like this.

When you’d told him about the offer, all he’d said was, “It might make you worth something for a change.” Didn’t even question, not for a minute, the risks that came with a job like this. He simply couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Doctor?” The sound of a door opening, and the kind, almost motherly tone of the voice has you shoving your phone into your pocket once more as you turn to the source of the sound.

It’s a woman, her hair pulled back into a slick bun, one hand holding what seems to be a clipboard. Her other hand rests in the pocket of a white coat, not unlike one a scientist would be fashioning in a lab. Her smile is warm, the corner of her eyes crinkling as you direct a smile of your own her way.

“Kate Laswell?” You ask, extending your hand for her to shake. Taking her hand out of her pocket, she accepts it gracefully, nodding her head.

“The one and only,” she says, before gesturing to the steel door she’d entered through. “Now, today we’ll get you set up with a keycard, general rules, and I’ll have you meet two of your patients.”

You nod, following her as she swipes a card in a black reader, before the red light buzzes green, and she pulls the door open. Right behind her, you take an unstable deep breath as you take in the greyed, jagged walls, a complete contrast to the painted ones of the entrance room.

“We really are so glad to welcome you to our team,” she continues, her black work shoes clicking against the smooth concrete flooring. She doesn’t turn to you as she speaks, but her voice carries around the echoey hallway. “You’ll make a great addition. A necessary one, also. We’ve needed an innovative, young therapist for a while. Most of our… previous hires have held out-dated beliefs, and a lack of humanity for their clientele.”

That makes your brows furrow in confusion. “That’s… odd,” you murmur, before pausing your steps as Laswell stops, swiping her keycard, before entering another room.

As you step into the newly revealed space, your eyes go wide as you take it in.

It’s a wide, large space, with several floors. Metal staircases sit at either end of the vast space, allowing access to every floor. Guards sit at every level, some walking around the space where you and Laswell stand.

It’s a lot, all at once. You’d never even stepped foot into a prison – not before now.

“Most inmates are at the mess for breakfast,” Laswell supplies, turning to you with a neutral expression. She gestures for you to follow her back out of the space, and you do with hurried steps. “The ones you’ll be dealing with, however… they usually eat by themselves.”

You don’t decide to push that statement, not now, as you continue to follow her down the hallway.

“You won’t be seeing much of the prison,” she admits. “There’s heavily guarded spaces on the top floor for your sessions, both for your protection and for the safety of our staff and other low-risk inmates.”

You nod, humming a sound of affirmation as the two of you start heading up the cleaner steps at the end of the hallway. The staff staircase, you suppose.

“Today, you’ll be meeting two of our more… understanding ambers.”

You raise a brow. “Ambers? What does that mean?”

She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough to shoot you a knowing look. “Ambers are our highest-risk inmates. We house ten of them, and you’ll be dealing with eight as per your contract.”

Your stomach falls. You’d known, of course, that the risks were high when applying for this role. But… this was more than you’d imagined, in a way. Ambers. Huh.

Silence falls over the two of you as you make your way up the never-ending steps, no windows in sight. It’s unnerving, in a creepy, strange way. When you finally reach the top, you try and hide how out of breath you are from that small exertion.

Fucking christ.

Laswell, for her part, looks completely fine in an effortless way. You can’t eve find it in yourself to be envious. The feeling’s closer to admiration.

“Here’s the files on them both. You’ll be seeing Kyle Garrick first,” she hands you the clipboard she’d been carrying, and you accept it with only a slight tremble. She doesn’t comment on it, and you find yourself warming up to her already. “They’ll be restrained, and there is heavy security, so you needn’t worry about that side of things.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say earnestly, flipping through the files without reading much of anything, not yet.

She waves you off with a soft chuckle. “None of that. Kate’s more than fine,” she insists, and you give her a bright smile in return. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad – a boss like this was much better than a creepy middle-aged man any day of the week.

You don’t realise you’ve made it to a small room until she stops walking, scanning her keycard and pushing the door open, gesturing you in. “While you have your first two sessions, I’ll sort your keycard and the rest of the processes out. I wish you luck.”

With that, the door shuts behind you, and you’re alone in a small room.

It matches the rest of the hallways you’ve seen – grey concrete walls, grey concrete floors. The only furniture, however, is one metal table drilled into the floor in the centre, one chair on either side.

…It’s depressing. Not at all like you’d prefer, not for a fucking therapy session, but then again, you hadn’t met your clients yet.

Ambers. High-risk.

With a deep breath, you take a seat at the chair closest to you, finally reading through the top file on the clipboard.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

You skim over the height, weight, sex – immediately reading the comments made and his sentence.

Mass murderer. Motivated attacks.

Your eyes go wide, almost comically so, as you bite at your lip, folding one leg over the other as you continue to read.

Of course, you’d prepared, been made aware that you’d be dealing with murderers. But having it in black and white, right in front of you, is a whole other thing entirely.

Apparently, they were motivated attacks. Targets being large CEOs, specifically those with reported claims of misuse of power, and those against green laws. Anti-environment types.

The motive is… you’re aware killing is bad. You hadn’t spent years studying for a degree in Psychology to think otherwise. But it wasn’t as simple as some made it out to be. You’d done papers suggesting that certain motives implied healthier patterns, healthier outlets.

If you had to choose between him killing pregnant women, and CEOs with broken moral compasses?

It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your answer.

You’re about to flip the page when there’s a knock on the door on the other side of the room, before it opens.

There’s two guards that walk in, before a man in an olive green jumpsuit follows, hands cuffed tightly together in front of him, head down. Another guard from behind shoves him in, too rough for your liking. You sit up straighter, eyes assessing as you take in the man in the jumpsuit.

He’s forced into the chair opposite you, before one of the guards grabs his cuffed wrists and chains them to a rig in the middle of the table. You’re grateful for the precautions, but there’s a part of you that feels guilty watching the manhandling of the seemingly calm man.

“Half an hour,” the most brutish guard of them all grits out, beer belly spilling out over his belted jeans. He jostles the chain attaching his wrists to the table unnecessarily, and your eyes narrow.

He goes to leave, along with another guard, but one stands to stay in position inside, beside the door.

Your brows furrow, and you speak up before you can stop yourself. “Sorry, sir, but my sessions will need confidentiality, as for the best results. I’m sure that I’ll be safe with his restraints.”

The guard stares you down, seemingly mulling your words over, before shrugging and leaving the room, door shutting behind him.

…Huh. Alright.

You find your posture relaxing, just slightly, which is odd, considering you’re now only a metre or two away from a convicted murderer.

His gaze is trained to the table, left foot tapping incessantly against the concrete floor.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gaz,” you say with a soft tone and a gentle smile. You figure that his nickname is the best bet, not wanting to stir up any possible traumas with his given name during your first session with the man. “I’ll be your new psychiatric evaluator.”

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, and he nods slowly, as if awaiting a punchline.

“Is it okay for me to call you Gaz?” You ask, tilting your head to the side and flipping to an empty page to take notes on. You’d need to grab a notebook from home, you decide.

He relaxes, only the smallest of movements, and he nods. “Gaz, yeah.”

Your smile widens at the small victory. Any step towards progress was a huge one, in your eyes. You’d be facing a lot of them in the coming days.

“Do you have any advice for this place?” You push, trying to form a bond of trust with the dark-haired man. “I’m gonna be honest, you’re my first patient, and I’ve only met Laswell and… Jenny?”

His mouth quirks at that, a dimple showing to the left of his mouth as he looks back up at you. “Jenny’s a character, ain’t she?”

You laugh, a genuine one, and nod. “She certainly is. You’ve met her?”

He shrugs, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Few times, yeah. She drives me up the fuckin’ wall.” His accent is only minimally apparent, but his voice is of a somewhat humorous tone.

Small victories.

“Well,” he exhales, settling into his chair a bit as he seems to ponder. “Do ya know who else you’re assigned to?”

You’d been sure to thoroughly go over your contract, and you were allowed to disclose your other patients between your others. They’d find out within the day, anyways, so there was no point in being discreet.

“It’s only you and a… John Price? Today. I’m sure I’ll find out the other six over the next few days,” you say, appreciating that he’s starting conversations. It’s more than you’d allowed yourself to hope for.

Gaz’s eyes light up, and even if you hadn’t been incessant in watching him, it’d be an obvious shift in emotions. “Price?”

You nod, quickly making a note on your clipboard, before folding your hands in your lap as you gesture for him to continue with a quick inclination of your head.

“He’s the best. Man’s a legend,” he enthuses. “Love ‘im.”

There’s… a hidden truth to that statement, that you make a mental note to unpack during a later session. Your smile is a natural one as you say, “He’s an amber, correct? Laswell told me I’d been assigned eight out of ten ambers… you’re one of them, right?”

Gaz seems to fold into himself, and you kick yourself for going back to square one. He answers, however.

“...Yeah. Only Ghost ‘nd Valeria are aggressive, though. We’re just… misunderstood,” he murmurs, and in the back of your brain, you find yourself believing his words.

“Thank you,” you smile, and he responds with a sharp one of his own. Maybe you’d covered more ground than you’d expected. “I think it’d been mentioned that I was only assigned men, due to the nature of the job, or something like that.”

Seeming to mull over your words, he starts to slowly nod. “Sounds ‘bout right. As long as you don’t get Graves, you’ll be alright. The others are… fuckin’ weird, but they’re good men. Mostly.”

That’s a lot of information at once, and quite frankly, it takes a moment for you to process.

“‘Good men’. What do you think it takes to be a good man?” You ask, curiosity laced into your tone. Getting to ask such questions of a convicted murderer, it’s a thrilling, exhilarating task.

His eyes don’t shift as he replies. “Good men do the acts others are too scared to do. They see the evil in the world, and rid of it with their own bare hands. You can be an ethical murderer, Doc.”

Those words, they’re – they’re authentic, and conviction aches in their structure.

You swallow around a dry mouth.

“You think you’re a good man?” You ask.

His smile would be seen as warm to any who weren’t aware of his acts, but to you – it’s chilling. Haunting in a way you’ve never experienced.

It remains as he answers.

“I think that I’m a man who people wish they had the bravery to be.”

a/n. okay so im really nervous about posting this, cause ITS EIGHT FUKCING LOVE INTERESTS and also im a humanities girl not a science one!! sociology all the way not psych!! so forgive me for all the inaccuracies and legality issues please. im just a girl. hopefully u guys will like this one? i mean, obsessed serial killers cod is smth i need so here we are. all comments and feedback mean so muchhh ty ily mwah mwah mwah

taglist comment/msg to be added. [nothing to see here.]

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siratonin · 4 months ago

Text

Bucktommy Ι WC: 3k Ι cw: Blood, Gunshot, Major injury

[read below or on ao3]

Buck’s world came back in flashes.

Pain—sharp and burning, radiating through his arm. Muffled voices. The distinct smell of metal and blood. A whisper—no, a voice he knew. A voice he loved.

“Come on, Buck. Come on, wake up.”

Dammit Tommy, it’s Evan, he thought.

The words were low and urgent, threading through the pain, pulling him toward consciousness.

“Hey, Hey, just open your eyes for me. You’re fine. You’re good—just wake up, okay?”

A hand pressed against his arm, steady and firm, keeping him anchored. The pain sharpened, burning through the fog in his mind.

Buck groaned, blinking against the blinding overhead lights. His throat felt raw, his limbs heavy. He heard a sharp exhale of relief.

“—What happened?” Buck barely managed to ask, his throat dry, words slurring.

Tommy’s face hovered above him, eyes sharper than usual, scanning him like he was an emergency call. His hands were pressing something—his own flannel, bundled tightly—against Buck’s arm. Blood soaked through.

“Just stay here,” Tommy whispered. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—controlled tension. “You’ll be okay, just don’t move now. I called 911. Help is on the way.”

Buck tried to shift, but Tommy’s grip on his injured arm tightened, keeping him still.

“Don’t move,” Tommy murmured, his voice quieter now but firm. “You got shot, but it’s not bleeding too bad. No exit wound, so the bullet’s still in there.” His gaze flicked over Buck’s arm, assessing quickly. “I don’t think it hit anything major, but I can’t be sure. Probably just the muscle.” He adjusted the pressure, tightening the fabric over the wound. “You’re stable, but you need to stay still, okay?”

Buck swallowed hard, trying to process the words through the throbbing in his skull. Shot. Bullet still inside. Probably just the muscle. That meant it wasn’t that bad, right?

His eyes flickered past Tommy, and that’s when he saw the gun in the distance—the shooter, pacing erratically near the overturned tables and shattered glass.

Buck’s breath caught, but then his gaze dragged back to Tommy, to the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were squared, body coiled tight like he was ready to move at any second.

His throat felt raw, but he forced the words out. “Are you okay?”

Tommy didn’t look at him. His focus remained locked on the shooter, assessing, calculating.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, voice even. Too even. His grip on Buck’s arm didn’t loosen, though—steady, grounding, a silent reassurance.

The man was yelling. “Where is she? Where the fuck is she?!” His voice cracked with unhinged desperation.

Tommy inhaled slowly and got up.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. They were supposed to meet up, talk—just talk. Buck had been anxious, uncertain, but then Tommy walked in—steady, put together, looking good, he always did. And when Tommy smiled— small, warm, genuine—hope flickered to life in Buck’s chest. Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as he thought. But now, none of that mattered.

Buck blinked. “Tommy—” His fingers barely caught at Tommy’s wrist, but Tommy had already straightened up, stepping forward with careful, measured steps.

“What’s her name?” Tommy asked, voice low but steady.

The shooter’s head snapped toward him. “You—You know her? You her new boyfriend?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. “No, I don’t know her,” he said simply. “But I know you don’t want to do this.”

The man’s breathing was ragged, his grip on the gun unsteady. “She won’t even talk to me! After everything I— I just want to see her. I just want her to listen.”

Tommy nodded, keeping his hands visible, his body loose. “I hear you, man. Feels like she shut you out, right?”

The shooter’s lip curled. “She’s been ignoring me for months! Like I don’t even exist! And then I come here, and—and she’s not even—” His voice cracked, his eyes darting around wildly.

Tommy took a slow step forward. “That’s gotta be frustrating. You came here to talk, and now all this happened instead.”

The man’s jaw twitched. “Yeah. Yeah, this—this ain’t what I wanted. But I just—” He exhaled sharply, voice shaking. “I just want to know why. Why she left. Why she won’t answer me.”

Tommy’s hands were still up, his body still calm, every movement carefully controlled.

“I get it,” Tommy said. “I really do. It’s hard when someone walks away and you don’t get answers.” His tone softened, but not too much. He had to keep the shooter engaged, not coddle him. “But, listen—hurting people in here? That’s not gonna get you those answers, man.”

The shooter’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching around the grip. “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “It’s not fair.”

Tommy didn’t break eye contact. He took another slow step forward, careful, controlled. “I hear you. You didn’t come here to hurt anyone, right?”

The shooter hesitated, breath still ragged. “No, I— I just—” His fingers flexed around the trigger, shoulders tensing. “She won’t even listen to me. After everything I did for her—”

“I believe you,” Tommy said smoothly, voice steady. “I believe you just wanted her to hear you. And you deserve that. But this?” He nodded slightly toward the shattered glass, the overturned tables. “This isn’t gonna bring her back, man. You know that.”

For a moment, the shooter wavered. His grip on the gun loosened—just barely.

Buck barely heard the rest. His arm throbbed, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage Tommy had left behind. The coppery taste in his mouth made his stomach churn, but then—

A whimper.

Buck turned his head slightly, vision still hazy. A kid—barely five, maybe six—curled up behind an overturned chair, shaking, tears streaking his cheeks. His small hands clutched his knees, and he was whispering, repeating the same words over and over.

“Mommy, I want Mommy.”

Buck swallowed, forcing himself to focus.

“You’ll see her soon,” The kid’s eyes darted to him—red rimmed, terrified. “I know it’s scary, buddy, but we’re gonna be okay. See that guy?” Buck nodded toward Tommy, who was still keeping the shooter talking. “He’s strong. He’s gonna get us out.”

The kid’s lip wobbled. His small body trembled. “You’re… you’re dying.”

Buck forced a small, pained smile. “Nah. Just got a scratch.”

Tommy’s voice was still steady, but something about the way he was holding himself didn’t sit right.

His movements weren’t as sharp as before. His breathing—was it slower?

Buck frowned, barely able to focus through the haze in his head. His own arm pulsed with pain, but somewhere beneath the chaos, something felt wrong.

The kid didn’t believe him. His little hands clenched into fists. “I don’t wanna die. I want Mommy!” He hiccupped, panic rising, his breaths coming too fast now, too sharp. His small frame shook violently.

No.

Buck saw it an instant before it happened.

The kid snapped, bolting forward, little feet slapping against the floor, toward the chaos.

Straight toward the danger.

Buck’s stomach sank.

“Wait—!”

The shooter snapped toward the movement, instincts kicking in. His expression twisted, something between panic and rage flashing in his eyes.

“HEY!” His grip tightened on the gun—

Buck barely had time to react, his injured arm slowing him down as he lunged forward to grab the kid. The shooter lifted the gun. Buck saw his finger twitch on the trigger.

A flicker of movement.

A blur of motion.

Gunfire.

A choked sound.

Buck flinched, expecting pain—expecting the worst

But it wasn’t him.

Buck barely registered the body colliding with the shooter, the gun clattering to the floor, Tommy’s grunt of pain as he twisted, bringing the man down hard against the shattered glass.

Then—sirens.

The piercing wail cut through the air, growing louder, flashing red and blue outside. Someone shouted, but Buck didn’t hear the words.

Tommy wasn’t moving.

Buck struggled to sit up, adrenaline forcing him through the pain. “Tommy?” His own voice sounded distant, the rush in his ears deafening.

Tommy was on his side, breathing shallowly, fingers still twisted in the shooter’s jacket, keeping him pinned even as his strength faded.

His other hand—Buck’s stomach dropped.

Blood.

Pooling beneath his fingers. Dark. Spreading.

Buck sucked in a sharp breath, his vision narrowing. No. No, no, no—

He scrambled closer, ignoring the fire in his own arm, pressing his good hand against Tommy’s.

It wasn’t just pooling—it was creeping outward, slow at first, then faster, seeping into the cracks of the floor, staining everything it touched. The warmth of it spread beneath Buck’s palm, slick and wrong. He pressed harder, but it kept coming. Too much. Too fast. The coppery scent thickened in the air, curling in his throat, making it harder to breathe.

“Tommy,” Buck rasped. “Hey, Hey.”

Tommy’s fingers twitched weakly against the shooter’s jacket, his breath uneven. His eyes barely opened, unfocused.

Then, voice barely above a whisper— “The guy?”

Buck swallowed hard, blinking through the sting in his eyes. “Yeah, out. He’s out. I think he hit his head.”

“…Good.” Then his fingers slipped from the fabric of the shooter’s jacket. His body sagged, the last of his strength givingout.

“Shit—Tommy.”

Buck shifted quickly, his free hand moving from the wound to ease Tommy onto his back, trying to keep him steady as his body went slack.

Tommy grimaced, a sharp, pained inhale slipping through his teeth.

“I got you,” Buck murmured, his hand pressing down firmly on the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. “Just stay with me, okay?”

Tommy gave a slow, unsteady nod.

Then his eyes fluttered open, and for the first time, Buck saw it—the pain breaking through the steel.

“…Fuck,” Tommy muttered, voice weak, a bitter, almost amused breath leaving him. “Didn’t—didn’t even feel that one.”

Buck barely breathed. His hand pressed harder against Tommy’s side, warm blood slick against his fingers. Too much blood.

Tommy exhaled sharply, shifting just slightly—and then he winced. His brow furrowed, like he was noticing something for the first time.

He blinked down at himself. "...Huh." His voice was almost puzzled, like the thought barely registered.

Buck followed his gaze and froze.

A second patch of blood—darker, smeared along Tommy’s jeans. His thigh.

Not from the gunshot just now. From before.

Buck’s stomach dropped. “Are you—” His voice broke, panic surging through him. “You were already shot?”

Tommy let out a breathy chuckle, dazed. “Guess so.” His fingers weakly gripped Buck’s wrist, half-hearted reassurance. “Didn’t notice.”

Didn’t notice.

Buck wanted to cry. "Okay, okay, you're okay—just breathe."

Tommy’s lips twitched—or maybe they were just trembling now. “Didn’t I t-tell you not t’ move?”

Buck let out a strangled laugh, something close to a sob. “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

A noise outside. Help was here. But so was the blood pooling beneath Tommy.

Buck leaned closer, grip tightening, his pulse hammering in his ears. “You stay awake, okay? Help is here. Just—just please stay with me.”

Tommy’s fingers curled weakly into Buck’s sleeve, his grip barely there, but there.

“Bu—Evan…” His voice was thin, broken by a sharp inhale. His body shuddered.

Buck’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Tommy’s hold tightened for just a second.

“Evan, I—” His voice cracked, a faint wheeze threading through his words. “I wanted… I wanted to apologize—”

A cough tore through him, wet and weak. His breath hitched, and Buck felt the tremor beneath his hands.

“Tommy, stop,” Buck pleaded, panic thick in his throat. “You’re gonna be fine, just save it, okay? You can tell me later.”

But Tommy shook his head—just barely.

“Had to say it,” he murmured, voice slipping. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. “Was h’rd the…’thout you…”

Buck swallowed hard, eyes burning. “I know,” he whispered.

Tommy’s lips barely moved, but Buck caught it.

“…Loved…” It was barely more than a breath—a whisper, slipping between them.

The word faded on his tongue, unfinished. His grip on Buck’s sleeve slackened.

“Tommy?” His voice cracked, sheer terror ripping through him. “Tommy, hey, no, stay with me—”

“Tommy!” Buck’s voice rose.

But Tommy wasn't answering.

Buck pressed harder against the wound, his palm slick with blood, his hands shaking.

“Tommy,” Buck rasped, shaking him slightly. "Come on, open your eyes baby, just—just look at me."

Nothing.

No response.

The flashing lights flooded the room, red and blue bouncing off shattered glass. Boots pounded against the floor, heavy and fast. Someone was shouting orders.

A hand gripped Buck’s shoulder, trying to pull him back. but Buck fought them, twisting, shoving—he couldn't let go.

"No—wait, wait—he's not—Tommy!"

But the world was spinning, voices blurring together, hands forcing him away.

But all Buck could see was Tommy, unmoving, eyes slipping closed, blood staining his shirt, and the word echoing in his mind over and over.

Loved.

Loved you.

Loved me?

Loved.

The world swam back into focus slowly, thick and disoriented—white lights, the steady beeping of a monitor, the distant murmur of voices. Buck sucked in a sharp breath, his chest tight, lungs struggling to expand properly.

A hand pressed gently against his shoulder. “Easy, easy, Buck. You’re fine.”

Buck’s head turned sluggishly. “…Chim?”

“Yeah, you got me,” Chim said. “Maddie was just here—she’s coming back in a minute.”

Buck barely processed it. His body felt heavy, numb, like he was floating—but then—

Tommy.

Buck’s pulse spiked. "Tommy—? TOMMY!"

“Breathe, Buck—”

“No, Chimney, Tommy, he was—he was—”

“Buck.”

A new voice.

Buck whipped his head toward it, eyes still bleary but instantly locking onto Maddie as she entered the room.

“He’s fine, Buck.”

His heart stuttered in his chest. "Fine?"

Chim nodded, his tone light. “He’s alive, Buck. Just got out of surgery about an hour ago. Woke up for a minute, but then drifted back off. Surprisingly, you’ve been out longer than he has.” He gave Buck a teasing grin, trying to lift the mood.

Buck sucked in a breath, his throat tight, burning. “I need to see him.”

Maddie exhaled, already knowing there was no point arguing. “Buck, you just had sur—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chim cut in, sighing as he got up. “He won’t listen. Let’s take him to his room.”

"You need to be checked first,” Maddie insisted.

The minutes the nurse checked him, and the surgeon explaining his injury, felt like a lifetime.

Tommy was awake.

He lay still in the bed, his face pale, but he was breathing, his chest rising and falling slowly. When he turned his head and saw Buck, a faint smile tugged at his lips, weak but sincere.

“Hey, Buck.”

Buck sucked in a sharp breath, something tight, angry, relieved twisting in his chest.

“Tommy, if you try to leave me again in any way, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

Tommy huffed out the smallest, breathy laugh. “Violence? Really? I just woke up.”

Buck’s throat burned,, a mix of worry and relief. His hands curling into fists. “And it’s Evan!”

Tommy blinked at that, lips twitching like he wanted to say something smart, but all he did was nod, slow.

Before either of them could say more, the door swung open.

“Oh, you’re up.”

“Sargent grant.” “Athena.”

Tommy’s gaze sharpened immediately. “The guy?”

“He’s in custody.”

Tommy exhaled, half-relief, half-exhaustion.

“He was on drugs,” Athena continued, arms crossing over her chest. “Apparently, his ex-wife used to come here a lot. He must’ve been high, looking for her.”

“Anyone else?” Tommy asked.

Athena shook her head. “Just you two.” She paused. “Because you were sitting closest to the door.”

Tommy shifted slightly, trying to sit up, but winced, the movement clearly uncomfortable. “Huh.”

Buck studied him. “Huh?”

Tommy looked at him with half-lidded eyes, his voice slow and groggy. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thinking.”

Athena watched them both carefully, then sighed. “I’ll be back later for your statements, and I’ll let the nurses know you’re awake. And—” she shot Buck a pointed look “—that you snuck in here before you were cleared.”

Buck didn’t even react, his focus locked on Tommy.

A nurse came in to check Tommy’s vitals, adjusting the IV and making sure everything was steady. After a moment, she helped him sit up, propping him against the pillows. Then, she stepped back, nodding to the surgeon who entered next.

Then the surgeon explained Tommy’s surgery— The first shot, the one in his thigh, hadn’t gone deep—just a graze, but deep enough to bleed. The kind of wound that looked worse than it was. The kind of wound Tommy had barely even noticed at the time.

The second bullet had hit his spleen, causing major blood loss. The surgeons had been able to repair the damage, but in the end, they had to remove it.

He’d be okay. It would take time, but he’d be okay.

And then they were alone.

Tommy let out a breath, then huffed out something resembling a laugh. “No appendix, and now no spleen. What’s next?”

“Not funny.”

Tommy blinked at him, then shrugged one shoulder weakly. “A little funny.”

Buck didn’t even bother responding. This wasn’t funny. None of this was. And then the words slipped out before Buck could stop them— “You said loved.”

Tommy blinked. “Did I?”

Buck didn’t waver. “You loved me.”

Tommy opened his mouth—then closed it.

Then, slowly, he sank deeper into the bed, exhaling softly. His gaze flickered away for just a second—like admitting it would make it impossible to take back.

Then, barely above a whisper—raw, honest, a little tired— “I did… still do.”

Buck let out a slow, shaky breath. The weight of the last few hours, the last few months, settling all at once.

His fingers moved before his mind could catch up.

His fingertips ghosted over Tommy’s knuckles, tracing along the edge of his hand, before finally curling around it.

Warm. Steady.

For a moment, Tommy stayed still—then, with a quiet inhale, he shifted his hand, palm turning slightly, fingers twitching before curling weakly around Buck’s. Holding on.

Buck swallowed, held Tommy’s gaze, and nodded once.

“Good.”

#and again this wasn't supposed to be this long I just yap a lot #i actually came here just to post this silly little thing lol #no creativity tho i was literally studying about gunshot injuries and thought ah yes bucktommy getting shot so tru #bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #*

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r-memberme · 3 months ago

Text

sharing type | k.p

⎯⎯ He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

warnings: fluff

The Mystic Grill buzzed with its usual half-hearted charm—dim string lights flickering overhead, lazy country music floating from the jukebox, and the scent of onion rings clinging to everything like a curse. You sat beside Elena in a corner booth, sipping a strawberry soda through a striped straw, one leg curled beneath you as you listened to her recap the latest Salvatore drama.

Kai and Damon had wandered off to the bar to pretend they could stand each other for more than ten minutes. So far, no blood had been spilled. A win, in your book.

You gave her a sly grin. “They’re growing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

Elena glances at you the moment the shadows fall across your table—two strangers, tall, arrogant, too sure of themselves. They lean in, leering, stinking of cheap cologne and worse intentions, voices slick with the same tired charm they’ve probably used on half the bar.

You don’t even blink. Just sip your drink and exchange the look.

That silent, unimpressed look shared only by women who’ve seen gods bleed. The do they have any idea who our men are? look. The should we warn them or let them die oblivious? look.

You sigh—long, theatrical, drenched in boredom—and place your glass down with deliberate care. The straw shifts like a white flag in the cup. Then you twist in your seat, letting them see the full force of your disdain. Your expression could cut glass.

“See that guy over there?” you say, voice feather-light, motioning with your chin toward the bar.

Kai hasn’t looked away since the moment the men approached. He’s perched on the stool like a lounging serpent, elbow on the counter, eyes glinting beneath lazy lashes. Still, there's nothing lazy about the way he watches. His gaze is lethal—like a knife dipped in something slow and fatal.

He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

“The one who looks like he’s moments from setting someone on fire with his mind?” you continue sweetly, tilting your head just so. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Elena, perfectly timed, gestures at Damon—who’s swirling his bourbon like it holds the last nerve he has left, already glaring hard enough to burn holes through both men.

“And mine’s the one who’s murdered people for less,” she says with a bright, innocent smile.

The men freeze.

Smirks falter. Confidence flickers.

One of them clears his throat, the sound dry and nervous. “Oh. Uh. You’re with… them?”

“Mhm,” you chirp, rising from the booth like it’s a stage and you’ve just been cued. Elena moves in tandem, the both of you calm, polished, rehearsed.

The strangers barely have time to stammer out an excuse before Kai shifts.

He doesn’t move much—just turns to face them, slow and serpentine, one brow arching with something between amusement and malice. His fingers twitch like he’s already chosen which spell to use. Not if—which.

The men take one look at him—truly look—and bolt like someone shouted fire.

Cowards.

You and Elena stroll back to the bar like you’re returning from a casual walk. Damon spares a glance over his glass and mutters, “Trouble?”

Elena shrugs. “Handled.”

Kai is still watching you, eyes narrowed, chest rising a little too slowly. You reach out and press your hand to his sternum—firm and warm beneath your palm.

“They weren’t worth it,” you murmur. “Just two boys playing brave.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” he lies.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I was just mentally planning their funerals,” he amends, with a slight pout. “That’s different.”

You grin, rising up on your toes to kiss the edge of his mouth—the corner, barely there, featherlight. He sucks in a breath like it startles him every time. Like the softness always strikes harder than the fire.

“You’re adorable when you’re unhinged,” you whisper.

Kai huffs. But you see the way he glows under your praise—subtle, hesitant, like he’s not quite used to being loved this way. Not yet. But he wants to be.

Damon groans something foul about lovebirds, but neither of you hear him.

Kai’s already tugging you gently toward the door, his fingers tangled through yours with an urgency he can’t mask.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, low and rough into your ear. “Before I accidentally test a fire spell.”

༊*·˚

The door barely clicks shut behind you before Kai’s already kicking off his shoes, peeling off his jacket, and sprawling dramatically across your couch like he owns the place.

And to be fair—he kind of does.

He’s been slowly overtaking your space like ivy: leaving books open on your counters, jackets slung over chairs, a set of rings on your nightstand that you’re pretty sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. His toothbrush showed up in your bathroom three weeks ago without a word.

You haven’t asked him about it. He hasn’t offered. But he’s here more often than not, and you like it that way.

“Movie time,” he announces, claiming the middle cushion like it’s a throne and opening his arms wide like he expects tribute.

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean our movie night? The one where I pick the movie because last time you picked The Shining and then asked why I don’t sleep with the lights off anymore?”

Kai shrugs, wholly unbothered. “Not my fault Jack Nicholson is a cinematic genius.”

“He tried to murder his family.”

“With style,” Kai says, deadpan.

You throw a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him dramatically, like you’ve wounded him. Flops sideways and groans, sprawled like a fallen king.

Eventually, you settle on something safe and cozy—an old rom-com, something where no one dies and everyone ends up kissed. Kai grumbles at first, makes sarcastic comments for the first fifteen minutes, but his hand finds yours anyway. Lazy fingers playing with your knuckles. Thumb brushing over your wrist like it calms him to feel you breathing.

It’s not long before he shifts closer. And then closer again. Until your legs are tangled and his head is buried against your shoulder, nose in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in.

“You smell good,” he mutters into your collarbone.

You hum, threading your fingers through his hair. “Better than popcorn?”

“Better than blood.”

You snort. “Romantic.”

He grins against your skin. “I’m serious. You smell like… peace. And cinnamon. And that one shampoo that says it’s made of like, eleven herbs and doesn’t specify what any of them are.”

You laugh and tip your head back, letting it rest against the cushions. Kai just watches you for a moment. Soft-eyed. Quiet. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And maybe he can’t.

He shifts again, tugging the blanket over both of you. His arm winds around your waist, snug, protective, heavy in a way that feels more grounding than suffocating. His voice is softer now, low and earnest:

“Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For not running away. For… making room for me. Even when I make it hard.”

Your hand curls instinctively into his shirt.

“You make it easy, Kai.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days. You lean in, press your forehead to his, let silence bloom soft between you. The only sound is the TV droning on in the background and the quiet rhythm of your hearts.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I’d kill anyone for you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I know.”

“And I’d only sort of feel bad about it.”

“Progress.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I’m working on it.”

You kiss his temple, slow and fond. “I know.”

And then you both fall silent again. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in each other.

Kai Parker—terrifying, reckless, half-reformed mess of a man—falls asleep on your chest twenty minutes later, soft snores muffled against your t-shirt.

You don’t move.

Not even when the credits roll. Not even when your arm goes numb.

Because it’s Kai. And for once, he feels safe. And more than that—he trusts you.

You’re not moving. Not yet.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

thank you to @sc4rrc for the request <3 I hope you enjoyed it!!

feel free to request fics with kai again! <3

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

#kai parker #kai parker x reader #tvd fanfiction #tvd fandom #the vampire diaries #fluff #light angst #.docx

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chanelgrll · 13 days ago

Note

Hiii!! I was thinking like Ronin with a reader who’s a scare actor at like a theme park or some sort of horror attraction and he shows up one night either to scare them or join in on scaring people with them

I’m in the Halloween spirit and it’s only June 😔😔

A/N: Guys I had sm fun writing this (Ronin joins in on scaring people)

The Devil you know

You’re used to being the one who terrifies people.

That’s kind of the point of your job. Five nights a week at “Nightmare Hollow,” the local haunted maze theme park, dressed in layers of blood-soaked tulle and prosthetics, your face warped with latex and blackened teeth. You crawl out of coffins. You lunge from behind curtains. You scream, cackle, whisper nonsense in guests’ ears until they sprint into the fog like their lives depend on it.

It’s good money. Better adrenaline. And you’ve always had the upper hand. You know the layout, the light cues, the hiding spots. You can smell fear. You live in it, twist inside it, let it bleed under your skin like war paint.

Which is why you’re not prepared tonight, when someone breaks your rules.

The shift starts normally. You clock in. Hit makeup. Tuck a fake eye under your prosthetic cheek. Your boots get strapped. You’re placed in The Blood Nursery, third hallway past the spinning corridor, just after the chainsaw clown zone. You crouch in your usual spot under the crib, watching strobe light patterns flash overhead. The screams come like clockwork, rising and falling as guests run from one horror to the next.

You love it.

You love the rhythm. The drama. The way people sprint from you like they’ve seen the face of death, when really it’s just you behind half a pound of liquid latex and a ripped-up baby doll strapped to your back.

You texted Ronin earlier, during the break between zones.

<you> all i do is scare grown men for $15/hr

<goreboy> so like being in a relationship with me

Fair. You snorted into your prosthetics and said nothing back. He’s not much for sweet talk, but you knew he meant it: a little impressed, a little amused, more than a little unhinged. He never visits your job, though. Not his thing. At least, that’s what you thought.

Until you see someone move off-schedule.

You’re mid-lunge toward a bachelorette party when you catch it, a flicker of movement past the crib, someone slipping through a staff exit they shouldn’t be near. No radio in hand. No glow stick. No staph vest. Just… movement. Graceful. Deliberate. Almost playful.

You pause, frown, and duck back under the crib. Five minutes pass. Another group screams by. You jump out, shriek in their faces, send them screaming. They don’t notice the man behind them.

But you do. He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Covered in a long black coat, with a skeletal mask pulled over his face and fake blood staining the collar. He’s not on the cast sheet. And he’s watching you. Not the guests.

You.

Your spine prickles. You almost radio security, until the figure tilts his head. Just enough for the mask to shift. Just enough for you to see the eyes underneath. Familiar. Dark. Smiling.

“…Ronin?”

He lifts a single gloved finger to his lips and vanishes around the corner. You blink. Then curse. The next hour is war. You don’t get a break to chase him, there’s a line of terrified teenagers out front and your role’s too central to leave. But you catch glimpses of him. Slipping between curtains. Sneaking into other actors’ zones. Pretending to be a mannequin and scaring the piss out of two frat bros. You hear a staffer yell “WHO THE HELL WAS THAT?!” as Ronin bolts out of a strobe-lit hallway, laughing.

The bastard’s infiltrated the maze.

And worst of all... he’s good at it.

He’s fast. Quiet. His costume somehow fits the theme perfectly, a vintage-looking devil getup, sleek black and blood-red with a subtle glint of gold at the throat. His face is hidden behind a beautifully grotesque half-mask with curling horns, but his voice? You’d know that voice anywhere.

Low. Dry. Cutting. You hear him mutter something to a guest as he leads them into a dead end. Something like-

“...We all die in the dark, sweetheart. Might as well enjoy the walk there.” You swear that girl faints.

And you? You’re trying not to melt. Or kill him. Possibly both. You catch up to him at the fog tunnel. He doesn’t even look surprised when you grab him by the wrist and yank him behind the black curtain. “What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss, heart pounding.

Ronin grins beneath the devil mask. “Just visiting,” he says innocently. “Thought I’d see my darlin' at work.”

“In full costume?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You want to scream. Or kiss him. “You’re not allowed back here. You could get kicked out. I could get fired.”

“Mm.” He tugs one of your fake bloody ribbons loose from your costume and twirls it around his finger. “Then maybe we should make it worth it.”

“Ronin—!”

He cups a hand behind your neck, leans close. “You looked hot scaring the hell out of those guys in Zone 2. I was proud.”

“...You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably,” he agrees, nudging his masked forehead against yours. “So. You wanna team up? Or do I keep stealing your kills?” You glare at him. Then sigh. Then smile.

“Fine,” you say. “But if security chases you out, I’m not helping.” He laughs.

You and Ronin are unholy together. It starts small. He lingers in your zone while you go full banshee on a group of screaming teenagers, only for him to appear behind them as they run, dragging a fake axe and whispering nonsense in a growl that has one of them nearly trip.

In the asylum corridor, you take turns hiding behind gurneys. You pop out first, driving the group forward, only for Ronin to ambush them from the front with a sharp bark and a slam of the stretcher. One guy falls flat on his back screaming. You both snort and vanish behind the curtains again.

At one point, you turn and find him adjusting his horns in a cracked mirror in the makeup hallway. The light glints off the devil mask, gold lining catching the shadows, and for a moment, you forget it’s a costume. He looks up at you through the reflection. “You’re glowing,” he says, casual.

You blink. “I’m covered in fake blood.”

“Still.”

Your cheeks warm under your prosthetics. You duck your head. “You look like a demon.” He steps behind you. Wraps his arms around your waist. His gloved hands press against the bones of your corset.

“Then I guess we match.”

By closing time, your voice is hoarse and your ribs hurt from laughing. Your coworkers all assume Ronin’s a new hire, someone the director pulled last-minute to boost the fear factor. You don’t correct them. You’re too busy watching him in your periphery, moving like a shadow in the smoke. No one suspects. Except you. He’s too fast. Too quiet. He doesn’t play by the rules of the maze.

And when he sneaks up behind you in the chainsaw hallway, grabs your hips, and growls in your ear, “Time to die, sugar,” you do scream, just once.

He doubles over laughing. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter, punching his arm. “You scared me.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Fair’s fair.” You stay late to clean off your makeup. Ronin waits outside the dressing room with a stolen candy apple and a devilish smirk. You walk out in your hoodie and jeans, eyes still ringed with black. He’s lounging on a bench, mask tucked under his arm, half-eaten apple in hand. His horns are tilted slightly sideways, giving him the look of someone who got in a fight with a gargoyle and won.

You drop beside him. He hands you the last bite without a word. You take it. “You’re insane,” you say around the sticky crunch.

“Mm,” he agrees. “But I make a great devil, don’t I?” You side-eye him. Then lean your head on his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur.

“Sure I did,” he says, quiet now. “Had to see what you look like when you’re in your element.”

“And?”

He kisses your forehead. Just once. Gentle. “You’re terrifying,” he says. “It’s beautiful.” That night, he drives you home in silence. One hand on the wheel. The other curled between your thighs, warm over your jeans, just to keep you tethered. You fall asleep halfway through the ride. Dried blood still under your nails. Laughter still caught in your throat.

And you dream of black hallways and devil eyes. But this time, the monster at the end of the maze isn’t chasing you.

He’s holding your hand.

#kc #kc ronin #kc x reader #killer chat fanfic #killer chat #killer chat x reader #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x reader

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slvbum · 12 days ago

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CRUSH ♡ Rafe Cameron!

Content WARNING: Rafe Cameron x Stalker!Reader, stalking, drugging, kidnapping, manipulation, and threats of violence, unhealthy and dangerous behavior

She had developed a crush on Rafe that had metastasised into an all-consuming obsession, a dark vine twisting around her heart until it choked out reason. It began with that fleeting moment in the grocery store two years ago, his careless smirk, the way his fingers brushed hers when he handed her that jar of honey. For her, it was fate, a spark that ignited a fire she’d never extinguish. Now, lying flat beneath his bed, her breath shallow, her pulse a fevered drum, she felt alive in a way only he could make her. The cold hardwood pressed against her back, the faint musk of his cedar-and-salt cologne curling into her lungs like a drug. Her manicured fingers clutched a syringe of ketamine—swiped from her father’s stash. She was done waiting for Rafe to see her.

Tonight, she’d make him hers.

Her obsession had spiraled that morning at the beach club, where she’d poured every ounce of her charm into asking him out. She’d approached him at the bar.

“Rafe,” she’d purred, voice like velvet, “wanna grab dinner tonight? Just you and me.” Her heart had thrummed with anticipation, expecting his blue eyes to light up with recognition. Instead, he’d leaned back, beer in hand, and squinted at her like she was a stranger.

“Do I know you?” he’d said, his tone flat, almost bored. “Look, I don’t do random dates with people I don’t know. Pass.”

No warmth, no lingering glance... just a dismissal that stabbed her like a blade. She’d frozen, her smile cracking, her eyes darkening as rage and humiliation coiled in her chest. He didn’t remember her. He didn’t see her. She’d stormed off, heels clicking, her mind a whirlwind of vengeance and need.

All day, she’d stalked him. She’d watched him at the gym, his sweat-slicked shoulders flexing under the weights, her breath hitching as she snapped photos through her car’s tinted windows. She’d lingered outside Tannyhill when he ate lunch with Topper, her camera capturing his laugh. At the pier, she’d stood in the shadows, her heart aching as he scrolled his phone alone, oblivious to her worship. Every moment he didn’t notice her fueled her fury, and her hunger. By nightfall, she’d slipped into Tannyhill through an unlocked side door, her body trembling with purpose. Now, under his bed, she counted his breaths.

She waited patiently, her heart pounding so loud she feared he’d hear it. When his breathing deepened, she slid out, silent as a specter. He lay sprawled, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling. Her gaze devoured him, the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble, the way his shirt rode up to expose a sliver of toned abdomen. Desire and possession surged through her, a heady mix that made her dizzy. She straddled his chest and plunged the syringe into his neck. His eyes snapped open, a choked “What—” escaping before his body went limp, his blue eyes rolling back. A thrill shot through her, electric and intoxicating. He was hers now.

Dragging him was a nightmare. Rafe’s six-foot frame, all lean muscle, was dead weight. Her sneakers skidded on the hardwood as she hauled him down the stairs, his boots thumping against each step. Her arms burned, her breath ragged, but the pain only sharpened her focus. She’d prepared her basement, a soundproofed bunker from her father’s paranoid days, with a chair bolted to the floor, zip ties, and a duffel bag of tools. Binding him, she felt a rush of power, her sweat mingling with the jasmine on her skin. She changed into a white dress that clung to her curves, and waited. The drive-in movie was tonight... their night.

When Rafe stirred, his head lolled, a groan rumbling deep in his throat. “The fuck…”

His eyes widened as he took in the concrete walls, the dim bulb swinging overhead, and her standing before him, radiant and unhinged.

“Who the hell are you?” he slurred, yanking at the zip ties, his biceps straining, veins bulging under his skin. Panic and fury warred in his expression, but there was something else, confusion. It made her pulse race how he wasn't even scared.

She crouched, her smile a mix of adoration and menace.

“It’s me. From the grocery store, remember? You got me that honey.” Her voice was syrupy. “And—You hurt me today, Rafe. You were so mean when all I wanted was just a date…”

“Fucking crazy,” he manage to mutter, still dizzy from the drugs. “Let me go, you psycho bitch—” His words cut off as she slapped him, her nails leaving red streaks on his cheek. The crack echoed, and she felt a jolt of satisfaction, her skin flushing with heat.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, her face inches from his, her breath mingling with his. “You’re mine, Rafe. You just don’t know it yet.” She pulled a switchblade from her duffel, twirling it so the blade glinted. “Say you’ll come, or I start cutting. Please, just a date…” Her voice was calm, but her heart thundered, a mix of rage and longing. She needed him to say yes, to choose her.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting to the blade, then her face. He was a Cameron, but her gaze, devoid of anything human, made his stomach twist. Fear gripped him, cold and unfamiliar, but there was something else, a dark spark. She was worse than him, her derangement a mirror to his own chaos, and it… fuck, it stirred something in him. Her power was terrifying and magnetic, a pull he couldn’t fully deny.

“Fine,” he growled, his pride choking him, his voice laced with defiance and dread. “I’ll go. Put the damn knife down.”

Her smile was radiant, as if he’d proposed under starlight.

“Good boy,” she purred, cutting the zip ties. The drugs still dulled his strength, and her warning was a blade at his back: “Try anything, and I’ll carve your family apart. Wheezie first.”

The drive-in movie was her twisted dream, a warped vision of romance under the stars. The screen flickered with a retro slasher flick, blood and screams filling the night as they sat in her cherry-red convertible, the top down, the air thick with her jasmine perfume.

“Isn’t this perfect?” she murmured, her voice dripping with adoration, her heart soaring. To her, they were a couple, their chemistry electric, their future written in the stars.

Rafe was a caged animal, his body radiating tension as he pressed himself against the passenger door, his shoulder practically welded to the frame. Rage churned in his chest, his heart pounding with every unwanted touch. Her fingers on his thigh felt like a brand, invasive and suffocating, and he swatted them away, his hand trembling with barely contained fury.

“Hands off me,” he snapped, his voice low and venomous, his blue eyes blazing with disgust. “Fucking delusional.”

The rest of the movie was a torturous dance. Every touch sent a jolt of revulsion through him, his body rigid as he flinched away. His skin crawled, his pulse racing with a mix of fear, anger, and that shameful fascination. She was relentless, her hand grazing his thigh again, her chatter incessant.

“What a wonderful first date,” she said, oblivious to his scowl, her voice bubbling with joy. “We’ll have so many more. And you’ll see how good we are together.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the screen, blood and screams blurring as his mind raced, plotting an escape, grappling with the sick pull of her derangement. He hated her, but her attitude was a mirror to his own darkness, and it… fuck, it haunted him.

When the credits rolled, she drove them to her mansion. On her doorstep, under the glow of a wrought-iron lantern, she turned to him, her eyes gleaming with triumph. Her heart soared, she’d won, she’d claimed him. Before he could react, she grabbed his face, her nails digging into his jaw, and kissed him. Her lips were fierce, possessive, her tongue pushing past his defenses, tasting of cherry lip gloss. Rafe stood rigid, his hands hovering, not touching her, his body screaming to pull away but paralyzed by her threats. The kiss was a violation, a claim, and it left him reeling—furious, and, God help him, he like it. Her derangement was a drug, and he was caught in its undertow.

She broke away, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, “If you tell anyone, I’ll slaughter the Cameron name. Sarah, Wheezie—gone. And I’ll make you watch.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

#slvbun #stalker!reader₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x female reader #outer banks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameon fic #rafe cameron obx

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magicalmatcha · 22 days ago

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SWEET LIFE: Missin Something

@/offbrandheiress tweeted!

↳ i have to work a 12hr shift and ashido mina is partying it up 😒

LONG WRITTEN PORTION UNDER THE CUT!

"Katsuki!"

The party was bubbling, music thrumming through the decks of the yacht, laughter ringing out beneath the soft burn of the setting sun. Dozens of guests moved like light across the sprawling vessel, each one draped in summer looks that cost more than most people’s tuition.

Bakugou stood near the starboard rail, one hand shoved into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other holding a half-finished glass of mead. He listened, mostly tuned out, while Kyoka and Hagakure chatted beside him, their voices trailing between beats of the ambient lounge track humming through the yacht’s sound system.

His head snapped to the side at the shrill, familiar voice. His scowl didn’t shift.

Barreling toward him in a whirlwind of pink and white silk was Mina Ashido, radiant and visibly unhinged, dripping in Swarovski jewelry like it was armor. Behind her, Kirishima followed fast, holding a tiny gold Prada clutch with both hands like it might explode.

“This caterer,” Mina hissed, skidding to a halt in front of them, “thinks takoyaki is a suitable finger food. Takoyaki, Katsuki!”

Kirishima grimaced in agreement. Mina tossed her hair over one shoulder and threw her arms up dramatically. “And it’s not even the fact that it’s takoyaki, it tastes like it came from a street cart. He’s making a fool of me.”

Katsuki stared at her for a beat, vaguely amused. “Have you ever even had street food?”

“No,” she said instantly, appalled. “That’s why I need you to try it.” She grabbed his forearm in desperation, about to drag him off when he planted his feet and pulled away.

“Calm down, Princess Bubblegum.” He reclaimed his arm with a shake. “I got the caterers, remember? They’re the same people who did the afterparty for Seoul Fashion Week 2022. The squid’s wild-caught, flown in from the damn Caribbean.”

He said it casually, but there was weight behind it, and Mina stilled, visibly unclenching.

“Right. Of course.” She smoothed her silk skirt as Eijirou wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her.

“Just relax, Mina,” Kirishima said gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “The sunset hasn’t even peaked yet.”

Katsuki raised a brow, taking a sip of his drink. “What, you doubted me?”

“A little,” Mina admitted without shame.

“Fuck off.”

She grinned, crisis averted, the gleam returning to her already over-glittered eyes.

Sero and Denki wandered over, their presence announced by the faint sound of Denki chewing gum too loudly and Sero glancing down at his camera, flicking through footage with practiced swipes. Denki tugged on his arm impatiently, trying to get him to keep pace.

“Yo, has the Golden Trio pulled up yet?” Denki asked, eyes scanning the yacht’s entrance. “Yn promised we could use her for clout for at least three minutes of the vlog.”

Mina shrugged, effortlessly elegant as she plucked a cosmopolitan off a passing tray Kirishima flagged down for her. She held the glass like an accessory, nails glinting in the warm gold of the setting sun.

“Party started at five,” she said, sipping without smudging her gloss. “They’ll come fashionably late, just late enough to make an entrance, but not late enough to look like they’ve stopped respecting time entirely.”

“Elite punctuality,” Sero muttered, checking his screen again. “The most terrifying kind.”

“They’ll be here any minute,” Mina added, glancing up just as a new wave of laughter rang out from the upper deck. A smaller boat had just docked, a sleek, minimal thing with all-white trim, and more guests filed in, the yacht tilting ever so slightly beneath the shift.

A drone floated overhead, lazily circling, its blinking red light barely visible against the darkening sky. Whether it belonged to an influencer’s vlog or a Tattle Tokyo scout was anyone’s guess and no one cared enough to find out.

Bakugou’s brow furrowed faintly, listening. Kyoka had pulled her phone low, glancing at the screen like she was trying to read discreetly under the table.

“She’s here,” Kyoka murmured, not bothering to raise her voice.

“How do you know?” Sero leaned over curiously, handing the camera to Denki without taking his eyes off Kyoka’s phone. “When I checked her location thirty minutes ago, she was still holed up in some house in Azabu.”

Kyoka flipped her phone around to show them.

On the screen was a grainy zoomed-in photo from the Tattle Tokyo live stories, Yn, unmistakably poised, descending from the new boat in a stunning dress and heels too high to be safe on a floating structure. Behind her trailed Momo, graceful and immaculately composed, and just a step back from her, Todoroki, looking every inch the heir to a dynasty.

The caption underneath read:

“BREAKING: Japan’s princess has docked. Yn Fushikage, flanked by her famously difficult-to-access entourage, has arrived at Ashido’s end-of-summer sunset soirée. Todoroki in white linen. Yaoyorozu carrying what looks like a vintage Bulgari clutch. And All Might's protege clad in Versace. A strange girl seems to be accompanying them. We’ll be watching.”

Denki let out a low whistle. “We are so getting the thumbnail.”

“God bless Tattle Tokyo,” Sero muttered reverently.

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Bunch of creeps with a drone.”

“You’re literally in three of their top-viewed posts,” Kyoka said without looking up.

“And you looked good in them,” Mina added with a smirk. “Be grateful.”

Just then, the ambient music dipped for half a second, the kind of subtle signal a DJ might cue when something or someone notable entered the space.

And like clockwork, the golden light of the setting sun spilled across the upper deck, and the Golden Trio stepped into view. Accompanied by Izuku. Of course. A vaguely familiar face.

They were late, an hour and forty two minutes but who's counting, probably. Her sunset-toned gown matched the color of the sky behind her too perfectly for coincidence, delicate gold accents catching the last of the light as if the setting sun had chosen her for a final bow. Her hair was in a style Mina would later describe as “casually imperial.” A glass of something citrusy and expensive was already in her hand, and she hadn’t even spoken to a single person yet.

There were air kisses exchanged with the artistic elite, someone from the Tokyo Ballet circle, a fashion house heiress, an actor’s daughter. Todoroki and Yaoyorozu flanked her with practiced ease, stepping into conversations with ghost-like grace. Midoriya, in tailored off-white and nerves, trailed just behind, caught in a too-long conversation with a P.R. girl who worked for Valentino.

And glued to Yn’s side was someone Katsuki vaguely remembered, a short-haired brunette with a nervous smile and a hand that clutched Yn’s arm like she might float away without her. Greece trip. Mykonos. Something about a villa and too much talent but not enough money.

She looked terrified now.

“That’s the ballet girl,” Kyoka murmured, having sidled closer beside Katsuki, eyes flicking between the newcomer and her phone. “Uraraka something. I remember her from Greece, Fushikage must have used her plus one after all.”

Mina arched a brow. “She looks like she’s one shaky breath away from falling off the yacht.”

“She’s new,” Kirishima offered gently. “She’ll adjust.”

“Or get eaten alive.” Denki appeared again, camera in hand. “This place smells blood in the water faster than actual sharks.”

Sero nudged him. “Let’s get the shot. Yn’s dress is doing 90% of the work for us.”

Katsuki didn’t speak. He just kept his eyes trained on her, on the way she laughed with someone she didn’t like, no-one liked, the way she held her glass like she hadn’t been raised around people who had to hold glasses like that. Regal. Remote.

She looked good.

Too good.

And then she glanced down.

Not at him. Not yet.

At the stairs. At the party below.

The golden light softened her already-gentle features as her eyes skimmed across the crowd. Her smile, polite, practiced, and warm enough to be disarming, never faltered. Even when it landed on them.

Mina straightened instinctively.

Kirishima gave a tiny wave.

Denki whispered “here we go” like a man preparing for liftoff.

And Katsuki—

Katsuki narrowed his eyes the second her gaze locked on his.

Because she saw him. Oh, she saw him. And the worst part?

She smiled.

Not like she was amused. Not like she was being sarcastic.

No. Yn Fushikage smiled at him like he was a welcome sight. Like he was someone she was happy to see.

Her head tilted just so, one hand resting lightly on the banister of the upper deck. That same impossibly soft smile still playing at her lips. She didn’t wave, didn’t smirk. Just dipped her chin in a delicate, regal nod.

The way one might acknowledge a butler who’d done something correctly for once.

Bakugou scowled. His grip tightened around the glass in his hand.

Yn turned away like she hadn’t just mentally dropkicked him off the side of the boat using nothing but grace and composure.

And worst of all?

The moment she vanished behind the sweeping curtains of the lounge deck, he could still feel that perfect little smile burning a hole in his skull.

“We have to greet Ashido,” Momo murmured, her voice low and deliberate in Yn’s left ear.

“Honestly, it’s the first thing we should have done,” Shoto added from her right, eyes flicking toward the glittering upper deck.

“I just saw them,” Yn said evenly, swirling the pale pink drink in her hand. Her voice was calm, aloof, detached in a way only she could pull off in four-inch heels. “Didn’t say hello, however.”

The three of them stood in a quiet alcove near the edge of the main deck, half-shadowed by a canopy of gauzy linens and warm string lights. Around them, the soirée glimmered like a perfume ad, music pulsing softly under the chatter of guests, designer fabrics rustling in the warm breeze off the water.

Midoriya appeared beside them like a ghost, Ochaco trailing behind, fingers wrapped tightly around his arm like a lifeline. His voice was quiet and firm. “We just went to say hi to the Brat Pack. I'm about to get Raka something to eat. Or snack on, these are finger food at best."

“Oh, great,” Yn sighed, finishing the last sip of her drink and placing the glass on the tray of a passing waiter without ever breaking eye contact. “So everyone’s said hi but us.”

Shoto didn’t bother to look smug, but his silence did it for him.

With a soft sigh, Yn reached into her bag, already resigned. “Hold this.”

Shoto flipped open her compact mirror before she had to ask, holding it up with practiced ease. She caught her reflection, hair still perfect, lashes curled, the faintest shimmer of champagne highlighter on the high points of her cheeks. Still, she reapplied her gloss with surgical precision, pressing her lips together once before sealing the tube.

She stared at herself a moment longer than necessary.

Then she shut the compact with a quiet snap.

“Alright, fine.” She turned toward Momo with the air of someone walking into a war council, not a party. “Let’s go."

They made their way across the yacht with the quiet precision of seasoned diplomats. Shoto trailed just slightly behind, unbothered, unreadable, while Momo walked with purpose, all elegance and posture. Yn was in the center, unhurried, letting people part around her like tides.

“Try not to look like you’re marching to the guillotine,” Momo said softly, offering a half-smile.

“I might as well be,” Yn muttered back, flashing an award-winning smile at some politician’s son in Gucci loafers.

A gasp caught in Momo’s throat. She stopped abruptly, causing both Shoto and Yn to freeze mid-step.

“What’s wrong, Mo?” Shoto asked, brow raised.

“Oh, I just remembered, we have to say hi to the president’s son. His father’s approving the expansion of the railroad industry. My family benefits greatly from that.” Her eyes darted around the crowd, her voice coated in an obvious lie.

Shoto blinked at her, unimpressed. “We can do that afterward. We have to say hi to the host of the party. It’s only polite.” He nodded slightly toward Yn as they continued walking.

But Momo quickly grabbed both their arms, tugging them back. “Oh, but I insist, they’re on the other side of the boat. Let’s go. Please.” Her tone had changed, urgent, tense.

Shoto narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never been a good liar, Mo. I saw you talk to him when we got here. What—is this about some guy? You have feelings or something?”

Yn gasped, eyes lighting up. “Oh, that’s so cute! Momo with a crush? Never thought I’d see the day. But please, you know we have to say hi to Ashido firs—”

Her voice faltered as she caught the direction of Momo’s gaze.

“Wait… why do your eyes keep darting behind me?”

Shoto turned first. Then Momo. And finally Yn.

Her heart didn’t shatter, it sank. Quietly. Slowly. Like a ship folding beneath the waves with no fanfare, no warning. A collapse so still it almost didn’t look like anything at all. The silence inside her felt too loud.

There, near the second staircase at the far end of the deck, sat Hugo.

Her Hugo.

He was laughing, half-listening to some Arsenal player she didn’t recognize. He looked good, effortlessly so, in that untouchable, aloof kind of way that used to draw her in. His curls caught the light just right. His posture was casual, relaxed.

His arm was draped lazily around a girl with brightly green dyed hair. Her laugh rang out like wind chimes, airy and thoughtless, as he leaned in close, whispering something into her ear. His lips brushed skin. The girl’s nails matched her Balenciaga wedges. Yn hated how easily she noticed that.

She giggled.

He smiled.

Yn blinked.

The image stung with a slow, dull ache. Not like a knife. Like a bruise. Like a realization.

Shoto and Momo stood still, unsure of what to say.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing to say.

Yn exhaled once, the sound short and clean, like the click of a clasp. She reached for her composure like it was just another item in her clutch, matte, minimal, and ready for use.

“Well,” she said softly. “That’s humiliating.”

She smiled—cold, perfect.

Then turned her back on him completely.

The sun dipped lower behind them, bathing the yacht in a wash of molten color. Somewhere on the deck, the laughter of strangers echoed, and Hugo didn’t even look up.

inside scoop!

momo is a bad liar, if you want to keep a secret you don't tell her

if this was any other story maybe yn would have confronted him but as much as she's the biggest hopeless romantic, she also has an appearance to maintain and she can't have a break down on in front of people

Also that whole bit of "maybe Hugo's sleeping bc time zones" yn knew he was in Japan. Her friends didn't. Thats what made her even more confused

that took me forever to write, I didn't know how I wanted this to flow. I still don't like the way it turned out

Mina's party had 215 people in attendance. The yacht is not that big. Actually idk how big yachts are.

Now the songs/titles will actually pertain to the story

Not proofread. I got lazy.

<< paper machine | waste my time >>

Send an ask to be added to the taglist! Also my inbox is always open, Sweet Life related asks are under 🥂 — sweet life!

TAG-LIST: @strawberry-wine320 @cielito--lindo @wonubby @rednicotine @shewki @midnight-drives-with-sunarin @talilosha @ikissfade @hxneymxn @nina-from-317 @kodzubaby @tridentgumfreshy @harryzcherry @pinkulraviolencedoll @h-sadsoul @xoxogospgirl @doorie @nerast333 @heartsforkatsuki @onlyisaa @darkcurlyswirlywirly @h-sadsoul

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mia-can-yap-too · 16 days ago

Note

CAN I PLSSS HAVE BACHIRA MEGURU X READER W AUTISM!! THANK YOU!!

🌺:- hi! so i made this after a 15 minute google search about autism because im not very well educated on the topic, so if there is anything i did that was offensive or wrong, please dont hesitate to tell me! thank you for requesting and have a nice day <3

warnings:- fluff, autistic! reader, mentions of meltdowns, mentions of overstimulation

pairing:- bachira meguru x autistic!reader

☆ bachira doesn't just accept your autism, he makes you feel good about it

“What do you mean you think you're ‘too much’ for people? You're like a limited edition holographic Pokémon card. Everyone else is just… there.”

☆ if you get nonverbal at times? no problem, he starts learning your facial expressions like a second language and invents the Bachira Visual Communication System™ (which is 80% doodling and 20% distraction through interpretive dance)

☆ if you like to info dump about your interests, he listens like he's watching the finale of his favorite anime.

“So the goblin shark can unhinge its jaw—”

“LIKE AN ACTUAL NIGHTMARE KING? JJK CURSED SPIRIT TYPE?? Do you think we can adopt one?!”

☆ he starts buying you gifts based on your interests, but poorly. like a knock off frog plush named ‘Jeremy the Swamp Lad’ he found at a gas station and insists is your emotional support son now.

☆ you once had a meltdown after a long day. the lights were too bright, the world was just too loud.

☆ you tried to hold it in till you got home. bachira didnt push you. he just turned off the overhead lights, put a weighted blanket on your lap and gave you a juice box.

“You know,” he whispered, lying next to you. “You can be the uncensored version around me. I don't mind, I love all kinds of you.”

☆ he'll hug you and Jeremy till you calm down. (if you want)

☆ you once got overwhelmed at a grocery store and he made it his mission to keep you safe and entertained.

“Okay, babe, I'm running distraction. I'm gonna start meowing in aisle 3. You get the oatmilk and GO.”

☆ he even got matching cute noises canceling headphones for the two of you decorated with stickers by yours truly. and a sticker of your son, Jeremy, too.

☆ you two dont have traditional dates. he just asks you what feels right. sometimes that'll be watching a movie, sometimes it'll be walking laps around the block at 2 am, info dumping about constellations and dribbling techniques like its life or death.

☆ bachira is your #1 fan. he'll always be enchanted with the way your brain works

☆ he WILL fight anyone who shames you for it

☆ he WILL NOT stop you from lining up your snacks by color

☆ he definitely thinks youre the coolest person on the planet

☆ so even if you meltdown, wear the same hoodie for three days or not make eye contact, he'll still look at you as if you hung the stars

masterlist

#in print #bachira x reader #bachira fluff #bachira meguru x reader #blue lock bachira #bachira meguru #bllk bachira #bachira x you #bachira meguru x you #blue lock meguru bachira #bllk meguru #meguru x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #bow dividers by crushed-carmine

57 notes · View notes

cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

ok so, this is based off a game called married in red but i want beomgyu to be the mainlead/bestfriend 😛😛 So basically you got invited to your old uni bestfriend (bgyu) by his fiancee w/o him knowing, and basically beomgyu is shock to find you at his wedding and gets nervous. A little back story for why beomgyu is shocked to see us again, basically beomgyu your one snd only bestfriend betrays you during a surgeon practice and tells the authorities that your the one that killed the patient and not him (girl...) so you then get sent to jail for a few years. OK, PRESENT TIME... You then planned to get revenge on him by killing his fiancee and frame it on beomgyu, telling everyone that he killed them because he heard a rumor that they cheated on him. anyways, that's it. I'm not really sure if you would actually reply to this, but at least i tried

MARRIED IN RED

summary: you return to the life you lost—uninvited to beomgyu’s wedding, dressed in blood-red and driven by revenge. what begins as a seductive game of manipulation ends in murder, deceit, and the destruction of everything he built. you’re not just here to haunt him. you’re here to end him.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, smut, angst, revenge, murder mystery.

warnings: smut, graphic murder, knife play, manipulation, blood, gaslighting, medical malpractice, false accusations, power imbalance, obsessive behavior, psychological trauma, emotional abuse, toxic dynamics, gore, suggestive content, unhinged reader, death, infidelity, mention of sexual assault (attempted), violence, mental breakdown, imprisonment, explicit language.

wc: 12K

notes: hi anon!! ok so tbh i’m not super into video games normally BUT the one you mentioned??? omg the premise got me sooo hooked 😭 i ended up watching a bunch of lore vids + different endings and literally got obsessed lol. i used a lot of the gameplay as inspo to build the story and added my own lil touches to make it ✨spicier✨. i really hope you enjoy it and that it came out close to what you were picturing!! i had so much fun writing it — definitely stepped out of my comfort zone a bit (even tho i've done yandere/violence themes before, i never went this deep 👀) so thank u sm for the request ily 💌

FLASHBACK: THE BETRAYAL

the room smelled like metal and nerves. antiseptic clung to your skin, the sterile kind that never quite washes off, no matter how hard you scrub. overhead, the surgical lights buzzed faintly, casting halos on everyone’s heads, ironic little crowns of fluorescent glory. you stood there, gloves tight against your hands, mask hiding the shape of your mouth but not the panic rising in your throat. this was supposed to be routine. a practice session. supervised. safe.

but then something went wrong.

you saw it first — the drop in heart rate, the tremble in the patient’s pulse. the resident nurse called out numbers you didn’t want to hear, and beomgyu froze. you remember his hands. how steady they used to be in class, always precise, always admired. but not now. now, they shook. not violently, not enough to notice unless you knew him like you did — like someone who once memorized the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his thoughts. you saw it in the twitch of his fingers, in the split-second delay when the arterial clamp slipped. the bleeding started then. red spilled into white, too much, too fast. you moved, instinct taking over, reaching for the sutures, trying to stop the flood before it became irreversible. beomgyu didn’t move.

and then he did.

but it was too late. the alarms screamed. the attending ran in. hands pushed yours aside. someone shouted. another called for help. and beomgyu… beomgyu took a step back. just one. just enough.

you didn’t sleep that night. didn’t eat. didn’t breathe without hearing those monitors flatline inside your skull. you thought maybe it would be labeled a mistake, a tragedy, an accident born from youth and pressure. you were wrong.

two days later, they came for you.

you were mid-shift, mopping sweat off your temple, when the white coats and sharp eyes cornered you in the hallway. they didn’t say much. they didn’t have to. someone had already spoken. someone had already placed blame. your name had been written in ink, cold and black, on a report you never saw. beomgyu’s name was nowhere.

when you were questioned, they said beomgyu had expressed “concern” over your technique. they said he “regretted” not speaking up earlier. they said you panicked in the OR. that you tried to take over. that your recklessness had cost a life. they said so many things, all carefully worded, all sharpened with just enough truth to make the lie believable.

you remember sitting in that empty room, steel table in front of you, hands trembling. not from guilt. from rage. from betrayal. from the image of his face on the other side of the glass, watching. silent. expressionless. not even sorry.

he didn’t visit you. not once. not during the trial, not after the verdict, not when they took your license, your dreams, your freedom. he vanished. became a name you couldn’t say without tasting ash.

years passed.

but you remembered.

you remembered how he looked at you right before the doors closed behind you — not with shame, not with pity, but with relief. you remembered that silence like a scalpel against your spine. clean. deep. final.

and you decided.

if he could tear your life apart to save his own, you could do the same. only worse. only slower.

and this time, you’d smile while doing it.

ACT ONE: THE INVITATION

you were in the middle of folding laundry when you found the envelope. cream-colored, thick, the kind of paper that crackles when bent, expensive just to touch. no return address. no hint. but you recognized the handwriting immediately — soft, rounded, a little too careful to be truly effortless. feminine. polite. unfamiliar.

you slid a finger under the seal and pulled the card out. gold lettering, embossed. a wedding. no — his wedding. the name hit your stomach first. choi beomgyu. and beside it, a name you didn’t recognize. yoon hana.

you stared at it for a long time, longer than you'd ever admit. your fingers clenched around the edge, and for a moment you imagined tearing it in half. but you didn’t. not yet.

the call came the next day.

“hi, is this…?” her voice was as pretty as her name sounded. delicate. sweet. almost translucent. “i hope this isn’t too forward, but i’m hana — beomgyu’s fiancée.”

you said nothing for a moment. your breath stilled.

“i found some photos of you two in his old albums,” she continued quickly, nervous, like she thought you might hang up. “college days. i had no idea you were so close. he… he never mentioned you.”

of course he didn’t.

“i wanted to surprise him. you were his best friend, right? i think it would mean so much to him if you came to the wedding. it’s not the same without people who really know you.”

you let out a breath — not a laugh, not quite — more like a quiet exhale of something heavy, bitter, ancient.

“he’ll be very surprised,” you said, voice steady, lips curling into a smile she couldn’t see.

“that’s what i’m hoping,” hana said, laughing softly, innocently, like a girl who had no idea she was dangling over a pit. “please say you’ll come.”

and you did.

not because of her kindness. not because of the sweetness in her voice, or the elegance in her words. but because you could already feel the pulse of something deep and dark moving beneath your skin. it had waited years for this — coiled and patient, like a snake in the grass. beomgyu had buried you once.

this time, you’d return the favor.

you spent the next few days preparing. not obsessively — not in the way you used to when exams loomed and futures were built on how steady your hands could be. this was different. calm. surgical. everything folded into neat little thoughts. what you’d wear. what you’d say. the tilt of your head when he saw you. the exact moment his perfect little world would begin to shake.

you imagined the way his eyes would widen, the hitch in his throat, the cold wash of memory creeping up his spine. he wouldn’t scream. no, he’d smile. he’d pretend. because beomgyu always wore his mask better than anyone — the gentle prodigy, the golden boy, the fallen angel with soft hands and a halo of innocence. no one ever saw what he really was underneath. but you did.

you always did.

you touched the edge of the wedding card again, ran your thumb across the gold print. not out of sentiment, but calculation. it was almost poetic. the beginning of the end would be wrapped in white and flowers and promises neither of them deserved.

he thought he could bury you in silence. in time. in absence.

but the past always shows up — dressed in red, smiling sweetly.

ACT TWO: THE REUNION

you arrive early, but no one notices.

it’s the kind of venue that whispers wealth from every corner — marble floors that gleam like water, tall windows draped in soft linen, crystal chandeliers heavy with light. a string quartet plays something romantic and forgettable in the background. waiters float by with champagne flutes, their hands practiced and empty-eyed. everything is too clean. too white. a blank canvas begging to be stained.

you stand near the edge of it all, watching. not hiding — just waiting.

then you see her.

hana.

she moves through the crowd with soft hands and a practiced smile, like she’s been trained her whole life to be looked at. beautiful, delicate, a doll dressed in ivory and pearls. but her eyes are kind. too kind. she spots you almost instantly and lights up.

“you came!” she says, breathless, rushing forward to embrace you like you’re old friends. you let her. her perfume is light and floral, almost childish. she pulls back to look at you, smiling. “he’s going to be so surprised. i didn’t tell him. i wanted to see his face.”

you nod once, lips curling upward. “i can’t wait.”

she doesn’t hear it — the venom under the silk. she sees only what he once saw: a calm surface. nothing underneath.

they call everyone to attention soon after. the ceremony is about to begin. you take your place among the crowd, quiet, unmoving. your hands rest in your lap, still, like in the operating room — composed. patient. ready to cut.

the music swells.

then he walks in.

beomgyu.

the groom.

your breath doesn’t catch — it sharpens. like a blade meeting stone. his suit is ivory, his tie pale gold. his hair is soft, curled just enough to look effortless. he smiles as he walks, bowing slightly to a few guests, charming and angelic, the boy wonder all grown up.

then his eyes find you.

he stops.

just one second. a stutter in time. a heartbeat dropped.

he blinks, once. then again.

the world keeps moving, but he doesn’t. his face doesn’t change, not fully, but you see the fracture — the faintest flicker behind his eyes. recognition. fear. memory clawing its way up his throat.

you tilt your head slightly. not a wave. not a nod. just enough.

he walks again, faster now, as if motion can erase you.

but you know better. you always did.

the ceremony proceeds like a play. vows exchanged, rings slipped onto fingers. hana glows beside him, her smile radiant and pure. and beomgyu… beomgyu plays his role with perfect grace. every look, every touch, every whispered promise is choreographed. from a distance, they’re flawless.

but you know the truth.

he doesn’t love her.

you learned that before the wedding, in whispers and reports, in quiet murmurs from mutual acquaintances. yoon hana, daughter of dr. yoon — the man who owns half the hospitals in seoul. a legacy family. power, influence, prestige. marrying her isn’t romance. it’s strategy.

he wants her name. her wealth. her father’s empire.

and once he has it, once he’s tied deep enough into that network of hospitals and private clinics, she won’t matter. she’ll become another discarded tool. maybe she already is.

you wonder if she knows. you wonder if she suspects. or if she’s just like you once were — enchanted by his gentle voice, his soft laughter, his hands that never shake until they do.

they walk back down the aisle, hand in hand, applause washing over them. but his eyes flick toward you again. not long. not obvious. just enough to remind you — he knows.

you slip away during the reception. not far. just to the back hallway where the staff come and go. it’s quiet there. cooler. your heels echo softly on tile.

you don’t wait long before you hear footsteps behind you.

“what are you doing here?”

his voice is low. careful. not angry. not yet.

you turn around slowly.

he’s already dropped the act.

the mask is still on, but you can see the cracks in the porcelain — the too-still eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, the twitch of a muscle near his brow. beomgyu stands in front of you like a man facing a ghost he thought he'd buried deep.

“your wife invited me,” you say simply. “she thought it would make you happy.”

he laughs. just once. bitter. sharp. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“why?” you ask, stepping closer. “because it ruins the fairytale?”

his silence is answer enough.

you study him — the expensive watch on his wrist, the perfect posture, the way his wedding band already looks foreign on his hand. he’s beautiful. always was. but it’s a cursed kind of beauty now, the kind that hides poison beneath petals.

“congratulations,” you say, letting your voice drip just enough to make him flinch. “must be nice, marrying into a dynasty. hospitals. connections. endless funding.”

“you don’t know anything,” he snaps, too fast.

you smile. “i know everything.”

he steps forward, suddenly closer than you expected. “what do you want?”

the question isn’t a plea. it’s a warning.

you reach up and adjust the lapel of his jacket, slow, intimate, mockingly gentle.

“i haven’t decided yet.”

his breath catches for just a second.

you both know what’s happening. it’s already begun. the dance. the descent. two people standing in the wreckage of a friendship, building something twisted from its remains.

because the truth is, you and beomgyu are not so different.

he ruined someone for power.

you came back to ruin him.

and hana? she’s not the love between you. she’s the blade you’re both gripping from opposite ends.

ACT THREE: THE BRIDE

you find her near the garden, tucked in the back where soft lights string between trees like artificial stars. hana is laughing with one of her bridesmaids, hands clasped around a champagne flute, veil tucked back behind her shoulders. she looks like a dream — fragile, glowing, floating in a bubble she believes is happiness. but dreams burst easily.

she sees you and waves. “there you are! i was wondering where you disappeared to.”

“just needed air,” you say smoothly, stepping beside her. “everything’s beautiful, hana.”

her smile grows. “thank you. i wanted it to feel… perfect.”

you both look around. and it is perfect. the venue is opulence carved into architecture — carved archways, marble fountains, flower arrangements taller than people. every inch glows with money. not taste. wealth.

“how did you two meet, anyway?” you ask, tone light, harmless. curious.

hana sips her drink, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks. “mutual friends. well, not really friends — one of my father’s doctors. he introduced us at a benefit.”

of course.

you nod, letting the silence stretch just enough before asking, “and… did you fall in love right away?”

she laughs. a real one. “oh no. he barely spoke at first. but once we started talking… it was easy. he listens. he’s kind.”

you hum softly. “he used to be quieter. i think the years made him louder.”

hana tilts her head. “you really knew him that well?”

“better than most,” you reply, a quiet truth soaked in something heavier.

her eyes glimmer with curiosity. “he never told me about you.”

you smile. “he wouldn’t.”

you don’t let the pause linger. you slip your arm through hers gently and steer her toward the inner hall — not the main ballroom, but a side corridor filled with portraits and silence. your voice lowers just a bit.

“this place is… extravagant,” you say, fingers brushing the polished wall. “how did you manage to book it? i heard it’s almost impossible.”

hana beams. “oh — it was a favor. one of my dad’s oldest friends owns the property. it’s usually reserved for very exclusive events — politicians, ceos, you know.”

you arch a brow, feigning awe. “must’ve taken strings to pull that off.”

“not really,” she says. “he offered it as a gift. it’s the kind of place where everyone already knows everyone. it feels safe, like… like no one’s watching. just happy people, no noise.”

you stop walking.

“no cameras?”

she shakes her head with a small smile. “none. my dad doesn’t like them. he says they ruin intimacy.”

you let the words settle. no cameras. no recordings. no proof. no eyes. just soft walls and trust.

hana sees none of the weight behind your silence. she keeps smiling, sipping from her glass.

“besides,” she adds, “what’s there to see? it’s a wedding. everyone’s happy.”

you look at her then, really look — at the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle eyes, the way she sees this world as clean, unshaken. she thinks love built this. but it was ambition. strategy. you know the taste of it because you once wanted the same things — and maybe, deep down, you still do.

“you must trust him a lot,” you say quietly.

“i do,” she replies without hesitation. “he’s everything i ever wanted. he saved me from this cold, business world. my father wanted me to marry a man with power — i found one with heart.”

you almost choke.

but instead, you laugh, soft and low. not mocking. almost affectionate.

“then i hope you’re right,” you whisper. “and i hope he never gives you a reason to doubt that.”

hana looks up at you, touched. “you’re so sweet. i’m glad you’re here.”

you lean in, kiss her cheek, and breathe her in — that perfume, light and harmless. the kind of scent you could forget.

but you won’t.

because now you know the hallways. the exits. the blind spots. and now, hana trusts you.

and beomgyu?

he knows you’re close.

you can already feel the tension pulling tighter — like piano wire strung between three necks. someone will bleed.

you’re just deciding who goes first.

ACT FOUR: THE SERPENT IN RED

you find him just past the marble corridor, outside, where the laughter and clinking glasses can’t follow.

he’s standing by the edge of the balcony, fists clenched, jaw tight, like he’s holding the world together by sheer force of will. the night air swirls around him, but he’s too tense to feel it. beomgyu looks like a man cornered by ghosts — one in particular.

his eyes snap to you the moment he senses your presence.

and you see it.

not just surprise. not just discomfort.

fear. hatred. panic. all bleeding together in those pretty eyes.

he looks like he might be sick.

you step into the moonlight, slow and deliberate, the crimson fabric of your dress catching the light like liquid sin. the color hugs you — dark, seductive, unapologetic. and he sees it. god, he sees it.

his expression twists instantly.

“what the fuck are you wearing?” he spits.

you tilt your head, smiling sweetly. “a dress.”

his gaze sharpens, voice lowered. “that’s not a dress for a wedding.”

you glance down at yourself, brushing invisible dust from your hip, tone soft and cruel. “why not? i think it suits the occasion.”

“it’s red,” he growls. “blood red.”

you hum. “hm. so it is.”

he takes a step forward. “take it off.”

you laugh. sharp. amused. “aw, gyu. if you wanted to see me out of it, all you had to do was ask.”

he flinches at the nickname. his hands curl at his sides.

“this isn’t a fucking game,” he hisses. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“oh, but i was invited,” you remind him, voice dipped in honey. “your lovely bride said she wanted to surprise you.”

his nostrils flare. “she doesn’t know what you are.”

you lean in, just enough for him to smell your perfume — dark florals, velvet musk, danger. “no,” you whisper. “but you do.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes drag over you — slow, reluctant, like he hates what he sees but can’t stop seeing it. there's something sour behind his gaze, something like... regret? no. it's older than that. something between rage and fascination.

“i didn’t think you’d get out so soon,” he says eventually. “they said five years minimum. good behavior, huh?”

you tilt your head. “what can i say? prison taught me discipline.”

his jaw tightens. his fingers curl slightly around the glass.

beomgyu stiffens. his eyes dart toward the ballroom doors and back to you, like he’s counting the seconds before someone else joins, or worse, sees you both like this.

you take another step, your heels echoing softly against the marble. he doesn’t move.

“what’s the matter?” you ask, gaze locked on his. “nervous?”

his mouth twists, but his jaw— god, it clenches so hard you can almost hear it pop.

you glance down at his hands, tense and trembling slightly. “you always did get shaky when things got out of your control.”

“don’t push me,” he warns, low and shaking.

you ignore the threat. “it’s funny,” you murmur. “you wear the same expression you did in the O.R. that day. remember that? the moment everything went wrong and you had to choose— your future or mine.”

he breathes in sharply.

you smile wider. “you chose well. now you’re marrying a woman with power. hospitals. status. all the things you’ve always wanted but could never earn. and she’s just so sweet too. so trusting. so willing to give you everything.”

beomgyu doesn’t speak. his silence is louder than shouting.

“tell me, gyu…” you lean closer, lips almost brushing his ear. “do you plan to kill her like you did the patient? once you get your name on the deed?”

his breath catches, sharp and violent. and for a terrifying second, you think he might hit you.

he lunges forward — fast, teeth gritted, eyes wild with fury. his hand lifts slightly, but it stops halfway. frozen.

his face is inches from yours now.

his breath hot, furious, desperate.

your lips curve, soft and mocking. “god, i missed this,” you whisper, letting the tip of your finger trace the lapel of his suit. “your warmth. your anger. the way your body shakes when i get under your skin.”

he snarls quietly. “you’re insane.”

“maybe.” your eyes shine, unblinking. “but at least i’m not a coward.”

you let the silence stretch, the air between you charged like a live wire. you feel the storm in him, the battle behind his eyes. part of him wants to end this — grab you, break you, erase you. but another part… the part you remember… wants to taste this. wants to feel something. anything.

you lean in, your breath ghosting across his mouth, and say it, clear and cold:

“you don’t love her. you love what she has. and you want to take it all.”

his shoulders tighten. his lips part, but no sound comes out.

“that’s why you hate me,” you continue. “because i see you. the real you. and you know exactly what i came here to do.”

his hand jerks slightly — like he might finally snap — but just as fast, he freezes. a voice laughs nearby. footsteps. guests.

he blinks, breath shaky. control returns like a choke chain.

he steps back, eyes burning, chest heaving. “get out of my fucking wedding.”

you smile, slow and venomous. “make me.”

and then you turn your back to him, deliberately, daringly, walking back into the warmth of the celebration with his fury at your heels. the red of your dress flares like a warning — or a promise.

and beomgyu stays frozen behind you.

because he knows:

you’re not done.

and this game is just beginning.

the moment you turn your back to him, you know it’s not over. not by a long shot. the air between you both is thick, taut with something unsaid, something alive, crawling under your skin. you can feel his eyes on you, burning a hole in your back. his breath shallow, labored, like every inhale is a war he’s losing.

you hear his footsteps behind you — slower, cautious, but still there. he’s following you.

you smile to yourself, letting the sound of his pursuit draw you closer to the door. it’s all so predictable, all so easy. the rage, the fear, the denial — it’s exactly what you knew would happen. beomgyu doesn’t want to admit it. doesn’t want to admit how much he needs to be near you. not after everything. but his body betrays him.

just before you turned to walk away, something caught your eye — a flash of silver in beomgyu’s hand. you watched, silent, as he pulled a small key from his pocket and slipped it into the door of a room tucked away behind one of the elegant hallways. he glanced over his shoulder, cautious, before pushing it open and stepping inside. you didn’t follow immediately, but your mind registered it. a key. not just any room — a private one. the kind you’d return to later, when the world wasn’t watching.

you don’t look back. not yet.

inside, the room is empty except for the small details of a wedding — bouquets, mirrors, chairs — but it feels like the eye of the storm, calm before the inevitable. you step inside, your heel clicking against the cold floor, and you feel him follow.

his presence is heavy, but you make no move to acknowledge it. not yet.

you stand in the middle of the room, your back to him, and let the silence stretch for just long enough to make it unbearable.

and then, as if on cue, you hear the door close softly behind you.

his voice comes low and strained. “you’re pushing your luck.”

you don’t answer at first. instead, you let your hand graze over the table, the reflection of your own eyes in the mirror catching you off guard for a moment. his presence is so close now. you can feel the heat of his body like a shadow. you’ve always known how to make him lose control. and tonight, it's too easy.

finally, you turn to him, a slow, deliberate motion, your eyes catching his in the reflection. you don’t need to see his face to know what’s there. it’s all in the tension of his jaw, the way he stands — tense, but drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

“you know,” you say softly, your voice slipping into that dark, alluring tone, “there’s something about being close to you again.”

his fists clench. his voice trembles, barely contained. “shut up.”

you step closer, just enough to make him shift, but not enough to let him break that thin thread of restraint. “why? don’t you like it, gyu?” you whisper, barely audible. “don’t you miss the way we used to be?”

he takes a deep breath, his lips trembling with a fight he’s losing. “i told you… get the fuck out.”

but his body betrays him. you see it in the way his eyes flicker down to your lips. the way his breath hitches when you take that last step toward him, close enough for your chest to brush against his. his eyes lock with yours in a mix of fury and something darker.

you smile, sweet and dangerous. “you can’t walk away from me. not now. not after everything.”

he presses his lips together, his entire body tensing, as if he’s holding back something primal. then, his hand grabs your wrist — not rough, but tight, possessive. like a warning. and yet…

he doesn’t pull you away.

you let him hold you there, the tension so thick between you that it feels suffocating. and then, you tilt your head up slowly, just enough for your lips to brush his ear as you whisper:

“you hate me, don’t you?”

he doesn’t respond, but you can feel it. his pulse against your wrist, the rapid beating of his heart, the heat radiating off his skin.

“you hate that I’m still here, still alive,” you continue, your voice a soft, slow poison. “you hate that I’m in your fucking head.”

he squeezes your wrist harder, like he wants to crush the words, crush the thoughts swirling in his mind. “get away from me.”

you smirk, finally stepping away just enough to look at him directly. “but you still want me, don’t you? that’s why you’re standing here. still watching me. pretending you’re not imagining everything we could’ve done.”

his breath hitches.

you let the space between you grow — just enough for him to feel the distance. but you can see the truth in his eyes now. he’s unraveling. he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t need this, but his body gives him away.

he takes a step toward you, closing the space, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally break. but instead, he lowers his voice to a dangerous growl:

“you really think you can get away with this?”

you step forward, your body nearly touching his, and you whisper it low, with enough heat to make the words burn:

“i’m going to take everything from you. everything you care about. and you won’t stop me.”

and just as you say it, he crashes into you — not with force, but with a desperate, controlled need. his lips meet yours in a kiss that isn’t gentle. it’s angry. it’s hungry. it’s raw.

you kiss him back, letting him take the lead for a moment, tasting the rage, the longing, the betrayal. it’s not love. it’s not passion. it’s something else. something darker.

he pulls away just as quickly as he came, breath shallow. his pupils are blown, wild with something that might have been a confession.

but neither of you says a word.

you stand there, close enough to feel the heat of him, and you know this game is far from over.

he won’t walk away. not yet. not when the fire’s already lit.

his lips crush against yours again — this time harder, more brutal, like he’s trying to punish you with his mouth, trying to erase everything you’ve said, everything you’ve ever done. his hands dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the sharp line of his control snap between your teeth.

you moan into his mouth, a dark, breathy sound that makes his grip tighten.

he hates this. he hates that he’s kissing you. hates that he wants it so fucking bad. but his tongue parts your lips like a man starved, tasting every inch of what he’s craved in silence for years.

you drag your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and feel him shudder.

“you’re disgusting,” he mutters against your lips, voice hoarse, trembling. “so are you,” you breathe back, licking into his mouth like sin itself. “but at least i admit it.”

his hands are on your thighs now, hiking up your dress — and you let him. you don’t stop him when he pushes you back against the vanity, knocking over flowers and makeup, wedding details crashing to the floor like a funeral bell.

his lips move down your jaw, your throat, biting a path like he’s branding you. “you shouldn’t be here,” he growls into your skin. “then stop me,” you whisper, breathless, eyes daring. “go on. push me away.”

he doesn’t.

he pushes your dress up further, bunching the fabric at your hips, exposing the soft skin of your thighs. his fingers tremble as they move to your panties, his breath hot against your neck.

“fuck,” he hisses when he finds you already wet. “you’re so—”

“say it,” you pant, threading your fingers into his hair and yanking. “say it.”

he bites your shoulder. hard. a bruise blooms there instantly.

“wet for me,” he spits. “still. after everything.”

you laugh, low and wicked. “maybe i never stopped.”

he yanks your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you without warning, and you arch into him, crying out — not from pain, but from the sudden, obscene stretch of it. your body clenches around him like it remembers him, like it always belonged to him even when he didn’t deserve it.

his other hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye. “tell me you don’t want this.”

you smile with your lips parted, a mess of heat and venom. “i want everything you’ll regret.”

he curses, low and filthy, before replacing his fingers with his cock — thick, hot, angry — slamming into you in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. your back hits the mirror, and it rattles with the force of him.

“fuck—” you gasp, holding onto the edge of the vanity for balance.

“so fucking tight,” he growls against your ear, thrusting hard, fast, punishing. “you came here for revenge, huh? to ruin me?”

“i am ruining you,” you moan, legs wrapping around his waist, digging your heels into his back. “you’re already fucking mine.”

he slams into you again, harder — like he wants to shut you up. but it only makes you scream louder.

each thrust is rougher than the last. your bodies slap together, heat and sweat and fury. this isn’t love. this isn’t tenderness. this is war. this is two people trying to burn the other alive and moaning into the fire.

he grips your hips and fucks into you with something close to desperation, as if he’s trying to forget, to rewrite history with every thrust. but you won’t let him. you claw at his skin, mark him, own him.

“gonna come,” he pants against your throat.

you squeeze around him, smile laced with malice and lust. “then do it. come inside me. like a good little liar.”

he bites your lip, snarling — and with one final thrust, he breaks, spilling into you with a guttural moan that echoes off the walls. you hold him there, feeling him twitch inside you, feeling him fall apart in your hands.

you come moments later, shaking around him, gasping his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays there, inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed against yours.

and for a second, the room is quiet again.

but then you speak, voice low, dangerous.

“you’ll regret this.”

he opens his eyes. they’re glassy. red-rimmed. terrified.

“i already do,” he whispers.

ACT FIVE: THE MURDER

you stumble out of the room, legs trembling, lips still tingling with the taste of him — hatred, lust, regret. all tangled in one bite. behind you, beomgyu breathes hard, still trying to compose himself, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see him pull that same silver key from his pocket and quietly lock the door behind him. neat. clean. calculated. he doesn't want anyone discovering what just happened between you two.

perfect, you think. even better.

but this story isn’t done — not yet. you’ve got the tension. the sweat. the kiss of his guilt on your tongue.

now you need blood.

the reception is loud again. music swells, laughter floats, and the soft sound of champagne flutes clinking fills the air like wedding bells. but none of it touches you. not as you wander past the kitchen doorway, not as you see that towering wedding cake in the distance — pristine, elegant, the kind of perfection they probably spent hours agonizing over.

and there, beside it.

a knife. long. sharp. glinting with the reflection of white icing and overhead chandeliers. you stare at it. still. calculating. nobody notices you. not the chef, not the staff — you're just another woman in a blood-red dress at a wedding.

you smile sweetly, take the knife, and in a single smooth motion, slide it up under your gown and tuck it beneath the band of your garter.

your thighs press together. it holds.

you breathe.

and walk back into the storm.

hana spots you before you even reach her. she waves, face glowing with delight, but that joy falters when she sees your expression. a calculated melancholy lingers on your features — just enough to look real, just enough to pull at her concern.

“y/n?” she says, approaching quickly, her hands gentle as they cup your forearm. “what’s wrong? did something happen?”

you let your lips tremble. just slightly. “i don’t think… beomgyu was happy to see me.”

her eyes widen, immediately protective. “no! no, no, don’t say that. he’s just… surprised. you two were so close in uni, weren’t you? he’s probably overwhelmed. you know how emotional he gets.”

you almost laugh. emotional. sure.

“i don’t know,” you whisper, looking down, twisting the ring on your finger — a fake one you wore to sell the illusion. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. i feel like i’m intruding. like… like i brought something bad with me.”

hana squeezes your hand, eyes soft with worry. “don’t be silly. i’m so happy you came. really. and i know he is too — he just doesn't show it well.”

you sniff dramatically. “do you think we could talk somewhere more private?”

she hesitates, then nods with a smile. “of course. there’s a room upstairs — where beomgyu and i get ready. it’s just ours.” she reaches into her clutch, pulling out a familiar glint of silver. the same key. “we’re the only ones with access.”

your heart skips.

jackpot.

“come,” she says sweetly, linking arms with you. “you’ll feel better after some quiet.”

you let her lead.

the room is silent. untouched. dimly lit by golden sconces. a soft scent of rosewater lingers in the air. and once the door clicks shut behind you, hana turns to you again, ready to offer another excuse on beomgyu’s behalf.

“i’m really sorry if he came off cold,” she says. “he’s been so stressed with the planning, and—”

“or maybe,” you interrupt, stepping closer, letting your voice thicken with suggestion, “he’s upset about something from the past.”

she pauses, confused. “what do you mean?”

you sit on the armrest of the lounge chair, looking at her with mock softness. “we haven’t seen each other since university, hana. back then, i was quiet. focused on med school. no friends, no distractions. just books and labs.”

she nods, leaning in, intrigued.

“and then he found me,” you continue, voice dreamy now, almost nostalgic. “he was charming. open. wild. he showed me that life wasn’t just about excellence. that it could be messy… chaotic. thrilling. he wasn't the best student, but he had this… charisma. everyone loved him.”

hana smiles. “that sounds like him.”

“he’d invite me to join him on hospital rounds,” you add, “especially when staff was low. we’d cover shifts together. just the two of us. late nights. adrenaline. it was like a bond. a secret, you know?”

she nods slowly.

“did you two ever…?” she asks cautiously.

you shake your head. “not like that. but we were close. inseparable. until something happened. something he doesn’t want you to know.”

“what happened?” hana whispers, eyes wide with unease, hands clutching her dress like it could protect her from what’s coming.

you step closer.

not threateningly.

no — softly. gently. like a friend about to tell a secret.

“beomgyu and i,” you begin, voice low, “were more than just classmates. we were inseparable back then — best friends, maybe the only ones we had. we were in the same program, same surgical rotations. but he… he wasn’t always careful. not like me.”

hana blinks, nervous now. but listening.

“it was a simple procedure. nothing risky. barely a challenge,” you continue, your eyes flicking to the soft gleam of the knife beneath your gown, still hidden. “but he messed up. badly. i warned him to slow down, double-check the vitals. but he thought he could handle it.”

you pause. the room is dead silent except for your voice.

“he cut too deep. ruptured something. blood started pouring out, and he panicked. dropped his instruments. froze. he looked at me like a scared child — ‘help me,’ he begged. and i did. of course i did.”

you smile, bitterly. hana doesn't speak.

“i tried to stop the bleeding. i gave everything. my hands, my mind, my training. but it was too late. by the time the others came, the patient was gone. and i was drenched in red. completely soaked.”

you can still feel it — the warmth of it. the shock. the chaos.

“his mother came in. screaming. crying. she saw me first — covered in her son’s blood. beomgyu said nothing. then, like a coward, he pointed at me and said i made the mistake. that i’d panicked. that i killed him.”

hana steps back slightly, a hand over her mouth. “no…”

“the staff believed him. he had no blood on him, just a mask of grief. and i was… in shock. couldn’t even defend myself. they expelled me from the program, and then the charges came. criminal negligence. i spent years in prison, hana. years.”

you tilt your head, gaze sharpening.

“do you know what that does to someone? being caged for something you didn’t do? he ended my future. my life. all to protect his own reputation.”

hana opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

you smile.

“and today, he’ll pay for it.”

and that’s when you move.

one second you’re smiling — the next, the knife is in your hand, slicing the air.

a gasp.

a soft sound, wet and gurgling. blood blooms across her throat like a twisted rose. her hands fly up, but it’s useless. her body crumbles to the carpet, her eyes wide and unblinking.

you kneel beside her, breathing steady.

“it was never about love,” you whisper in her ear. “he only loved what you could give him. and now it’s mine.”

ACT SIX: THE EVIDENCE

the room still reeked of perfume, lilies, and now — blood. thick and metallic, it hung in the air like a cruel fog. her body lay awkwardly against the plush carpet, blood seeping in slow, lazy tendrils from the wound in her neck. hana’s expression was stuck somewhere between shock and confusion, as if her soul hadn’t quite caught up with her body in death. her hands were slightly raised, instinctively defensive, but there was no one left to plead with. not anymore. not after what had been set in motion years ago.

you stood over her in silence for a moment, letting the weight of it settle into your bones — not guilt, but satisfaction. cold and heavy and deliberate. this wasn’t chaos. it was choreography.

with clinical precision, you leaned down, your gloves still in place, your breathing steady. slipping your hand into the folds of her bridal gown, you found the small silver key she’d shown you earlier — the one she had said only she and beomgyu shared. perfect. you took it and tucked it away into your own bodice, but not before retrieving the knife, still warm, still wet, and carefully returning it to its hiding place beneath your garter. the steel met your skin briefly before disappearing back into the safety of lace and silk.

you weren’t finished.

you moved quickly now, not rushed, just efficient. hana’s lifeless form was heavier than you expected, but you managed to drag her toward the grand antique wardrobe tucked into the corner of the room. with effort, you arranged her inside, folding her gently as if she were porcelain. her arms fell to her sides like forgotten ribbon. from your bag, you pulled out a slim, black silk tie — beomgyu’s. you tied it around the wardrobe handles, tight and exact, the knot crisp. when someone found her, they’d see that tie and wonder. they’d question.

still wearing your gloves, you crouched again, inspecting the floor. blood had begun to dry at the edges, but it wasn’t too late. from your oversized purse, you pulled a small cloth and a diluted cleanser. you wiped every trace, every drop, every footprint. when the floor gleamed again — soulless and clean — you exhaled, but not in relief. this wasn’t over.

you walked to the mirror, peeled the gloves off with a slow, meticulous grace, and washed your hands in the basin nearby. the water ran pink, then clear. you changed next — stripping out of your blood-smeared gown and slipping into an identical one, pristine and untouched, as if nothing had happened at all. the contrast was jarring, beautiful even. you folded the ruined dress neatly and stuffed it back into the depths of your bag.

your escape wasn’t through the door. instead, you approached the tall window, unlatched it quietly, and climbed out with the elegance of someone rehearsed. the soft thud of your shoes on the grass below didn’t draw a single eye — the courtyard was mercifully empty.

and then, fate handed you one final gift: the dog.

a large, well-fed retriever — probably belonging to the venue’s owner — padded across the lawn near the back entrance. its tail wagged, oblivious. with a quick gesture, you undid its leash and nudged it gently in the direction of the banquet hall. you didn’t need to say anything. the second it caught scent of sugar and buttercream, it bolted.

from a distance, you watched the chaos unfold.

the animal barreled into the hall, diving toward the extravagant white wedding cake at the center. shrieks rang out from the staff, followed by gasps from the guests as the massive dog leapt, knocking plates and champagne flutes in every direction. the distraction was beautiful. orchestrated. all eyes turned, all bodies rushed forward.

you slipped back inside, unnoticed, and made your way to the small parlor by the fireplace. the chimenea crackled with welcoming heat. pulling the blood-soaked dress from your bag, you tossed it into the flames and watched as it curled and blackened, then disappeared. no ash, no trace. nothing left but a faint scent of smoke and finality.

when you stepped out again, you were just another guest, a woman in red, blending back into the celebration.

a ghost with blood on her hands and no soul left to haunt.

ACT SEVEN: THE ALIBI

you adjusted your dress — perfect, pristine, untouched — and found yourself drifting through the hum of music and small talk that buzzed under the glittering chandeliers. the ballroom seemed to pulse with distraction. no one had noticed the weight that had disappeared from the upstairs room. not yet.

your eyes landed on him — the father of the bride. chairman yoon. tall, composed, his tailored suit stretching across a chest built by pride and decades of success. the man was practically royalty in the medical world, owner of several hospitals across seoul. you approached him with the softness of silk and the poise of someone who belonged.

"mr. yoon," you began with a smile as polished as glass, "your daughter... she looked beautiful today. truly radiant."

his chest puffed with the pride of a man who had provided everything for his only child. he nodded solemnly, his glass of champagne catching the light as he raised it slightly in a silent toast to his own bloodline.

"and beomgyu," you continued, your voice low, reverent, like a hymn. "he's... incredible. passionate. dedicated. you know, not every man would love so deeply, so completely. he’d go to the ends of the earth for hana."

his eyes twitched with something unreadable, maybe curiosity, maybe relief. you pressed on.

"i think you'd be proud to know she chose a man who sees her as more than just a wife — he sees her as his purpose. his reason. i’ve known beomgyu for years, and... he’s always been like that. full of heart. always willing to sacrifice himself for someone he loves. it’s rare to find someone that good anymore. especially in our field."

you watched the old man’s face soften, a flicker of sentiment warming his otherwise calculating expression. you kept it going, slowly painting beomgyu as the martyr, the hopeless romantic, the picture of the devoted son-in-law. no one would ever suspect a thing if the story was sculpted just right — and your hands were already elbow-deep in the clay.

but then... your ears twitched.

a burst of laughter from across the room caught your attention — the kind of giggle that tried too hard to be subtle. you turned your head and caught sight of hana’s bridesmaids, huddled close together like schoolgirls sharing a forbidden secret. their eyes sparkled with the thrill of gossip. you drifted closer, steps measured, heartbeat steady. their voices dropped a little when they saw you, but it was too late — you had already heard the name.

"soobin."

one of them whispered it again, as if afraid the very word might catch fire. and then, another voice, hushed and breathless.

"they kissed. i swear to god, they kissed."

"at the bachelorette party?" a gasp.

"yes. she said it was just the heat of the moment — he was her crush back in college, remember? and after all these years… it just happened. god, she said she forgot what it felt like to be wanted like that."

your stomach didn’t turn. it twisted with dark joy.

this was it. this was gold. betrayal, lust, opportunity. everything you needed to sow the perfect storm.

you didn’t waste a second. turning smoothly, you made your way to a small group near the bar — men in sleek suits, clustered together like a pack of wolves dressed in cologne and wine. they must’ve been beomgyu’s university friends, the ones he met after he burned your life to ashes. they wouldn’t know you. they wouldn’t question your role.

you approached with the gentle confidence of someone who had every right to be there. "hi," you smiled, polite and slightly sad. "i’m... one of beomgyu’s closest friends. from before med school, actually."

they turned toward you, nodding with vague recognition. one of them offered you his hand. "nice to meet you. i’m hyun. beomgyu never really talked about his old friends. but i guess he’s pretty private about that stuff."

"yeah," you said, letting just the right note of sorrow seep into your voice. "he’s... been through a lot."

they leaned in instinctively.

"i just…" you hesitated, casting your eyes downward. "i needed to say something, and i don’t know who else would understand. he’s a good guy. a really good guy. he doesn’t deserve what hana did."

their brows furrowed instantly, curiosity piqued. "what do you mean?"

you glanced around the room before leaning closer, lowering your voice. "look... i shouldn’t be saying this. but during her bachelorette party... hana kissed someone. someone she used to have a crush on in university. i think it was... soobin? and, well... maybe it didn’t stop there. maybe it went further."

they exchanged glances, jaws tightening.

"you’re sure?"

you nodded, slowly. "i didn’t want to believe it either. but hana told one of the girls herself. she was drunk. said it just... happened. like the past came rushing back and she forgot about everything else."

they muttered under their breath, disbelief and disgust curling their lips. one of them scoffed. "i knew it. she always looked too perfect. like the kind of girl who smiles sweet but keeps knives in her purse."

another one chuckled bitterly. "and beomgyu? that poor bastard... he’s really into her. like, really. he doesn’t deserve that."

"no," you agreed. "he doesn’t."

they looked at you again, this time with a different kind of respect. not suspicion, not doubt. alignment.

"thanks for telling us," hyun said after a pause. "we won’t... say anything yet. but someone should. eventually."

you nodded once more, then turned away, letting the weight of your words hang in the air behind you like smoke.

the story was unfolding exactly as it needed to — not as it was, but as you designed it. slowly, subtly, beomgyu’s world would collapse in on itself. and when the flames reached his feet, the only thing left for him to do would be burn.

ACT EIGHT: THE CONFRONTATION

you feel his eyes on you long before he reaches you. they trail your every move across the ballroom—how you tilt your head as you speak to hana's father, how you laugh gently with his old classmates, how your hands rest politely against your wine glass, calm and clean and deceptively innocent. it must be driving him insane.

and it is. because when he finally storms across the golden-lit room and grabs you by the wrist, there's no hesitation, no softness, no mask left. the smile you wear is poison-laced sugar, the kind that rots the soul.

“come with me. now,” he says through clenched teeth.

you don’t resist. instead, you raise an eyebrow, deliberately taking your time to place your glass down on a table. “so demanding. is that how you treat your guests on your wedding day?”

he doesn’t answer. just pulls you along the corridor, back through the twisting hallways, until you reach that room again—the one where secrets are born and buried. he unlocks it with the silver key, the same one you saw earlier, the same one his fiancée had.

he slams the door behind you, breath ragged. “stop playing games.”

you lean against the edge of the makeup table, unbothered. “who says i’m playing?”

“cut the act.” his voice cracks, sharp and low. “what the hell do you want from me?”

you walk slowly toward him, arms draping lazily over his shoulders, fingers trailing up the back of his neck like a ghost he thought he buried. “you,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “i want you.”

his jaw tightens, but his hands tremble. “don’t do this.”

“why not?” your breath brushes against his ear. “because you’re scared you’ll fall again? or because you already have?”

he grabs your wrists and pulls them down. “this isn’t real. it’s never been real with you. you twist everything—”

“and yet, here you are,” you cut him off, stepping even closer. “following me, dragging me into dark rooms, asking me what i want. what does that say about you, beomgyu?”

his silence is deafening.

you smile, slow and venomous. “you don’t love her,” you say, voice flat now, cutting. “you love what she gives you. her father’s empire. the title. the access. you’re marrying a name, not a person.”

his lips part to argue, but no words come out.

“you betrayed me to save your future,” you continue, no longer seducing—now dismantling him piece by piece. “and now that i’ve returned to claim what’s mine, you think you can just tell me to stop?”

“what did you do?” his voice is hoarse, shaken, almost afraid.

you tilt your head. “you’ll find out soon enough.”

he lunges forward then, fists clenching like he might strike, but stops inches from your face. you don’t flinch. you want him to hit you. you want the mask to fall completely. instead, he breathes harshly, veins pulsing in his neck.

“you ruined everything.”

“no,” you correct, brushing invisible lint off his suit jacket. “i balanced everything. this was never your story alone, beomgyu. i was just patient enough to wait for the climax.”

from outside, you hear laughter, music, the clink of glasses. a celebration built on lies, already cracking.

he looks at you like you're the devil, but deep down—he knows he invited you in the moment he sacrificed you for his own survival.

and now the devil wants her due.

beomgyu’s gaze pierces through you as he stands just a few steps away. his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, and his hands, clenched at his sides, tremble ever so slightly. it’s not fear—no, you recognize it now. it’s guilt, swirling just beneath the surface of his icy demeanor.

he knows you’re hiding something. his eyes narrow, his brow furrows in frustration as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“i can see it,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion, “you’re hiding something. you always have been. i won’t let you get away with it.”

you don’t flinch. instead, you lower your head, letting your hair fall over your face as you allow yourself a small, bitter smile. “what more could you possibly do to me, beomgyu?” you ask, feigning a hurt tone that feels foreign on your tongue, but you know it works. “you already took everything from me. my career, my future. what’s left? what could you possibly take from me now?”

he takes a hesitant step back, his eyes flickering with something dangerous. “you still think i’m the villain, don’t you?”

your voice drops to a whisper, but it’s cutting, slicing through the silence with a sharp edge. “you were always the villain. from the moment you betrayed me, you sealed your fate. do you feel guilty now? do you finally understand what you did? how many lives you’ve ruined because of your mistakes?”

beomgyu’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as if to hold back a storm. “i’ve improved,” he snaps, the words spilling out quickly, defensively. “i’ve gotten better. i don’t make those mistakes anymore. i’ve worked harder than anyone to—”

“you’ve lied,” you interrupt, your tone icy. “how many patients have died because of your negligence? how many diagnoses have you gotten wrong? you can lie to yourself, beomgyu, but not to me. i remember. i remember everything.”

he freezes. the air between you thickens, heavy with the weight of your words. you can see the storm brewing behind his eyes—the frustration, the fear, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. but there's something else, too. something far darker.

“i’ve changed,” he repeats, his voice low, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “i’m not that person anymore.”

“you’ll never change,” you whisper, your gaze hardening. “i’d never make the mistakes you did. i’d never let anyone die. but you? You don’t even care. you never did.”

the tension builds between you, thick as smoke. his hands are clenched into fists, and for a moment, you think he might lash out. but then, his voice cracks, desperation lining his words. “you need to leave. now. i never want to see you again.”

ACT NINE: THE REVEAL

you feel your lips curl into a smile. the air between you feels too tense to breathe in, yet you move closer, not backing down. you raise your dress slightly, just enough to reveal the glint of bloodied steel tucked into the garter on your thigh. the knife, still slick with the evidence of your actions.

beomgyu freezes, his eyes going wide, his face draining of color. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. his voice trembles when he finally whispers, barely audible, “tell me... you didn’t—”

“didn’t what?” you ask, leaning closer, almost savoring the fear in his eyes. “you think i’d let you get away with it all? after everything you put me through?”

his breath is shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “tell me it’s not true... p-please.”

you step closer, your fingers brushing over the hilt of the knife, feeling the cool metal under your fingertips. “it’s true, beomgyu. it’s all true. but don’t worry,” you continue, leaning in so close your lips almost touch his ear. “i won’t blame you for what happened. after all, you did it. you killed her. you killed hana. and i just helped you clean up your mess.”

he stumbles back, his face ashen, eyes wide, pupils dilated. his voice cracks as he whispers the words he’s most terrified to admit, “you... you really did it, didn’t you?”

you smile, slow and deliberate, feeling a twisted satisfaction at the horror in his eyes.

“you?” he whispers again, barely able to breathe. “you killed her?”

you laugh softly, your voice a low, dangerous hum. “me? oh, beomgyu, it wasn’t me who did all of this. it was you. you just never saw it coming.”

you take a step closer, until you’re so near that his breath mingles with yours, but this time, there’s no more mask. there’s no more façade. just the reality of what’s happened and what’s to come.

with a wicked smile, you press your lips against his ear and whisper, “i didn’t kill her, beomgyu. you did.”

his face goes pale as he finally realizes the magnitude of what you’ve done. the game is over. there’s no escaping it now.

beomgyu’s denial hangs heavy in the air. “no,” he mutters, almost like a prayer. “no, i don’t believe you.” his voice shakes, but there’s something desperate behind his words, like he’s begging the world to disprove you, to make this some elaborate lie.

without breaking eye contact, you reach for his hand. he resists at first, stiff with unease, but you’re insistent. delicate fingers wrap around his wrist, and you guide his palm down your thigh, brushing past the smooth fabric of your dress until it finds the cold steel nestled against your skin.

his breath hitches the moment his fingertips graze the knife.

you press his hand harder against it, watching his face contort. “there,” you whisper in a voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “do you feel it, beomgyu? that’s her blood. your bride’s blood. your future. your lie.”

his eyes widen in disbelief, but that disbelief quickly twists into something far darker. the veins in his neck bulge with tension, his jaw clenched so tightly you hear the grind of his teeth. he jerks his hand away as if the touch burned him, but it’s already too late.

something inside him snaps.

with a choked roar, beomgyu lunges at you, fingers reaching—not for your throat, but for the knife. his face is a mask of rage, the lines once softened by charm now carved into something feral and unrecognizable.

beomgyu rips his hand away like it’s been scorched. his eyes go wide—then dark. the denial in them crumbles into something monstrous. fury consumes his features like a wildfire, burning away any remnants of the composed, gentle man he pretended to be.

“you bitch—!” he snarls, eyes wild. “you fucking psycho! i'll fucking kill you!” he growls through clenched teeth, and in a blink he’s on you, grabbing your arm and yanking the knife free from your leg.

the cold kiss of steel flashes in the dim light as he raises it.

but you’ve anticipated this moment. always one step ahead.

before the blade can meet its mark, or can close around your throat, your arm lashes out. you grab the black tie wrapped around the closet’s ornate handle—the very one he wore earlier that day—and yank it with all your strength.

the closet door bursts open.

and with a sickening thud, hana’s lifeless body tumbles forward, crashing into beomgyu’s chest like a broken doll. her dress is still pristine white, but soaked crimson around the neck, where the fatal wound rests like a grotesque necklace. her head lolls unnaturally as she falls directly onto beomgyu, knocking him back several steps.

his arms instinctively catch her, and for a split second, the world stops.

the blood.

the weight.

the coldness of her skin.

he staggers, knees nearly buckling, and the knife—your knife—slips from your leg and clatters to the floor between them, the blade nearly piercing hana’s side as she collapses fully into his trembling arms.

beomgyu doesn't scream. he can't.

the silence in the room is louder than anything. his breathing turns erratic, like a trapped animal finally realizing it's been lured into the cage. his trembling fingers touch the blood on hana's chest. his own hands, now red.

the walls are closing in. fast.

and all you do… is smile.

a slow, merciless smile as you step back into the shadows of the room. because now the stage is perfectly set.

and he is holding the murder weapon.

ACT TEN: THE MAN THEY'LL BLAME

for a moment, beomgyu doesn’t move.

he just stares—stares at the body cradled in his arms like it might still blink, might still breathe, might still whisper his name and laugh at this cruel joke. but there’s no laughter now. only the warmth of her blood soaking into his sleeves, her dress, the scent of iron clinging to every inhale. his face collapses into a grotesque mask of shock and pain.

“no,” he breathes out. “no, no, no—”

then the scream rips out of him, raw and gut-wrenching, a sound that doesn’t even sound human. he screams until his throat burns, until his lungs rattle, until the air around him trembles from the sheer force of it. the knife—your knife—still rests in his hand, stained and gleaming. his knuckles are white from how tightly he grips it.

that’s when the footsteps thunder outside.

the door bursts open.

gasps. screams. chaos.

guests flood the entrance like a wave—confused, horrified, stunned. among them, mr. yoon, hana’s father, stares into the room, frozen at the threshold. his eyes fall on his daughter first. slumped overcovered in blood. then on beomgyu—drenched in it, knife in hand, eyes wild and red.

and then… you.

you’re on the floor, trembling, hair disheveled, dress rumpled as if you’d struggled. tears streak your cheeks—perfect, practiced tears. you crawl backward, as if trying to get away from the man who supposedly tried to hurt you.

“mr. yoon—!” you cry out, voice cracking beautifully. “h-he killed her! i—i saw him! he found out about the affair, and—and when i tried to stop him, h-he tried to force himself on me!”

gasps erupt behind you. someone cries. another person retches.

beomgyu looks up, eyes darting from face to face, from you to the crowd. “she’s lying!” he shouts, hoarse, frantic. “she did this! it wasn’t me—!”

but mr. yoon’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and trembling with rage. “get away from my daughter!” he roars, his eyes blazing with grief. “you monster! YOU STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

“no—please—listen to me, she—!” beomgyu tries to speak, but no one hears him. no one wants to.

they only see blood.

they only see a man with a knife and a woman sobbing on the floor.

phones are already out. someone is screaming for the police. others are backing away in terror. and the walls begin to close in on beomgyu.

he staggers to his feet, unsteady and splattered in red. the knife falls from his hand, clattering to the floor in a sharp ring of metal. he looks down at himself, the blood dripping from his fingers, painting a path of guilt behind him. his breath shortens, panic setting in like a chokehold.

“no… no, this isn’t happening…” he whispers, stumbling backward.

then—he runs.

out of the room. down the corridor. leaving a long, damning trail of crimson footprints in his wake.

and as the screams echo behind him, you stay on the floor… weeping just enough to keep the attention. just enough to keep the lie alive.

because now the world believes the story you wrote.

and beomgyu?

he’s already halfway to becoming the villain in everyone’s eyes.

FINAL ACT: THE PRICE OF BLOOD AND SILENCE

outside, the air is heavy with the weight of disbelief. voices cut through the night like blades—frantic, confused, disoriented. the manic hum of whispers grows louder the further you descend the stairs, like insects crawling over a rotting truth. people are gathered in tight little knots, their faces pale, tear-streaked, their eyes darting toward the mansion windows where the blood still clings to the glass.

you pass them quietly.

you hear the words that float around you like ghosts, each syllable another stone sealing beomgyu’s fate.

“he always said he loved hana. i didn’t think he meant… like that.”

“he was obsessed. did you see his face?”

“i told you something was off about him.”

“they say he found out about her and soobin… that she cheated during the bachelorette trip. maybe it pushed him over the edge.”

“he was crazy in love.”

you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your eyes stay low, your expression soft—an echo of grief stitched delicately across your features. every gesture rehearsed. every breath measured. inside, your heart is still. not peaceful… just empty.

you cross the lawn, past the wilting flower arrangements, past the shattered champagne glasses and chairs left crooked in haste. the wedding arch stands crooked now, fabric swaying like it’s mourning. you follow the trail of red stains, droplets growing thicker the closer you get to the garden altar.

and there he is.

beomgyu.

collapsed on the grass like a marionette with its strings cut. his knees are drawn to his chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pressed to his temple as if trying to hold his skull together. his suit is drenched—shoulders, chest, cuffs—sticky with the blood of the woman he thought he’d marry. he’s murmuring to himself, over and over, lips trembling, voice cracking with disbelief and despair.

“i didn’t do it… i didn’t do it… i didn’t…”

he looks like a shell. like a man who’s forgotten how to exist.

you step closer, the heels of your shoes pressing into the wet earth, and he lifts his head. slowly. his eyes find yours and the second they do, you see the shift—the dilation of his pupils shrinking into pinpoints, his body freezing.

you smile.

just a faint little curve of your lips. delicate. deranged.

he knows now.

he knows.

and when you crouch in front of him, slowly, your eyes never leaving his, your voice slides out like a silk ribbon soaked in poison.

“now you feel guilt?” you whisper. soft. intimate. cruel.

he doesn’t answer.

he can’t.

his chest rises and falls like he’s drowning. and maybe he is. drowning in blood, in betrayal, in the realization that everything he thought he controlled has crumbled. that you were never the fragile shadow of the past. you were the storm waiting to devour him.

your head tilts.

he stares at you like you’re no longer human.

because you’re not. not anymore.

you’re wrath with a smile. vengeance wearing perfume. the end of his world in a velvet dress.

his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

and then—

sirens.

flashing lights.

the wail of justice arriving too late.

officers push through the crowd, guns drawn, shouting orders. hands grab him, dragging him up, cuffing him. he doesn’t resist. there’s no fight left. just wide, ruined eyes and hands still stained in red. he looks back at you one last time as they pull him away.

you wave.

not mockingly. not sweetly.

just… goodbye.

and as they drive him off into the night, all you can feel is the stillness.

not peace. not victory.

just silence.

and in that silence, you smile.

because your story is over.

and it ends in red.

EPILOGUE: CONFESSION IN THE DARK

the cell is cold.

not just in temperature, but in the kind of silence that settles under your skin and eats at the edges of your thoughts. beomgyu sits on the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp like they don’t belong to him anymore. they’ve scrubbed them—his hands—but the blood feels permanent. it’s in the creases of his palms, beneath his fingernails, deep in the lines of his fingerprints. nothing washes off guilt.

he hasn’t spoken in hours.

they asked him questions. detectives. officers. even a therapist. he answered in whispers at first. then stopped answering altogether. because what is there to say when the world you thought you built was nothing more than glass—and someone finally shattered it?

his mind replays the moment again. and again. and again.

the weight of hana’s body crashing against him. the scream caught in his throat. the slick handle of the knife in his hand. the look in your eyes.

that look.

not fury. not hatred. something worse.

triumph.

he knows now. all of it. every piece he missed. every warning he ignored. he knew you’d come back, but he thought you wanted closure. he thought you’d mourned the past like he had.

he didn’t know you’d return as ruin.

he remembers what you said. about the patients. about the mistakes.

and he remembers their faces, too. the ones he lost. the ones whose lives slipped through his hands when he was too arrogant, too inexperienced, too afraid to say “i don’t know.”

but he never thought you’d find a way to make the world see him the way you did. a killer. a fraud. a man too weak to carry the weight of a life, yet too proud to admit he dropped it.

his breathing is shallow now.

he leans back against the wall. lets his head rest there. concrete against bone. he thinks of hana. of her smile, her voice, her secrets. he doesn’t know if she really loved him. doesn’t know if she really cheated. he doesn’t even know if it matters anymore.

because all that’s left is silence.

you didn’t just take his future.

you took the last piece of himself he believed was good.

he’s not crying.

he hasn’t cried.

but something inside him is unraveling slowly, like a thread pulled loose in the dark.

the light above him flickers.

he closes his eyes.

and somewhere, buried deep in the quiet, he hears your voice again—soft, mocking, triumphant.

“now you feel guilt?”

and this time, he does.

with every heartbeat, he does.

and as the door to his cell clicked shut behind him, echoing like the toll of a final bell, the world outside kept turning—unaware that sometimes, the perfect crime wears a smile, walks in heels, and whispers love like poison.

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