satori-runa

[satori-runa]

—SUNKISSED.

Summary: Rafayel tries to draw you despite not remembering you at all.

Words: 1,1k

Tags: Previous Established relationships, ooc, fem reader

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Many long seconds passed before Rafayel dared to move his hands again.

The pastel crayon slipped from his slender fingers, falling to the marble floor with a quiet clatter. He stared at the canvas in front of him, scanning every detail, every curve of color and line he had so carefully placed. The colors blended softly, like the hues of a distant sunset, the strokes gentle and precise, yet cold, lifeless, unfamiliar.

And then, in a rare burst of frustration, his hand struck the canvas, sending it crashing to the side, toppling over scattered papers, ruined sketches, and half-finished portraits littering the chaotic studio.

"It’s wrong," he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with something deeper than anger. "It looks nothing like them."

He had poured hours, days, maybe weeks, into this single portrait. Every stroke, every shadow crafted with meticulous care. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he redrew the eyes, the smile, the tilt of your face, it was never you.

"I don’t remember... I can’t..." His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.

Gripping his head with both hands, he let out a shaky breath, teetering on the edge of collapse. The calm, collected facade he always wore was gone, replaced by an artist drowning in his own desperation. Friends had told him to rest, to stop tormenting himself, but how could he? How could he rest when the face of the one he loved was slipping further from his grasp with every passing moment?

He used to recall you in vivid detail, the sparkle in your eyes when you teased him, the warmth of your smile when you welcomed him home, the quiet touch of your hand against his when words weren’t enough. He remembered your laugh on rainy mornings, your tears during stargazing nights, and that fleeting kiss shared under the golden horizon the day he promised you forever.

But now, when he closed his eyes, there was nothing. Just a void where your face should have been.

The fear clawed at him relentlessly: what if he could never see you again, not even in his mind? What if the only place you lived now was in memories too broken to piece together?

Trembling, he reached for another canvas, another chance, another failed attempt. His fingers hovered over the surface, hesitant. What color were your eyes? He couldn’t remember. How did your smile curve? Gone. All of it. Gone.

"Please..." His voice cracked in the empty room, trembling and soft like a prayer meant for no one. "Please... I don’t want to forget them."

He shut his eyes, willing your image to return, begging whatever force that cursed him to give back what was taken. But the only answer was silence. And in that silence, his desperation grew.

Rafayel would draw you again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. He would chase that fading memory until his hands bled, until the lines blurred and the colors faded, because giving up meant losing you completely.

And that was something he could never bear.

Even if he no longer remembered your face, your presence haunted every corner of his soul.

And somewhere deep down, he still believed that one day, somehow, he’d find you again.

His fingers trembled as he pressed them against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would somehow force the image out from the fog of his mind. The silence of the room weighed down on him, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond the glass walls.

But then.

A sound. A feeling.

The quiet murmur of waves brushing against the shore, the distant cries of seagulls carried by the wind.Warmth. Not the artificial warmth of the studio lights, but something real, something alive. The warmth of golden sunlight brushing against his skin, the kind of light that turned the world soft and forgiving.

And there you were.

The memory unfurled slowly, like a forgotten melody returning note by note. He could see you standing there, barefoot in the sand, the breeze tugging at your hair, the sun painting your face in hues of gold and rose. You were laughing, carefree, the sound ringing in his ears like a long-lost lullaby. His breath hitched. He had forgotten how beautiful you looked in that moment. How your eyes, reflecting the dying sun, had gazed at him with a softness so pure it had made the whole world fall silent. And then the memory grew clearer, sharp enough to cut through the haze.

The velvet box in his hand.

The words caught in his throat, trembling but earnest.

"Will you... share the rest of your life with me?"

He had been so afraid. Afraid of losing you, of the future, of his own worth. But when you smiled—oh, that smile, everything had fallen into place. That single expression had been his answer, even before you whispered yes.

And now, in the cold emptiness of his studio, he remembered it all.

The tears stung his eyes before he could stop them. A hand shot up, covering his mouth as a broken sob escaped his throat.

"Your smile..." he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "I remember your smile."

His chest tightened painfully, a strange mixture of relief and grief pouring through him like a storm. He had been drowning in emptiness for so long that this tiny fragment of you felt like the first breath of air after an eternity underwater.

He stumbled toward the fallen canvas, his knees nearly giving out beneath him, and scooped up the pastel crayon from the floor with shaking fingers.

This time, his hand didn’t hesitate.

The lines came faster now, flowing from memory instead of imagination. The curve of your lips, so gentle and familiar. The sparkle in your eyes when you laughed at one of his ridiculous jokes. The tilt of your head when you looked at him like he was your entire world.

Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t perfect, how could it be? But it was you.

For the first time in countless failed attempts, the face on the canvas smiled back at him.

It was like coming home.

Rafayel let out a ragged breath and fell to his knees, the crayon slipping from his fingers once more. But this time, it wasn’t out of frustration.

It was peace.

And amidst the wreckage of scattered sketches and broken dreams, he smiled through his tears, whispering your name into the quiet room like a prayer finally answered.

He had found you again.

Even if only in a memory.

[satori-runa]

—Moods behind closed doors

Summary: Short drabbles about your memories of Dorian.

Words: 0,3k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

🚪>> Seeing Dorian in person for the first time made your entire brain short-circuit. There he stood, tall, refined, radiating a kind of dramatic charm that made your knees wobble and your heart do backflips. Who could’ve imagined that your doors, the very same ones you walked past daily without a second thought, had been hiding a devastatingly attractive, smoking hot man this whole time?

🚪>> The second thing that hit you, once your brain stopped screaming he's hot long enough to breathe, was the memories. The moments. All the times your poor doors, or rather, Dorian, had to endure your daily chaos, your moods, your clumsiness… and still stood there faithfully like some silent, wooden knight.

🚪>> You remembered how you always threw tacky, glittery decorations all over the front door during every holiday. Wreaths for winter. Paper hearts for Valentine’s. Halloween ghosts with crooked googly eyes. There was even that one year you glued tiny sunglasses on a cardboard sun and taped it up for summer. Now, the idea of Dorian standing there with a completely straight face, wearing mistletoe in his hair and fake snowflakes tangled in his beard, like some cursed holiday prince, made your cheeks burn and your inner fangirl scream into the void.

🚪>> But not all memories were sweet and funny. Some carried weight. Like the time after your first real heartbreak, when you slammed your bedroom door so hard the entire house shuddered. Or the mornings when you stormed out late for work, flinging doors open like you were on the run from the law. Dorian had taken every mood, every tantrum, every rough moment without complaint, standing silently, supporting you in the most literal way possible.

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Dorian looked at you then, standing just close enough to make your heart race, and gave that ever-so-slightly smug smile that caught your eyes instantly. “You remember, don’t you?” Your face went red as you were unable to hide the mix between shame and admiration. “I... may owe you an apology.”He stepped forward, just a breath away, voice low and teasing. “Then come closer and say it properly, darling.”

And you did, maybe more than just with words.

[satori-runa]

—HONEY ON YOUR HANDS

Summary: You got used to your new cannibalistic cottage core life and took a step further in life.

Words: 1k

Tags: Murder, Blood, established relationships, female reader

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You weren't sure when it became official.

It wasn't a fairy tale. There were none of those romantic kisses under the gentle moonlight, where he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer into his chest. Nor did he mutter a sweet confession into your ears behind closed doors, when his brother remained asleep at night. Just the slow shift of your kidnapped life filled with a strange intimacy.

His silence softened the edges. The way William hovered close to you, whenever you did the chores around the house, his eyes lingering a bit longer than usual while meeting in the garden. He even joined you in bed after you fell asleep and would rise before you woke up.

Maybe it turned so naturally, when you started to stitch his wounds. Or perhaps it was around the time, when he stopped hiding the blood on his hands.

Dating William wasn’t like anything you’d read in your little books back at home. There were no flowers,because you picked those by yourself. No love letters, because he barely spoke unless necessary. But he brought you bones cleaned of meat, and you turned them into wind chimes that clinked gently in the breeze. It was a weird match, but still fitting in its own way.

He brought you a deer once.

Still warm. Still twitching. His brother sewed some additional limbs to it, in a not so pleasing way. You blinked at it lying across the table, heart hammering, but you didn’t scream. You just looked at him and said quietly, “Do you need help skinning it?” It was a genuine question. His eyes widened, just slightly. Enough to notice.

“No,” he said. “But… you can watch.”

So you did. You sat across the room, flower crown crooked on your head, humming quietly as he worked. You weren’t disturbed. Just thoughtful. Later, you took the cleaned bones and lined them along your garden beds like little guardians. You got creative with the bones you got.

William watched you kneel in the dirt, your white apron dusted with soil and petals.

“You make everything beautiful,” he said, almost like it hurt to admit.You looked up, smiled soft and sunlit. “Even you.”He didn’t believe it, but he let you press a dandelion into his palm and kissed his jaw anyway.

Soon enough there came a day that started like any other day that you came across. You were in the garden, humming quietly one of the records that played in the livingroom and you fixed the apron bow that was tied behind your back. An apron that William gave you, stolen from another poor unfortunate victim. A fine smell of herbs hit your nose and you turned around to the kitchen window, the soup in the pot was just starting to bubble, herbs from the woods, meat from…well from William and Jackson. The house smelled better than ever.

And then the scream came. It was sharp, panicked and male. The fitting description for the poor unfortunate guy that crossed paths with Jackson and Williams' weird new pig. It resulted in Jackson kidnapping the guy, probably to turn him into another one of the cows. But the scream was enough to let you freeze. Your hand hovering over the petals of a foxglove.

He wasn't supposed to be awake yet.

Jackson and William were gone, hunting. And it meant they left you alone in charge.

And somehow, things were going downhill now that one of their victims woke up and was probably loose in the house.

You didn’t panic.

You untied your apron, left it draped over the bloody chair, and stepped into the hallway barefoot. The scream had come from the upper floor, and now… now there were footsteps. Frantic ones. A slam. A crash. Something knocked over. The screen door creaked. He was running.

You followed. Not quickly. Not loudly.

Like a shadow with soft hair and a steady breath. You were at an advantage, since you were sure that he wasn't aware of your presence. You found him near the edge of the woods, shirt half-torn, face scraped from falling. His wrists were raw from where the bindings had been. He looked back and he didn’t scream this time. He just stared.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You’re another victim? God thanks, I think I know the way out..” You tilted your head. You were still in your soft house dress. You probably looked harmless. He took a step back. “You…They’re monsters. You don’t have to be here. You can escape with me.” You blinked slowly. "Escape?"

You looked over your shoulder, back toward the little cottage. The herbs. The fireplace. The books, the tea, the bloody knives soaking in the sink. William.

"No," you said gently. “I’m already home.”

He tried to run again. Poor thing.

You moved quickly,faster than you thought your body could. The knife you grabbed from the kitchen still had flour on the handle. You weren’t William. You weren’t precise or clean. But when it was over, and the forest was quiet again, you knelt beside the body and pressed your fingers to his still-warm neck. Your breath came steady.

You returned home barefoot. Quiet. Streaked with red. The soup still simmered. You washed the blood off slowly, carefully, like you were rinsing jam from your hands. You set the table for two. Lit a candle. And you tied your apron again. When William came through the door, eyes tired, coat damp with fresh kill, he stopped when he saw you. His eyes flicked over your dress. The red at your collar.

"...What happened?" he asked, voice low.

You looked up from your knitting, warm smile on your face. “One of them got out.” A beat.

“And?” he asked.

You didn’t stop knitting. “Handled it.”

A longer pause.

Then, you felt it before you saw it, he stepped forward and knelt by your chair. His cold fingers touched your ankle, traced a faint smear of red on your skin.

He didn’t ask for details.

He didn’t need to.

That night, he kissed you for the first time.

And it distracted you from the fact that there was blood on both your hands.

[satori-runa]

—The death that rests between the wildflowers

Words: O,7k

Tags: OOC, female reader, mentions of gore if you squinted

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The first time you saw him, you didn't scream.

Maybe you should have since the shackles on your limbs that kept you chained to the rusty chair were cold and rough, leaving the air with a thick scent of copper and rot. And when he came in, he looked like death in person, covered in blood and dirt, smelling like deceased fleshy parts. All those were a sign for you to scream, to try your luck and hope your voice reaches someone else, but instead, you gave him your name. You kept rambling about your previous life, your family, your hobbies, and even what brand of cookies you would buy in the supermarket. It was something you read in a magazine one. The chance to get killed is less when you tell the killer about yourself.

On that evening, William learned a lot about you to his demise. He didn't want to, nor did he care. You spoke so much. It made him think of his brother, who would gladly have shut you up in one way or another. But the man in front of you still didn't move. William, the one with the stoic frown on his lips and this silent dangerous aura, didn't move to kill the sweet, humble girl right in front of him.

Not because of your words but because of that smile you wore, when you talked about the things you love.

William barely spoke. You weren’t sure if it was restraint or disinterest. But when he brought you into the house instead of the cellar and unshackled you, you understood something had changed. You have partly succeeded in surviving a bit longer. So you tried everything to keep it that way, staying on the man's good side.

So you cleaned. Dusted cobwebs from corners no one cared about. Scrubbed dried stains off the counters until your fingers were raw. You found cracked teacups, set them gently on a mismatched tray, and brewed mint tea from crushed leaves you dried on the windowsill.

Sometimes, you hummed lullabies to fill the silence.

William never told you to stop.

He watched, though.

Sometimes, from the stairs, sometimes from behind doorways. You could feel him, like the weight of a winter coat draped across your shoulders. Watching as you gently patted the dust off old books. Watching as you stepped barefoot into the overgrown garden behind the house, collecting dandelions and clovers like they were treasure.

“You're oddly comfortable with your new life,” he finally said one day. Not a question. Just a statement dropped like a blade onto your lap. You looked up from your flower bundle. “Shouldn't I be?”

He didn’t answer.

There were days when silence clung to the house like ivy. On those days, you baked flatbread with whatever ingredients you could scavenge, or mended torn fabric with little blue stitches that looked like raindrops. You’d leave things outside his room—a fresh cloth, a chipped mug with soup, a clumsily braided flower crown. A service that only William enjoyed and not his brother.

He never thanked you. But he never let them rot, either.

And then there were the days when he lingered.

He’d pass through the kitchen while you stirred the pot. Sit in the farthest chair while you dusted shelves. Watch as you hummed a lullaby while sweeping the floor, your dress brushing softly against the wooden boards.

Once, you turned and caught him staring—not at you, but at your hands.

Hands that picked wildflowers.

Hands that cleaned bloodstains without trembling.Hands that gave him comfort without demanding anything in return.

You were so different from him. It caught his interest.

“You’re… strange,” he murmured one evening, voice like gravel soaked in rain. He stood in the garden gate, arms crossed, watching you pluck violets from a patch of green.

You looked up, dirt smudged across your cheek. “Strange how?”

“You live in a house of death,” he said, “and act like it’s a cottage in the woods.”

You smiled softly, tucking a flower behind his ear. “Even wolves need warmth, don’t they?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But later that night, when you returned to your room, you found a clumsily folded handkerchief on your bed. Hand-stitched at the corner in thread that didn’t quite match.

A little violet.

The same one you’d tucked behind his ear.

Maybe William slowly warmed up to you.

[satori-runa]

—Under Terms and Service

Summary: Ena and you embark on a business based dinner date!

Tags: ooc, not proof read, romance, comedy

Words: 0,7k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Ena glanced at you. You glanced back.

"A contract?" you asked, raising a brow.

Ena nodded, her signature smile lighting up her face, charming, surreal, and just a little bit unsettling in the way only Ena could be. “Absolutely! To cover the points under the terms and service document and make sure that both sides are compensated. Someone like you, a fellow smart mind, would understand how business goes, right?” she said smoothly, holding up a piece of paper and pointing at the blank line meant for your signature.

You sighed, but you couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I guess it's needed.” Your eyes flicked to the line of people growing outside your favorite restaurant. It was couples’ discount night—one you’d been looking forward to—but you had to find a date, even if it's fake. That's when Ena, ever the business opportunist , offered to step in as your pretend girlfriend.

All it took was a signature, and just like that, Ena was officially your partner for the night.

As you both reached the front of the line, the person at the entrance gave you a long, skeptical look. Maybe they sensed something was off. Maybe they saw right through your little charade.

But before you could even open your mouth, Ena stepped forward with theatrical flair.

“HOW DARE YOU TO ASSUME THAT I'M NOT ABSOLUTELY MADLY IN LOVE WITH THEM?!” she shouted, voice shaking with raw, chaotic emotion. “A LONELY MAGGOT LIKE YOU COULDN'T GRASP MY AFFECTION FOR MY PARTNER!”

The poor host flinched hard, eyes wide. Ena wasn’t joking, and if she was, she sold it terrifyingly well.

“I love my partner very much,” she added with a proud huff, her voice smooth like honey, “more than any paid vacation days.”

And with that, she grabbed your hand, smiling sweetly as if the outburst hadn’t just shattered the restaurant’s vibe like a thrown plate. You had no choice but to go along, blushing and trying not to laugh too hard.

Dinner was… intense.

The moment you sat down, Ena adjusted her seat like it was a throne. Her smile returned, bright and poised. “This is delightful, isn’t it? The ambiance, the lighting, perfect for a romantic evening between two… committed individuals.” She leaned forward just enough to bat her lashes at you. “And remember, any additional sides are covered under subsection 4-B of our temporary partnership clause.”

You blinked. “There’s a subsection?”

“There is now,” she grinned, sipping from her water like it was vintage wine.

The waiter approached, just barely

masking his discomfort. “And for the couple tonight, have you decided—?”

“ONLY THE MOST EXPENSIVE AND BEST OF COURSE!” Ena snapped. The waiter flinched.

You tried to intervene. “Actually, maybe something in the middle rang—”

“Silence, darling.” Ena turned her head dramatically toward you, voice low and venomously sweet. “Your opinions are valued, but we agreed, I am leading this date. Article 2, remember?” Her smile was the kind that made the hairs on your neck stand up.

But a beat later, she laughed and winked at the server. “Kidding! Just kidding. We’ll go with two of the set menus, please. Perfect for lovers, right? Because we’re so deeply in love and compatible and emotionally entangled.” Her tone dripped with sugar.

The waiter fled. Probably for his life.

You leaned in. “Are you trying to scare everyone into thinking we’re real?”

“I’m trying to win,” Ena whispered back. “There’s no prize, but I like winning anyway.”

Throughout dinner, her personalities flicked like a light switch. One moment she was feeding you a bite of bread and cooing, “Oh, open up, my sweet tax deduction~” and the next, she was glaring daggers at a passing couple. “If they look at us like that again, I smack their heads inside their soup.”

You weren’t sure if you should be afraid or impressed.

Probably both.

Midway through dessert, Ena leaned back in her seat with a satisfied hum, fingers interlocked behind her head. “This was a good idea. You get food, I get emotional dominance, and together, we get a 30% discount.”

You tried not to laugh. “So this is just business to you?”

She turned to you with a completely straight face. “Absolutely. Unless, of course…” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’ve caught feelings, haven’t you?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Ena burst into a delighted laugh, her eyes glitching slightly in color and shape. “Relax, I’m only teasing. Probably. Maybe. Contractually, I’m not allowed to say.”

You stared at her. “...You are chaos.”

“I am your girlfriend,” she corrected with a wicked grin. “At least until the check comes.

[satori-runa]

—A trip for business

Summary: Your partner ENA takes you along on a sudden business trip to search for the bathroom.

Tags: ooc, established relationship, not beta read

Words: 0,5k

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You blinked at the stranger in front of you, then at ENA, then back again, trying to piece together how reality had shifted into this.

The last clear moment you remembered was sitting peacefully in a patch of dappled light, folding paper cranes. It was a peaceful task, especially since you’d been “forcibly” sent on vacation by someone who claimed you needed to “relax.” You were just starting to enjoy it when ENA appeared right in front of you.

“Wouldn’t you like to come with me on a whimsical little errand?” she had asked amused, already pulling you to your feet. Before you could decline or even ask where you were going, ENA had gripped your hand and dragged you through a blue door that forcefully squeezed all life force out of your poor body.

Now you were apparently on a “business trip” and inexplicably involved in her search for the bathroom.

“Do not worry, I am merely seeking the g—bathroom,” ENA said with an eerily pleasant tone towards the stranger, her hand still wrapped tightly around yours. Her smile twitched. “My partner and I are currently on a business run, so please excuse our abruptness an—” Suddenly, her voice pitched up like a television on the fritz. “AND GET LOST IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANY INFORMATION, YOU SWINDLING CARTOON OF A FRAUD!”

You barely had time to react before ENA yanked her hand away, only to gently clap it over your ears with the grace of someone tucking in a child for bed, before screaming. The poor stranger in front of you visibly trembled, then slowly collapsed into a puddle of goo and confusion. The search for the bathroom seemed more troublesome than expected.

And yet ENA smiled sweetly down at you. “Apologies, I didn’t want your precious little brain to implode from the audial assault, starshine.” You looked up at her, ears still faintly ringing. “Is… this normal for your business?”

ENA scoffed, face twitching into a scowl as her colors shifted. “Tch, obviously. What, you think I drag just anyone through cross-dimensional errands and yell for them?” Her grip tightened on your hand, but not painfully, just enough to feel her fluster. “I-I just thought... You’d enjoy my presence, alright?” she added, a glitchy pout forming on her face. “So wipe that surprised look off your dumb little face already!”

You blinked at her.

She blinked back, suddenly wide-eyed. “W-Wait. That didn’t come out right.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching in amusement as you realized that ENA got herself flustered.

“Oh my god, you’re laughing at me—!” Her voice peaked as her face burned red, then blue, then fuzzed out entirely. Just as she started to glitch further into an emotional spiral, a sudden flicker ran through her form. Her posture straightened, her expression smoothed into something calm, composed, and—oddly charming and all colours returned to her face.

“My deepest apologies, what I meant was, that I enjoy spending time with you,” she said, voice velvet-smooth and measured, like a well-rehearsed commercial.

You couldn’t help but laugh again.She leaned in, close enough for her to fluster you. “Besides,” she murmured, “I do quite enjoy having you at my side. Flustered malfunctions and all.”

Perhaps this little business trip wasn't as bad.

[satori-runa]

—DEVIL MAY CRY

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Dante Sparda

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Rain, Jazz and Tea | 0,6k

Takeout | 1,3k

[satori-runa]

—Takeout

Summary: You visit a certain demon hunter to scold him once more. But apparently, it is not you who has the lead.

Tags: NSFW, established relationship, no plot, not beta read

Words: 1,3k

—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT—

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The apartment was dead quiet, save for the soft creak of old leather as Dante leaned back in his worn out couch that slowly needed a replacement.

He pulled out his guns, inspecting them, before placing them down on the coffee table in front of him. He just returned from another successful demon hunt that night, sighing in contentment as his back sunk deeper into the couch. Despite the relaxation, his ears didn't fail to pick up the sound of the door at the other end of the room.

“You know, you left the call on again during your fight. You could have at least hung up.” You said, placing down the bags of takeout food that he requested earlier next to his guns with a raised eyebrow. A glance at him was enough and the white haired man copied your actions and raised an eyebrow back to you along with his cocky smile on his lips. His voice was low and yet teasing as he directed it to you.

“Are you creeping around after midnight to scold me? Kinda hot if you ask me.”

You shot him another look but he didn't flinch. Instead, he held your gaze with the same dangerous smirk that secretly affected you inside, charming and cocky, but laced with a spark that only he owned.

“Maybe I just wanted to make sure that you didn't run out of stupid comments after your fight.” You stepped closer, slapping his legs that he placed on the table, a silent complaint not to have his feet near the food. “Also you kept crying about wanting those new burgers down the street.”

He smirked, finally dragging his feet off the desk and sitting up straighter. His coat hung open, his shirt tugged loose at the collar, revealing a faint smear of blood still drying along his neck. You weren’t sure if it was his or the demon’s. Probably the latter. “You’re too sweet,” he said, voice low, leaning forward. “And I appreciate your actions. Also, you worry too much sweetheart, I will always have a charming one liner ready for the princess.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh, no doubt.”

Dante rose slowly, as if sizing you up, boots heavy against the old wood floor. He stopped in front of you, close enough for the scent of gunpowder and sweat and something darker to hit you all at once. His eyes narrowed slightly—warm, sharp, but curious.

“You always come in here looking like you’re ready to fight me or kiss me,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

“Maybe I’m here to do both.”

The tension cracked—quick as one of his bullets.

Dante’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you in with a suddenness that stole your breath. His lips crashed into yours, rough and wanting. No hesitation, no preamble. Just heat and pressure, all grit and low growls against your mouth. His free hand tangled in your hair, the other keeping you firmly against him like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“Been thinking about this,” he admitted into the kiss, his voice deeper now, barely controlled but still laced with sass. “Every time you walk in here like you own the place.”

You laughed breathlessly against him, tugging his coat off his shoulders. “Maybe I do.” He grinned, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, wild-eyed, his hair falling into his face. “Then you won’t mind if I wreck the place.”

Without waiting, he turned, lifting you onto the desk with a grunt, knocking over the food and his guns. “Show me,” you said softly.

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

He kissed you again—harder this time. There was a hunger behind it, barely contained. His hands were already under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging across your skin with a desperation that made your thighs press together.

“Off,” he muttered, tugging your shirt up, and he didn't have to say it twice. You lifted your arms, let him yank it over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. His eyes dragged down your chest, dark and hungry, jaw tight.

“Fuck, I missed this.”

You felt heat bloom in your core, especially when his hands returned—this time slower, firmer. He cupped your breasts through your bra before flicking the clasp open with practiced ease, letting it fall as so many times before. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing them into peaks until you squirmed.

“Dante…”

Your voice was soft, breathy, already undone. He liked that.

“Say my name like that again,” he rasped, pushing your thighs apart so he could fit between them, pushing up your skirt in the process too. “I’ll make sure you’re screaming it, babe.”

You gasped as his mouth dipped to your chest, licking and sucking at your sensitive skin while one hand slid lower—over your stomach, between your legs, over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Already wet for me,” he said with a grin against your skin. “Knew you wanted this. Maybe that is the reason why you came over, huh?” You whimpered when he pressed two fingers against your heat, rubbing slow circles that had your hips bucking into him with only some piece of fabric separating you two. “Please,” you whispered, not even caring how desperate you sounded. The fierceness in your voice was replaced with whimpering and desperation.

He growled low in his throat, pulling your panties to the side and sliding his fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, dragging slickness over your clit before easing one, then two fingers inside you. The stretch had your head falling back, a moan tearing from your lips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered with a smirk, watching your face as he fucked you with his fingers. “Tight. Warm. Gonna make you cum just like this first.” You grabbed onto his shoulder for balance, legs trembling as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, his thumb teasing your clit until your moans turned shaky, breath catching in your throat.

“Dante—!”

You came hard, clenching around him, nails digging into his coat as you shook in his grip. He didn’t stop until you gasped from the sensitivity, and only then did he pull his fingers out—slick and glistening. He sucked them clean without breaking eye contact.

“Goddamn,” he said, breathless. “You taste like sin. Might become my favourite meal.”

He didn’t give you time to recover before he was undoing his belt, tugging his pants down just enough to free himself. His cock was already hard—thick, flushed, the tip dripping. You bit your lip at the sight of him, flushed and dazed from your orgasm but craving more.

“Ready for me?” he asked, voice low, dark.

You nodded. “Want you. Need you.”

Dante lined himself up, dragging his tip through your folds before slowly pushing inside. The stretch made your breath hitch—it was intense, but perfect. He groaned deep in his chest as he bottomed out, gripping your hips like he was barely holding back. He set a pace that was slow at first, each thrust deep and precise, hitting every spot that made you whimper. But it didn’t take long for his control to snap. His thrusts turned rougher, faster, the sound of skin slapping filling the room along with your breathy moans and his low, ragged curses.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails scraping along his back.

“Fuck—Dante—right there—!”

He slammed into that perfect spot again and again, his name a chant on your lips, and you felt yourself unraveling fast.

“That’s it,” he growled, one hand gripping your throat gently, not choking, just holding—possessive, commanding. “Cum for me again. Wanna feel you lose it around my cock.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching tight around him, your body arching as he fucked you through it. Dante groaned, losing rhythm, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chased his own end. A few more strokes and he buried himself to the hilt with a loud grunt, cumming deep inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just ragged breathing, hearts pounding, skin slick with sweat.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple.

“Enjoying your visit?” he muttered.

You laughed, weakly. “Only if you keep doing that.”

He smirked, voice still hoarse. “Sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

[satori-runa]

—Rain, Jazz and Tea

Summary: Dante enjoys a lazy rainh day with his favourite person on the couch.

Tags: NSFW in form of skinship (nothing spicy), fluff, romance, established relationship

Words: 0,6

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The rain pattered softly against the windowpane, a soothing rhythm that filled the old apartment and gently pulled you to sleep.It mingled with the soft hum of a jazz record playing in the background—one of Dante’s favorites.

You were curled up on the couch, the fluffy blanket having already slipped down to the floor, and a half-finished mug of tea sat forgotten on the table beside you.

Dante padded into the room, still towel-drying his damp white hair, loose curls clinging to his forehead. A playful grin tugged at his lips as he took in the scene. His chest was bare, glistening slightly from the shower, and the black sweatpants he wore hung low on his hips���almost criminally low. You had a suspicion he wore them like that on purpose.

"Looks like I found a sleeping beauty," he teased, plopping down on top of you without a care. He buried his face into your chest, sighing in contentment as his hands slipped under your shirt with familiar ease.

“Maybe you did,” you mumbled sleepily, one hand finding the back of his head to gently caress his hair. The position felt natural—especially on rainy days like this.

Dante chuckled, leaning over just far enough to steal a sip of your tea. “Mmm, sweet. Like you.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. “It’s cold.”

“But sweet,” he insisted, his voice low and fond as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close. “Days like this… you, me, rain, no responsibilities—it’s perfect.”

You hummed in agreement, nuzzling into his hair. He smelled like damp leather, a trace of gunpowder, and warm cedarwood. A strange combination, maybe, but one that had become unmistakably comforting.

One of his hands unclipped your bra with practiced ease, a skill he’d picked up quickly in your relationship. When time allowed, he always preferred direct skin contact. It was a habit of his, keeping at least one hand on you at all times. And if he got to choose? He always gravitated to your chest, unapologetically fond.

The other hand traced slow lines along your side, occasionally brushing that one ticklish spot that made you squirm and giggle, something he found endlessly endearing.

His fingers danced lazily along your side, dipping under the hem of your shirt like they belonged there, which, frankly, they did. You shifted slightly beneath him, not out of discomfort but out of instinct, chasing the warmth of his touch.

“You’re always so cold,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “Maybe I should just keep you under me like this all the time. For body heat, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed with a sleepy smile, your hand still tangled in his hair. You gave a gentle tug, just enough to make him look up at you.

His eyes were soft with affection, the kind of look that made your chest tighten in the best way. And yet, the smirk on his lips was unmistakably teasing. He leaned up just enough to press a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your lips—a slow, lingering kiss that made your toes curl under the blanket.

“Still cold?” he asked against your mouth.

“A little,” you replied, voice low.

“Guess I’ll have to work harder,” he said, and you could feel the smile in his words.

He nuzzled back into your chest, his breath warm against your skin. One hand remained tucked beneath your shirt, fingers splayed across your stomach in a gentle, possessive hold, while the other resumed its lazy journey along your side.

But despite the closeness, the teasing touches, and the occasional graze of lips on bare skin, there was no rush. No urgency. Just the steady beat of rain against the window, the jazz record skipping softly in the background, and the quiet intimacy of two people wrapped in each other’s warmth.

“Don’t fall asleep on me again,” he whispered, voice half-mischief, half-sincere. “I was just getting comfortable.”

You smiled, your hand stroking through his damp curls. “Then stay like this a little longer.”

And he did.

[satori-runa]

—The flesh we own

Summary: 1x1x1x1 realizes that after all the hatred and the disgust, that there is still a reason to love you.

Tags: Slight mention of gore, blood, ooc, hunter and prey dynamic

Words: 0,4

Author note: I have never played forsaken and this is written for a friend. I apologise for any lore mistakes or mischaractering.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

1x1x1x1 stood at the edge of the treeline, veiled in shadow where the bright green aspects of his form blended in perfectly with his surroundings.

His eyes, if they could be called that, narrowed in on the lone figure below. You.

You ran like a creature born for survival—fast, focused, your breath ragged but controlled. Every footfall landed in thick, clinging mud, yet you moved as though it were nothing but air. You leapt over roots, ducked under broken tree stumps, twisted through the warped terrain like you knew it. Like it was something that you did over and over again.

He hated that.

He hated how you adapted. How you endured. The rest of your team had already been consumed, torn apart by the hands of his creatures, bloody flesh scattered like confetti in the storm. But you—resilient, irritating, alive—you refused to break.

And oh, how that enraged him.

There was something primal about his obsession. Something raw and violent, barely caged beneath his shifting surface. He despised the way you breathed, the heat radiating off your living body, the pulse that beat so arrogantly beneath your skin. You were a disgusting little parasite that refused to yield under his power.

If there was one thing, a single thing, that could be loved about you, then it was your mortality.

A flame that could be snuffed with just enough pressure. Pressure that he owned.

And when the moment came—oh, and it would come—he would savor it. He would descend from the treeline like a specter, decay and rot following his steps like a second shadow. He would wrap his fingers around your throat, slowly, deliberately, just enough to silence the scream before it left your lips.

He would watch your eyes, wide and glistening with panic. Not because he wanted your fear, but because he wanted your awareness. He wanted you to know that you had lost. That your final, frantic resistance had been beautifully pointless.

And then his hand,cold, jagge, would press against your chest, sliding beneath your clothes with surgical precision. Not to explore, but to erase. To feel the warmth, the rhythm, the fragile humanity before it was extinguished forever. He caresses your flesh with his fingertips, savouring it as his mind runs wild. Oh how wonderful your deep red blood would look spilled between his fingers.

He made sure to love it all.

[satori-runa]

—24/7

Summary: In which Leon and you go on a nightly grocery shopping trip to satisfy your nightly carvings.

Tags: Established Relationship, Fluff, slight comedy, ooc

Words: 0,6

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The faint squeak of the fridge door echoed in the quiet apartment. Leon stirred in bed, one eye barely fluttering open.

That old second-hand fridge really needed a bit of oil—he'd been telling himself that for weeks now. But instead of thinking about why it was making noise at this hour, his groggy brain just chalked it up to some dream-induced illusion.

Naturally, he closed his eyes again.

Then came the second sound—a soft groan, drawn-out and unmistakably disappointed. One he knew all too well. His hand instinctively patted the bed beside him, finding only warm sheets and an empty space. He learned about your nightly cravings early in the relationship.

"Lee!" your voice called, muffled by distance and a slight pout. "We're out of Fruit Loops! And there's no pudding left too!"

The light from the fridge cast a glow into the hallway, and Leon blinked toward it, watching your figure illuminated in soft blue hues. You stood there in his t-shirt, which was more like a short dress for you, hair messy, eyes squinting at the barren shelf in front of you like it had personally betrayed you.

Leon couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Even with a cute frown and messy hair, you were utterly adorable.

“Sorry, my love.” he mumbled as he walked over and wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you into his chest. His hand gently cradled the back of your head, and you felt the warmth of a kiss pressed into your hair.

“Wanna grab some? Now you made me hungry too.”

That was a lie, Leon wasn’t hungry in the slightest. But he knew you. Once the craving hits, there’d be no sleeping. And if he didn’t offer, you’d feel guilty for even thinking about dragging him out. It was this typical back and forth. If he don't want to eat, then you wouldn't as well, claiming: “A meal tastes better if you eat it together.”

“Really?” you beamed, tilting your head to look up at him. “Midnight shopping spree?”

His soft nod sent a wave of warmth through your chest, and you stood on your tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his neck, still tasting a bit like sleep and love.

Minutes later, the two of you were out the door, bundled in pajamas and giggles, driving through quiet streets under blinking amber lights. Leon's jacket was draped over your shoulders to shield you from the chill, the sleeves far too long, swallowing your hands in warmth and the scent of him.

The 24/7 grocery store was nearly empty, echoing with late-night radio and fluorescent hums. Leon, ever the romantic, insisted on pushing you in a shopping cart while you cradled your coveted box of Fruit Loops like treasure. He tossed in your favorite snacks one by one, occasionally aiming a bag of chips or a chocolate bar straight into your lap, laughing when you scolded him through giggles.

Eventually, the mix of comfort, excitement, and his familiar scent lulled you to sleep, curled in the cart with your head resting on the cereal box. Leon glanced down, heart swelling at the sight of you so content, so peacefully knocked out in the middle of the snack aisle.

He carried both you and the groceries to the car, careful not to wake you, placing soft kisses on your temple before buckling you in.

When you awoke hours later, tucked into bed once more, it was Leon who stirred this time, his hand gently resting on your waist as he whispered against your ear:

“Love, we ran out of pudding. Again.”

[satori-runa]

—Dear Mr.Serial Killer

Summary: Your co-worker shares the lastest gossip in the office with you which turns your overtime shift into an eerie nightmare.

Words: 3,1k

previous - masterlist - next

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

001 – Anxiety

You were buried beneath stacks of papers, an empty coffee mug pushed to the edge of your desk and the hum of the latest gossip floating around you. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying and failing, to string together a solid report before the next deadline hits.

The words on the old computer screen blurred together into a mess of letters that barely made any sense and you felt the frustration bubble up into your mind. This already went on for some hours and the more you had to stare at it, the more did it robbed you of your patience.

»Hey.«

A familiar voice snapped you back into reality and your nose got hit with the strong smell of cigarettes. Clyde, one of your closest friends in the office, leaned casually over the partition that separates the office desks, his sharp eyes flicking to the jumbled mess on your screen with an amused smile. You didn't even have to ask to know that he probably just came back from one of his many smoking breaks.

»You look like hell. Rough night?« His tone was light and teasing, but you could hear the familiar thread of genuine concern beneath it. That was Clyde—always joking, but always paying attention.

You let out a dry laugh. »Something like that.«

But the memories from the night before crawled back in an unwelcome manner. Bits and parts of the podcast clinged onto your memories along with the soft scratch of the pen's tip on sky-blue paper, and the awfully written letter that you put together as an amusing joke. You silently mocked yourself for being so silly, making a mental note to toss the letter to the random serial killer in the trash as soon as you got home.

Clyde raised an eyebrow, watching you for a second longer than usual. You could tell he was debating whether to push, but instead, he leaned back in his chair and let it go for once.

You were half-convinced that he gave up for good till he spoke up once more.

»You heard it?« There was this certain spark in his eyes. His voice dropped just enough to let you know he was about to drag you into whatever office gossip was floating around.

And same as always, you did him the favour and played along.

»Heard what?«

Clyde leaned in a little closer, propping his elbows on the partition with that signature grin of his, mischievous, yet expectant. »Oh come on. Don't tell me you've been glued to that screen all morning and missed the news.« His tone was light, but there was a teasing sharpness underneath, like he was challenging you to admit it. Clyde had always been like this, a natural at pulling people into conversation whether they wanted to talk or not. He never had been the most productive person in the office, and you don't even know how he didn't get fired yet, but somehow, no one seemed to mind. If anything, he was the glue that held the dreary office atmosphere together. It was hard to stay annoyed at him. Clyde was just that charming with his witty personality.

He got you good and you sighed, running a tired hand through your hair. »Depends. If this is about Brenda and the guy from the food truck hooking up for free lunch again then I don't really care.« Your comment didn't go unnoticed and Clyde's grin broke into a laugh. »Okay, first of all, that was a one time thing apparently. And honestly, the way she defended herself was kind of iconic. But no, this is actually interesting. And totally your thing.«

You arched a skeptical brow. »You said that about the coffee machine rumor last week, and it turned out it was just empty.«

»Hey! I never said how interesting it was. But this time? Trust me, this is your forte.« He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was about to spill some classified information. »Security found one of the side doors unlocked this morning. No sign of forced entry. They think someone's been sneaking around after hours.«

Your posture stiffened just slightly, a newfound interest blooming in your head. Clyde didn't lie, this was really your forte. Eerie mysteries.

»That's...weird.« You murmured, but your words felt hollow.

Your friend didn't seem to catch it. He was too caught up in the thrill of his own story. Knowing him, he would make up his own little horror story and turn something simple into a fantasy version of the real facts.

»Right? I mean, this place gives off weird vibes after dark anyway. Remember those flickering lights on the third floor? And the weird noises?«

You managed a half-hearted smirk. »Oh no, is this where you tell me the building's haunted?«

He snorted. »Could be. I'm just saying, If I hear creepy footsteps or some ghostly whisper telling me to 'get out', I'm not sticking around to investigate.«

»Uh-huh. Let me know when you start a séance. I’ll bring the candles.«

Clyde laughed, leaning back in his chair. But his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, studying you in that quiet, perceptive way of his. Then his expression softened. »Hey, seriously though. Are you good?«

The question hung in the air.

Your grip on the mouse tightened, knuckles going pale. You didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the sound of the office faded into the background—the steady tapping of keyboards, the hum of the copier, distant laughter. All of it felt too far away.

The stress of the report caught up to you, or at least you excused yourself with those words.

»Yeah,« you said quietly. »I’m fine.«

Clyde watched you for a long second, his playful grin fading. He didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

But he let it go.

For now.

The rest of the day dragged on in a haze of half-finished thoughts and restless fingers tapping against the keyboard. You tried to focus on the report, eyes darting between messy notes and a blinking cursor that felt like it was mocking you.

Clyde eventually left you alone, sensing you weren’t in the mood for small talk, though you caught him glancing at you now and then. His usual antics carried on, filling the office with bursts of laughter, but it all felt distant—like you were underwater, watching it all from behind glass.

Somehow, you managed to pull the report together. Barely.

You gave it one last skim, catching a few minor errors, but nothing worth fixing at this point. With a tired sigh, you printed it out and grabbed the warm pages, letting them settle in your hand as you stood up.

Your boss’s office was at the end of the hall, the door half-closed as usual. You knocked twice.

»Come in.«

And you stepped inside.

Your boss barely looked up, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he shuffled through a pile of documents. The soft glow of his desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his face.

»Here’s the report you wanted,« you said, placing it neatly on the edge of his desk.

He flipped through the pages absentmindedly, scanning it with a detached sort of interest. A moment passed in silence. It was debatable if he was actually reading the mess you put together all day.

But then, his eyes narrowed slightly.

»This is fine,« he muttered, setting the report aside. »But I need you to stay late and finish the quarterly projections. They’re behind schedule.« Of course, if it wasn't the report holding you from going home then it would have to be some extra work that your boss had to dump on you at the last minute.

You blinked, caught off guard.

»It’s already past six,« you pointed out, glancing at the darkening sky outside the window. Most of the office lights had already been turned off.

»I know,« he said, dismissively waving a hand. »But this needs to be done by tomorrow morning. I don’t care how long it takes.« Your boss couldn't care less about your silly arguments.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the tired set of his eyes told you it wouldn’t matter.

»Fine,« you muttered, swallowing your frustration. If you start now, you may be able to get some dinner from the small store down the road on your way home.

»Good. Just leave it on my desk when you're done,« he said, already turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. You turned and left, the office door clicking shut behind you.

The hallway was quiet now, the usual hum of office life gone. Most of the lights had been dimmed, and the distant sound of the elevator echoed faintly. Everyone had already left.

Except you.

And maybe security.

You made your way back to your desk, the sound of your footsteps oddly loud in the empty space. Clyde's desk was empty, a half-finished cup of coffee still sitting there, forgotten. You can't deny it, as much as he bothered you sometimes, you missed his carefree spirit right now.

There was no help, you sighed and slumped back into your chair, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension. The hum of the overhead lights felt distant, barely enough to cut through the stillness that filled every corner of the now empty office. Your boss must have left by now too.

You sighed and slumped back into your chair, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension. The office felt colder now, the kind of cold that crept in slowly and settled into your bones. You sighed quietly again and clicked the monitor back on, the cold blue glow casting sharp shadows across your desk. The screen flickered to life, blinding against the dim surroundings, displaying the same spreadsheet that had been tormenting you for hours before. If there was hell, then it would force the souls to work on spreadsheets.

Rows of numbers. Endless columns. Project deadlines blinking like quiet accusations.

Your eyes skimmed the data, but the words barely registered. They blurred together into an incomprehensible mess, your mind refusing to focus. This was the same scene with the cursed report all over again and you loathed it.

Focus.

You inhaled slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders.

It’s fine. You’re alone. No one’s here.But the thought didn’t comfort you.

The office felt too still. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt unnatural.

Then—so faint you almost doubted it—you heard it.

A soft, deliberate creak.

Wood shifting beneath weight.

Your breath hitched.

Too close.

The air felt heavier now, as if the shadows in the corners of the office were thickening.

Your eyes darted toward the dark hallway beyond your cubicle, scanning the empty space.

Another creak. Closer.

You froze, every muscle tight, pulse pounding in your ears.

The building was supposed to be empty.

Everyone had gone home hours ago.

And yet, something—someone—was moving.

You strained to listen, heart hammering in your chest.

Then—

Clatter.

Metal against metal, sharp and sudden.

You jumped, breath caught in your throat. Whipping your head toward the sound, your eyes locked on movement.

A figure rounding the corner.

Your heart slammed against your ribs—

But it was just the janitor.

An older man, maybe in his late fifties, shuffled forward, dragging a heavy cleaning cart behind him. His mop handle slumped over his shoulder, and his tired eyes stared straight ahead, oblivious to your silent panic. One of the metal buckets must have knocked against the wall.

You exhaled sharply, hand instinctively pressing to your chest as if to calm your racing heart.

God, get a grip.

The janitor carried on without so much as a glance in your direction, disappearing slowly down the hall. You let out another shaky breath, slumping back in your chair.

Okay. Enough of this.

The quiet was starting to gnaw at your nerves.

Without thinking, you grabbed your phone from the desk and unlocked it with clumsy fingers. You scrolled until you found it—your favorite true crime podcast. The familiar cover art stared back at you.

If I’m going to be alone in this giant, empty office, I might as well have something to fill the silence.

You hit play. The soft crackle of static buzzed through the speakers, followed by the deep, steady voice of the host. You never have been the kind of person to listen to music or other sounds during your activities since your attention wouldn't last long but it was a different story with this specific podcast. Clyde has been the one that introduced it to you and you've been a fan of it ever since.

"Welcome back to Mysteries Beyond, where we uncover the stories that were never meant to be told."

The familiar words settled in the air, oddly comforting despite the ominous tone. The voice of the podcast deserved a pay raise for the bone-chilling performance. You leaned back, letting the voice wrap around you like armor against the stillness.

"Tonight’s episode: The Jar—an unsolved case where victims reported receiving anonymous letters... each one more personal than the last that leads to a scary twist." You chuckled, the word letters let your thoughts drift off to your new hobby. Perhaps you would become a serial killer too in the future.

"The first letter was discovered on a doorstep. No fingerprints, no return address. Just a single page of sky-blue paper. The message read: ‘Was this what you wanted?’"

Your breath caught in your throat.

Sky-blue paper.

What an odd coincidence.

Somewhere in the building, the heating system groaned to life, sending a low, rattling hum through the walls.

But beneath it, you thought you heard something else.

A slow, steady creak.

Like a floorboard shifting under careful, deliberate steps.

Your hand hovered over the pause button.

But you didn’t press it.

Somehow, the silence felt far worse.

So you let the podcast play on.

And tried to ignore the feeling that someone was standing just beyond the glow of your screen. Watching.

You settled back into your chair, letting the steady rhythm of the host’s narration fill the void as you turned back to the spreadsheet. Numbers and deadlines blurred together, but the background noise made the office feel a little less suffocating.

You clicked away, half-listening.

»...Paper has never been so silent...«

Your fingers paused on the keyboard.

And yet…

You turned the volume up a little higher.

You quickly turned back to the screen, the glow of the monitor suddenly feeling too bright against the creeping dark.

»Authorities believe the letters were more than just idle threats. Each one revealed intimate details about the victims—details no one else could have known.«

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears.

The walls seemed to press in around you, shadows stretching along the floor where the dim overhead lights didn’t quite reach.

You glanced at the hallway.

Empty.

Yet the stillness felt… too still.

»It’s believed the writer had been watching them for weeks, maybe months, blending into their daily lives unnoticed. Stalkers are always so good at their work. It's eerie how much they blend in with everything else. Perhaps even you, my dear listener, are getting watched right now.«

Your chair creaked as you shifted uncomfortably, the sound too loud in the quiet.

No. It’s just a story. That’s all.

But still, you found yourself checking the corners of the office, the glass reflection of the dark windows.

Nothing.

And yet the sensation of being watched slithered up your spine.

A soft hum buzzed from the overhead lights, flickering faintly before steadying.

You swallowed hard, reaching for your coffee mug, forgetting it was empty.

»Victims reported feeling like they were being followed… strange sounds at night… misplaced items in their homes. But by then, it was already too late.«

The words clung to the air like frost.

You set the mug down carefully, the clink against the desk sharper than it should’ve been.

You’re overthinking this. Get back to work.

But despite the voice of reason in your head, your hand drifted toward your phone.

The urge to turn the podcast off was overwhelming.

Yet your finger hesitated above the pause button once more.

A sharp, metallic crash echoed from somewhere deep in the building. It wasn't suble this time. The sound slammed into the silence as a gunshot, loud and jarring. It echoed down the long, empty hallway, sending your pulse skyrocketing. Your body jerked, breath catching in your throat as the noise rattled in the air. It was louder than the janitor's earlier clatter.

For a long moment, you didn't moved. Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the hallway beyond your cubicle, half expecting to see someone standing there and perhaps even run up to you. But there was nothing.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths as your fear slowly bled into frustration. No more creepy noises and jumping at every sound. Slamming your hands onto your desk, you pushed yourself up from your chair so fast it nearly tipped over. The small wheels squealed against the floor as you stormed out of your cubicle, each step echoing sharply through the hollow corridor.

The air outside your cubicle felt colder and heavier. You moved cautiously now, peering around corners, checking doorways. The break room was empty, the vending machines humming quietly in the corner. The copy room was just as still, the devices and machines turned off.

»Okay.« You muttered to yourself, voice thin in the empty space. »There is nothing here. No more games. I should focus on work.« But saying it out loud, didn't eased the tension in your body.

Turning on your heel, you made your way back toward your desk. The office seemed even quieter now, the kind of stillness that made your footsteps sound louder than they should. Your thoughts drifted off to Clyde and his story from earlier. The side door and the nightly visitor roaming around. You suddenly cursed his loose mouth for scaring you with such gossip.

You rounded the corner back into your cubicle, gently slapping your cheeks to ease your mind- and stopped dead in your tracks.

There, sitting perfectly centered on your desk, was an envelope. It was the same one that should be at home on your desk. Sky blue.

Your mouth went dry. It hadn't been there before and you were sure of it.

The envelope was pristine, the blue was a strong contrast against the clutter of your desk. No name, no marking. Just sealed shut. Everything else seemed to be the same.

Slowly, with hesitant, trembling fingers, you reached for it. Perhaps it was a dumb joke mixed with a coincidence and Clyde will jump out of a corner and yell surprise.

You chuckled dryly at the thought as the paper felt smooth beneath your fingertips, unnervingly clean, as if it had just been placed there. It was lighter than expected.

And with a swift motion you opened it.

[satori-runa]

—Dear Mr.Serial Killer

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐌𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 [MASTERLIST]

↳ yandere serial killer x fem!reader

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

↳In which an office worker jokingly writes to a famous serial killer but ends up catching the attention of the mysterious man inbetween the words and papers.

Tags: Serial killer x reader, reader is around 20, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere themes, obsession, stockholm syndrom, MDNI

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

000 A pen

001 Anxiety

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[satori-runa]

—Dear Mr.Serial Killer

Summary: You start investing time and money into a new hobby that might attract unwanted visitors in the future.

Words: 2,2k

Masterlist | Next |

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

000 - A pen

Bookstores had always felt like some sort of safe space, a place where time slowed down for a moment, and the world outside seemed to blur into a pile of insignificance. There was always a faint yet comforting aroma of fleshly printed paper that ligered in the air, blending seamlessly with the subtle, almost calming sound of pages turning under strangers hands. Perhaps those were one of many reasons why you always prefered to come into that sacred space after work instead of rushing straight home.

Truth to be told, beyond the towering rows of books, which were neadly tucked into their shelves, was another part of the store that you absolutely adored: A display of pens, notebooks and other office essentials that would catch your interest in a heartbeat. These small, practical treasures added a touch of excitement to your feelings whenever you stepped onto the soft carpet of the store. Among the items was a selection of ink pens that caught your eyes. They gleamed under the gentle spotlight as if they were pieces of a small art display, especially since their polished surfaces reflecting a quiet elegance that seemed to call out your name.

Your fingers traced the smooth, cool surface of one pen, its silver metal catching the light as it rested between your thumb and forefinger. It fit perfectly, as though made just for you.

Memories began to surface, soft and fleeting, of a time when pens like this had been part of your life-back when writing still held a sense of purpose and pride while you sat in school. Back then, each stroke of the pen made you feel special and at ease. Each refill, each small smudge of ink on your fingers or papers, was a mark of care.

But those days felt distant now. Over time, you had exchanged these beautiful writing tools for the convenience of cheap office pens, the kind that clattered in drawers and rolled off desks without a second thought. They were practical, forgettable, and completely devoid of the charm that once made writing feel special. After all, no one cared what kind of pen you used to jot down your name-unless you were someone who mattered. And you, sadly, were not.

You were just another office worker, lost in the endless loop of a routine that blurred the edges of one day into the next. Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. The cycle was unrelenting, leaving little room for change or joy. It weighed on you-a dull, persistent ache that you carried everywhere.

If you were to sit down and list everything that frustrated you about your life, you might need a pen like this one. Not because it was special, but because the list would be long. It's too long for an ordinary pen to endure. Each day felt like a quiet nudge, reminding you of your own inertia, your own inability to break free. Yet here you were, staring at an ink pen, imagining what it would feel like to write with purpose again.

It was a purchase of impulsive. The pen was already in your hand, you told yourself as you watched the cashier on the other side of the counter scan the small product. You definitely had the money to buy one, so why not indulge in the comforting things of life?

The cashier was about to call out the number you had to pay, but your voice quickly interrupted the man as you spotted the sky blue writing paper with those elegant matching envelopes on a shelf behind her Another purchase out of impulsive and perhaps the start of a new hobby: lettering.

The cashier turned around halfheartly, rips the package with the paper off the shelf, and slaps it on the counter next to the pen after scanning it.

It was an impulsive purchase. The pen was already in your hand, smooth and cool against your fingers, and you reasoned with yourself as you watched the cashier scan the small item. It wasn't expensive, and you definitely had the money for it. So why not? Life was dull enough as it was-surely you deserved to indulge in something simple and comforting.

The cashier was about to announce your total when something behind him caught your eye. A stack of sky-blue writing paper, paired with elegant matching envelopes, sat neatly on a shelf. The soft colour and delicate texture seemed to call out to you, stirring something quiet in your chest. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

»Wait-can I get those too?«

The cashier sighed softly, barely masking his boredom, and turned with little enthusiasm. He reached for the paper, carelessly ripping the package off the shelf, and slapped it onto the counter beside the pen before scanning it with a dull beep.

You barely noticed his indifference. Your attention was on the paper, imagining how it would feel beneath the tip of your new pen. Another impulsive buy, maybe, but this one felt... different. Perhaps this was more than a fleeting indulgence. Maybe it was the beginning of something new-a hobby, perhaps. Lettering. Writing. The idea nestled comfortably in your mind.

As the cashier finally called out the total, you reached for your wallet, unaware that this small decision-a pen, a set of paper-would be the first step into something far more dangerous than a simple hobby.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The very same pen, with its smooth metallic surface, was now rested idly atop the sky-blue writing paper as you returned to your bedroom. You set down a small mug-its colour uncannily matching the paper-on the desk before sinking into your comfortable chair. The night was still young, and the quiet thrill of writing something new was beginning to drown out the exhaustion from work that still lingered in your bones.

The atmosphere was perfect. A cool breeze slipped in through the slightly open window, rustling the edges of the paper. In the background, another episode of your favourite true crime podcast murmured softly, its familiar tone both unsettling and comforting. The room was dimly lit, with a small lamp casting a warm glow directly onto your newly acquired tools, as if they alone deserved the spotlight.

Truthfully, you had never written a letter before-not a real one, at least. Texts, emails, quick notes, sure. But this was different. The blank page seemed to invite you in, urging you to spill something meaningful onto it. Yet, staring at the paper, your mind felt strangely empty.

Who would you even write to?

The thought lingered, heavy and persistent. But slowly, almost without realizing it, your fingers curled around the pen. Maybe it didn't matter who the letter was for. Maybe it was about what you wanted to say.

Your fingers tightened around the pen, its weight grounding you as you stared at the untouched paper. The podcast continued to hum in the background, the host's voice weaving through details of an unsolved case-something about how killers often live unnoticed among ordinary people. But the words faded into a distant blur, overtaken by the steady drum of your own thoughts.

Maybe I'll just write to myself.

It felt a little silly at first, but the more you sat with the idea, the more it made sense. A letter to your future self-something honest, something real. You let the pen glide across the page, the ink flowing smoothly in thin, elegant lines.

Dear Future Me,

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Maybe I'm bored, or maybe I just needed to hear myself think. Today was like every other day. Work was exhausting, as usual. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm stuck in this cycle forever-wake up, work, sleep, repeat. I can't remember the last time I did something for myself, something that actually mattered.

You paused, eyes flickering toward the window as the breeze stirred the curtains.

I guess that's why I bought this pen and this paper. Maybe it's a small act of rebellion against the routine. Or maybe I'm just lonely, and this feels less pathetic than talking to myself.

A dry laugh escaped you, though it sounded flat in the quiet room.

Do you still live in this apartment? God, I hope not. I hate how thin the walls are and how the hallway lights always flicker. And that neighbor-what's his name? The one who always stares but never says anything. I should move. I keep saying I will, but here I am.

Your handwriting tightened, becoming smaller as the words turned more vulnerable.

I wonder if you ever figured yourself out. Do you still let people walk all over you? Do you still stay quiet when you should speak up? I hope not. I hope you've grown a backbone. I hope you have friends that actually check in, not just when they need something.

The voice from the podcast droned on in the background, mentioning how certain killers kept journals, their private thoughts hidden in plain sight. You hesitated, the pen hovering for a moment.

I don't know why I'm even keeping this. Who else would read it?

Another pause. Then, slowly, you began writing again.

If anyone is reading this and it's not me... well, that's unsettling.

You laughed under your breath, but something cold rippled under your skin.

Anyway, this is stupid. But maybe, years from now, I'll find this and feel different. Maybe better. Or maybe I'll still be stuck, writing letters to no one.

-Me.

You leaned back, staring at the words. It was rawer than you expected, more personal than you intended. The pen slipped from your fingers and rolled across the desk.

In the background, the podcast host's tone had shifted-quieter, darker.

"...some killers choose their victims without even realizing it. A passing glance, an accidental meeting. A letter left behind. It's all it takes."

The breeze from the window chilled your skin. You glanced at the letter, sitting innocently on the desk. And for a moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that maybe someone was already reading over your shoulder.

Your eyes flicked toward the window, the breeze tugging softly at the edges of the paper. The pen sat still beside your finished letter, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

"...some killers choose their victims without even realizing it. A passing glance, an accidental meeting. A letter left behind. It's all it takes." You repeated quietly.

A letter left behind.

A quiet chuckle slipped from your lips.

»What a ridiculous thing to say.« You muttered, though the idea rooted itself in your mind.

A letter... left behind.

You smirked, fingers curling around the pen again. Why not? The night was still young, and the creeping exhaustion had given way to a strange, restless energy.

Dear Mr. Serial Killer,

The words felt absurd as you wrote them, but that only made it more amusing.

Or Mrs. I'm not here to judge. Equality for all, right?

You paused, tapping the pen against your chin, a slow grin spreading.

I imagine you're busy-what with all the murder and creeping around-but if you've somehow stumbled across this letter, congratulations! You've found the most boring person alive. Seriously, if you're looking for a challenge, you might want to try someone with an actual social life. I'm just a corporate cog in a very rusty machine. Not exactly the thrill you're probably after.

The pen scratched smoothly along the paper, your tone growing more playful.

But hey, maybe you're into the quiet ones. In that case, welcome! Here's a fun fact: my neighbour watches me through the peephole, and I'm 90% sure he's more of a threat than you. Maybe you two should network.

You snorted softly, shaking your head.

Anyway, I'm sure you're busy. If you are going to kill me, at least make it interesting. Leave behind a cryptic riddle or something. Go big or go home, right?

Yours in morbid curiosity,

your next victim~♡

You leaned back, laughing quietly at the absurdity of it. The paper looked ridiculous sitting there, ink still drying.

It was a joke, of course. It's just a stupid joke.

Still, a small part of you wondered what someone like that would think if they actually read it.

Another breeze slipped through the window, colder than before.

And far off, in the background, the podcast continued.

"...and sometimes, all it takes is a single letter to catch their attention."

Your smile faded just a little.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Heavy boots moved steadily through the empty streets, their sound swallowed by the faint patter of rain-thin and mist-like, clinging to the air like fog. The night was too dark to tell where the rain ended and the shadows began. The stranger pressed forward, hands buried deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket, his figure blending into the gloom.

His mind drifted, caught between the thought of sinking into the cold comfort of his bed and the unfinished tasks waiting for him before the next day bled in. He cursed himself in silence for his laziness, steps slowing ever so slightly-until something small and sharp enough to be noticed tapped against his head.

He stopped.

It wasn't painful, but it was enough to pull him from his thoughts.

A piece of paper.

No, a letter.

It drifted lazily to the wet pavement, the sky-blue colour stark against the dark, rain-slick ground. The colour alone caught his eye, soft and out of place in the cold night. He stooped down and plucked it from the concrete, the damp edges clinging to his fingertips.

His eyes lifted, slowly, carefully, scanning the buildings above.

And there it was.

A window, slightly ajar. Curtains stirring faintly in the breeze.

The stranger stared for a long moment, the letter cold in his hand.

And then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled.

[satori-runa]

—Love is only an hypothesis

Prologue: Only an hour per day

Summary: Viktor gets visited by an psychology student with an daring proposal he tries to ignore.

Masterlist | Next

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Viktor was the embodiment of ambition—a man who would go to any length to achieve his goals, driven by an insatiable thirst for progress. Heimerdinger never failed to sing his praises, extolling his assistant as if he were a saint. The professor spoke of Viktor as a beacon of inspiration, an example for aspiring students, including you, to emulate. A simple man from Zaun, rising to become one of Piltover’s brightest minds—it was a tale Heimerdinger seemed determined to hammer into anyone who would listen.

Perhaps it was this very brilliance that made Viktor the perfect target for you.

The scientist froze as the air shifted around him, a prickle at the nape of his neck alerting him to your sudden presence. He hadn’t heard the door creak open, nor the sound of your footsteps, nor even the measured tone with which you called his name. Yet, the moment you entered the room, Viktor felt you— an sudden intruder that smashed his focus in pieces.

“Mister Viktor.” Your voice was smooth, polite, the faintest smile tugging at your lips as you clutched a stack of papers and folders tightly to your chest. The gesture seemed innocent enough, but Viktor’s sharp gaze caught the hunger behind your façade. It wasn’t interest that filled your eyes—it was greed. He didn’t miss the subtle cues your body betrayed, the ones that screamed louder than words ever could. The way your knuckles turned white as you clutched the papers against your chest, as though they were the only thing tethering you to composure. The faint, restless twitch of your foot, as if grounding yourself in the moment might somehow steel your resolve. Viktor’s sharp gaze took it all in, dissecting each movement with clinical precision.

He knew people like you—driven, calculating, and desperate enough to mask their intentions beneath a veneer of politeness. And he couldn’t say he liked those people. After all, none of these ever respected him as a person.

The man turned slightly, his unease masked by a calm exterior. “Pardon me, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” he murmured, sparing you only a glance before returning to the runes scattered before him. He doesn't need your name to know that you are probably just wasting his time. Jayce is the social butterfly of this lab, why would Viktor step up to that position himself now? His fingers twitched, tracing invisible patterns in the air. Something was missing—a piece of the puzzle that eluded him, leaving his work at a frustrating standstill. Your presence only worsened the irritation.

“And,” he added, voice cool, “I don’t believe barging into someone’s lab is appropriate behavior.” He was still polite too, mirroring you, but with a sharper edge to his tone.

“Ah, forgive me, Mister Viktor,” you replied, your tone bright with feigned enthusiasm. “Professor Heimerdinger suggested you might assist me with my work.” Your words were honeyed, rolling from your tongue with practiced ease. But to Viktor, they grated—an unwelcome distraction wrapped in false cheer.

He frowned slightly but composed himself, the tension in the room thickening as he weighed your intentions. “Eh, did he now?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, the edge of suspicion unmistakable.

“Indeed, he did,” you replied, your smile unwavering, even as you felt the weight of Viktor’s disinterest pressing against you like a cold wall. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before continuing. “I’m a psychology student working on a long-term social experiment for one of my classes. My hypothesis explores the moment when strangers stop being strangers—when potential feelings start forming in the human mind. For that, I need a partner. A stranger. Someone with a disciplined mind and a unique perspective—someone like you, Mister Viktor.”

Viktor’s pencil halted mid-sketch, the graphite tip hovering just above the parchment. His hand lingered there, frozen in place. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his sharp, calculating eyes narrowing slightly as he processed your words. “A social experiment,” he said, his tone flat and unyielding. He tilted his head ever so slightly, as though examining an odd specimen. “And you think I am… suitable for this?” A hint of genuine surprise sneaked into his tone but left as quickly as it came.

“Yes,” you answered firmly, gripping the papers in your hands just a little tighter. Your knuckles whitened under the strain, but you pushed through the nerves. “Your reputation speaks for itself. I know you’re logical, methodical, and—above all—dedicated to understanding things on a deeper level. That’s exactly the kind of person I need.”

You were, in truth, reciting a version of Professor Heimerdinger’s high praise for Viktor, hoping to appeal to the man’s intellect—or perhaps his pride. Flattery, you believed, had a way of softening even the toughest exterior. Surely Viktor wouldn’t be an exception.

But he was.

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His brown hair caught the faint glow of the lab’s overhead lights as he regarded you with a faint smirk. “And you think compliments will convince me?” His words carried an edge, a sharpness that made you wince inwardly. He looked through you. “Miss…?”

You stammered, quickly offering your name, your voice faltering for just a moment.

He repeated your name on his lips, his tone clipped and formal, “I have no interest in your experiment.” He leaned forward slightly, tapping the edge of the parchment with his pencil. “My work on the HexTech requires my full attention. I see little value in spending time on something so… trivial as a study in a field that I'm not part of.” His gaze flicked back to his work, as though you had already ceased to exist.

“But—”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone more suited to your needs,” he interrupted without looking up. “Perhaps Jayce. He seems far more… enthusiastic about social endeavors.”

Your jaw tightened. You fought the urge to snap back, forcing yourself to breathe through the frustration bubbling in your chest. Your project was already dangerously behind schedule, and Viktor was the only person who could add real credibility to your research. Without him, you might have to resort to asking random strangers on the street.

“I didn’t come here lightly, Mister Viktor,” you said, keeping your voice steady, though your hands trembled slightly. You took a hesitant step closer, holding out your papers as if offering him a tangible piece of your determination. “I believe you could bring something to this experiment that no one else could.”

Viktor’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t even glance at the papers you were holding. “And yet,” he said simply, “I am declining.” His words were calm, almost dismissive, as though this conversation was little more than a fleeting distraction.

Your shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of rejection settling over you like a heavy cloak. Still, you forced a polite smile, taking a step back toward the door. “I understand,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “But, if you ever reconsider, the offer will remain open.”

As you turned to leave, your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, silently hoping he might change his mind. After all, having Viktor’s name on your project would make it shine in ways no one else’s could.

He didn’t respond. His attention was already back on the intricate sketches spread across his desk, his pencil moving once more with smooth, calculated strokes.

You stepped out of the lab, the door closing quietly behind you. For a moment, you stood there in the dim hallway, staring at the floor as frustration and determination wrestled within you. Finally, you straightened your back and clenched your fists.

This wasn’t over. Viktor may have dismissed you now, but you weren’t about to give up so easily.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The following day, Viktor was hunched over his workbench, the glow of his lamp illuminating the scattered blueprints and prototypes littering his desk. The rhythmic scratching of his pencil filled the quiet lab as he worked tirelessly, his mind consumed by equations and mechanical schematics.

A soft, deliberate knock on the lab door broke his concentration. Viktor frowned, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. “Enter,” he called, his tone distracted as his focus remained on the half-drawn sketch before him.

The door creaked open, and the familiar sound of measured footsteps echoed in the room. “Ah, Viktor, my boy!” Professor Heimerdinger’s cheerful voice broke the quiet like a beam of sunlight through a clouded sky. Viktor sighed inwardly, already sensing where this was going.

“Professor,” Viktor greeted politely without looking up, his pencil resuming its careful work. “What brings you here? I am quite occupied at the moment.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that,” Heimerdinger replied, his bushy eyebrows twitching as he surveyed the cluttered workspace. He was used to Viktors behaviour by now. “But even the most brilliant minds need a break now and then.” He hopped onto a nearby stool, his small stature barely bringing him to Viktor’s eye level.

“I do not have time for breaks,” Viktor said curtly, turning the page of his notebook. “There is much to be done, and no one else will do it.”

“Ah, but that is precisely why I am here!” Heimerdinger clapped his hands together, his bright eyes sparkling. “You see, a fellow professor approached me with a rather fascinating project yesterday. A psychology experiment, no less!”

Viktor’s pencil froze for a moment, though he didn’t look up. “I am aware,” he said, his voice neutral. “Their student came to me with her request.”

“And?” Heimerdinger leaned forward, his ears twitching with curiosity.

“I declined,” Viktor replied simply. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “It is not my area of expertise, nor does it hold any relevance to my work.”

Heimerdinger’s expression softened, and he stroked his long mustache thoughtfully. “Ah, Viktor, always so focused, so disciplined. But sometimes, the most unexpected endeavors can lead to the greatest discoveries.”

“I fail to see how studying the emotional whims of strangers would contribute to the advancement of technology,” Viktor said, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone.

The professor chuckled warmly. “Perhaps not directly, but there is value in understanding people, Viktor. After all, technology is meant to serve humanity, is it not? To improve their lives?”

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Heimerdinger, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “I serve humanity by solving practical problems, not by indulging in frivolous studies.”

Heimerdinger tilted his head, undeterred by Viktor’s resistance. “And yet, this project may provide you with a fresh perspective—one that could inspire new ideas, new solutions. Sometimes, stepping away from our usual pursuits is exactly what we need to move forward.”

Viktor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Professor, I respect your wisdom, but I have no interest in this.”

Heimerdinger hopped off the stool, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps not now, but I do hope you’ll reconsider. This student is quite determined—and determination, my dear boy, can be a powerful thing. She sees something in you that perhaps you cannot see in yourself.”

Viktor said nothing, his eyes drifting back to his sketches.

With a knowing smile, Heimerdinger began to make his way toward the door. “I’ll leave you to think about it. But don’t forget, Viktor—even the sharpest tools need sharpening from time to time.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Viktor sat in silence, staring at the half-finished design on his desk. His mind wandered back to the previous day, to your determined expression and the way your voice had wavered, just slightly, as you tried to convince him.

He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. He had work to do.

But no matter how hard he tried to focus, your words lingered, an unwelcome echo in the quiet of his lab.

The lab grew quieter as the hours stretched on. The faint hum of machines and the occasional scrape of pencil against paper were Viktor’s only companions. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to drown himself in his work, his thoughts kept returning to the professor’s visit—and to you.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. The pencil in his hand spun idly between his fingers, his mind no longer on the schematics before him.

“Even the sharpest tools need sharpening.”

Heimerdinger’s words echoed in his mind, irritatingly persistent. Viktor frowned, his sharp gaze drifting to the blueprints spread across his desk. Technology, innovation, progress—these were his domains. He had little patience for the unpredictability of human emotions or the nuances of social interaction. And yet...

He set the pencil down with a sigh, the sound of it rolling across the desk breaking the silence. He hated to admit it, but perhaps Heimerdinger had a point. If understanding people could somehow refine his work, perhaps there was merit in stepping outside his comfort zone.

The thought lingered, refusing to be dismissed.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The next afternoon, campus life was in full swing. Students hurried between classes, their conversations blending into a low, bustling hum. The crisp breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass, and sunlight dappled the stone pathways.

You were sitting on a bench outside the psychology building, reviewing your notes with a furrowed brow. The project was progressing slower than you’d hoped, and Viktor’s rejection had left you scrambling for alternatives.

“Miss.”

The familiar voice made you freeze. You looked up, your heart skipping a beat as you saw Viktor standing a few feet away. He looked slightly out of place amidst the bustling campus, his posture as bad as ever, the way he clinged onto his cane. He wore a neutral expression, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Mister Viktor?” you asked, your voice laced with surprise. You quickly stood, clutching your notebook to your chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I have reconsidered your proposal,” he said, his tone calm and measured. His hands rested behind his back, and his gaze remained fixed on you, sharp and assessing. “Your professor and Heimerdinger believe this experiment could be of… benefit, and I find the reasoning difficult to ignore.”

Your eyes widened, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process his words. “You mean—you’re agreeing to help me?”

“For the time being,” Viktor replied, tilting his head slightly. “But I have conditions.”

“Of course! Anything,” you said quickly, nodding fervently.

“I expect structure,” he said. “A clear outline of objectives, timelines, and goals perhaps. If this experiment is to occupy my time, it must be efficient and purposeful.”

“Absolutely,” you said, your excitement bubbling over. “I’ve already prepared a detailed plan—I can show you right now!”

Viktor held up a hand, silencing you with a slight gesture. “Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “I will meet you here, and we will review it then.”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

He gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his brown hair swaying lightly in the breeze as he walked away.

“Miss.” He called you once more.

“One hour per day, that is the time I can offer you.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, a grin spread across your face. You couldn’t believe it—Viktor had actually agreed.

Little did you know, Viktor’s agreement was not purely out of interest in your experiment. There was a part of him, buried beneath the layers of logic and discipline, that was curious—curious about how this unpredictable detour might shape his understanding, of both people and himself.

[satori-runa]

—Love is only a hypothesis Masterlist

Summary: Viktor gets invited to join your psychological study project but declines, finding it unreasonable.

Yet after some convincing words, he finds himself sitting across from you each day for an hour. How could he not fall for the cute stranger that only sees him as an science project?

Tags: Enemies/strangers to lovers, semi slowburn, fluff, slight comedy, reader is female. Set between act 1 and act 2.

—> PROLOGUE: ONLY AN HOUR PER DAY

[satori-runa]

—Love is only a hypothesis

Summary: A scientist and a psychology student work together.

Tags: Strangers/Enemies(?) to lovers, falling in love, drabble

Words: 0,4k

Status: Will write this as a oneshot at some point. Or a full multi chapter fanfic since some people asked.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Viktor had never considered himself a people person. His life revolved around logic, equations, and the hum of his experiments. The distractions of the outside world rarely breached the walls of his lab—until you walked in, carrying a notebook filled with plans that defied his carefully structured reality.

Sent by Professor Heimerdinger himself, you were a psychology student, armed with a bright smile and an audacious proposal that made him question your seriousness: to test your hypothesis about love and attraction. Viktor had scoffed, of course. Science, to him, was tangible, measurable, and your request sounded anything but. Yet you were insistent, batting away his protests with an enthusiasm he found disarming.

“A scientist should always seek to uncover mysteries,” you’d said, your eyes alight with conviction. “Isn’t love one of the greatest mysteries of all?”

Reluctantly, and perhaps out of sheer curiosity, he agreed.

The first session was simple: eye contact. You sat across from him, your gaze steady as you asked questions designed to foster connection. Viktor was stiff at first, shifting uncomfortably under your attention, but as the minutes passed, he found himself drawn in. There was something compelling about the way you listened so intently, as if his every word mattered.

By the third session, his initial reluctance had faded. He began looking forward to your visits, though he refused to admit it. You brought a warmth into the lab that contrasted sharply with the sterile environment, and the conversations that accompanied your “experiments” lingered in his thoughts long after you left.

When you asked him to describe his favorite memory, he hesitated before sharing a story about a long-forgotten walk by the riverside in Zaun, where the world had felt quiet for once. Your reaction—a soft smile and a thoughtful nod—stirred something in his chest he hadn’t felt in years.

Viktor knew he was in trouble when, during one session, your hand accidentally brushed against his while passing a notebook. The faint contact sent a jolt through him, one he couldn’t explain with logic or reason.

“This is just data,” he reminded himself late at night, staring at the ceiling of his room. “A temporary variable in an experiment.”

But even as he tried to rationalize it, Viktor found himself yearning for the next session, for the chance to sit across from you and get lost in your gaze. Somewhere along the way, your experiment had become more than just a study for you—it had become a revelation for him.

He didn’t know when it started, but the realization was inescapable: Viktor, who had always preferred solitude, was falling for you. And despite the chaos it brought to his meticulously ordered life, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.

Perhaps love isn't just a hypothesis, after all.