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lieslab · 18 days ago

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War of hearts

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Minho X gn reader

Summary: An argument with your boyfriend leads to you trying to prove a point.

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: I'm back to writing requests and Minho is so black cat coded and this request felt like a great way to show that off. Thank you for requesting it, requestee <3

_ _ _

“This is all your fault,” Minho mumbled from the driver’s seat. Beside you, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared into the distance.

“My fault? This is my fault? Maybe if you wouldn’t have driven over a pile of glass in the middle of the street and went around it, we wouldn’t be sitting here stuck.”

“And maybe you should have put back my spare tire after you hijacked the one I had.”

“Fuck off!” You snapped angrily. “Is it too much to want to spend time with you? You’ve been so busy, all I wanted was one date with my-”

“And what kind of date is a movie? When we sit there at the screen, ignoring each other, pretending we’re enjoying our time together when we’re not? You’re bullshiting yourself.”

He leaned over to look at you. “If you would have waited until this weekend, I would have taken you out properly. Not to some stupid cheesy romance movie. I could have taken you out to dinner and we would have had a decent time together, but you’re about as stubborn as a goddamn mule.”

Your fists curled and your nostrils flared. Your blood boiled and in that moment, you hated him. You hated Minho and his perpetual need for razor-sharp truths. The arrogance that rolled off him in acidic waves when he grew angry.

You didn’t know how glass scattered all over the road, but you knew a piece embedded itself in one of the front tires. An angry hiss filled the air and he heard it because his window was down. He pulled over along the side of the road to find his tire slowly deflating. A sharp shard, covered in dust and grime, protruded from the tire.

At first, he considered patching the hole, but then he realized he didn’t have his tire patching kit. He gave it to Changbin when he hit a nail coming into the company’s parking lot. He headed around to the trunk to find a spare, but the empty space mocked him. Too swept up in life, you hadn’t replaced the spare. Your own car suffered from a flat two weeks ago. You replaced it, but you’d forgotten to replace the spare in the back of his car.

It sat at home, back behind the house, hidden away against the far wall of the garage. You planned on getting to it, but you hadn’t. Both of you were following your own career paths. It remained forgotten about and when you did remember, Minho had his car out and about. A never ending cycle that happened to catch up with you today.

So the both of you sat stuck in the car. An empty field to your left and your right. Craving something new, you wanted to go to the theater in another town. It sounded good, but now you were stuck here. Minho called a company to tow the vehicle, but they said it could be a while before someone arrived.

To make it worse, wind pushed gray misery-stained clouds above your heads. Your phone vibrated with a notification five minutes ago. A thunderstorm swept your way and the two of you were trapped in the middle of nowhere. You wanted to call someone to come get the two of you, but Minho refused.

Too stubborn and upset, he sat there glaring at everything, like the empty fields with tangled weed patches that pulsed with fine lines of dirt. Freshly plowed, they awaited a new batch of seeds and another growing season from farmers’ calloused hands. The rolling skies, hung with spring humidity, and scented with an approaching ozone.

He even glared at you and that hurt the worst. Too stressed and frustrated, sometimes he lashed out. He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but he couldn’t manage the whirlpool of his own. They built up and spiraled, raining down on both of you, and soaking you with misery. In the eye of his own storm, he didn’t know how to stop.

He never meant the words, but they came out and cracked through the atmosphere. Your physical feelings, they became an afterthought more than anything. You sat here, letting his words soak your brain, causing you to feel worse.

At first, it was a lingering hurt and a brush of sadness. His hand balled into a fist and slammed into the car horn. A sharp thud and brief beep. You flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. Hot tears built behind your eyes and then you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t put the stupid fucking tire back, but I’m not sorry for wanting to watch a stupid cheesy romantic film with my boyfriend. I wanted to watch it with you because I hoped it’d remind you of what we’re supposed to have. So if that makes me a terrible and awful person then-”

“Are you seriously making yourself the victim in this scenario?”

“Go to hell, Minho.”

“If that means I’m away from you and your childish tantrum, then it will be my pleasure.”

You reached over, grabbed your car handle, and shoved the door open. You didn’t look to see if there was traffic, you just acted. Impulsive. Reckless. Foolish. Minho called after you, but you slammed the door, cutting off his words.

Your phone sat in the back of your jeans. Dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, you started to walk back from the direction you came. Minho watched you from the rearview mirror of his car and huffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shoved his door open and stuck his head from the car. “Where the hell are you going? Get back here!”

“I’m going home!”

“You’re going to be soaked and catch a cold.”

“I don’t care.” You kept walking, not bothering to turn towards him.

“So you’re walking away? What is this? Your way of breaking up with me?”

“Sure. Happily. Consider this my good-bye.” You reached behind you and flashed him the middle finger.

“You are such a brat.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“You know what? Fine. Fine! You want to act childish? Go ahead. Have fun walking home. Don’t bother coming back into the car.” He jerked open the door, shoved himself inside, and slammed it shut so hard, it rattled the vehicle.

Grumbles filled the interior. He glared at the sky once more, cursing the slow tow-truck. He flipped off the pile of glass on the opposite side of the road. Despite his anger, he kept an eye on your wavering form in his rearview mirror.

He was right about one thing, you were stubborn as a mule.

~ ~ ~

You lost track of your trek. One foot in front of another. One step and then another and then another and then another. Icy rain fell from the gates of heaven at some point. It restricted your view and left you feeling like a disoriented victim of waterboarding.

Could a person drown while walking through the rain? Ice soaked your skin. It slipped down your bare arms. Your t-shirt clung to your torso. By the time you made it home, you’d barely be able to free yourself from the jeans.

You walked and walked and walked. Along that barren road, the fields ended a distance ago. How far had you walked? One mile? Five? You didn’t know anything, but the distant roar of thunder and the occasional flash of lightning from the corner of your eye. The further you went, the more you wished you would have shut up and stayed in Minho’s car.

The leather padded seats with the seat warmers. You could have played a game on your phone, or fell asleep while you waited. He would have cooled off and apologized. Things would have gotten better. Neither of you got into fights all the time, but when they happened, they were nasty.

He probably blew up your phone in your back pocket. You weren’t going to answer it. Would your phone die in the rain? Was there service here? Empty sprouts of faded yellow grass. Someone either forgot to fertilize, the soil was bad, or the grass had been soaked in something that killed its growth. Regardless, puke yellow wasn’t a great color to look at while you shivered from rain.

Your fingers shook and your teeth chattered. Droopy eyes and a tipped head. You hadn’t seen a car since you left him. Nobody passed by, so nobody stopped to ask you if you were okay. You shivered uncontrollably, quivering, trying to keep your organs warm. Why did cold rain do that? It chilled you to the bone.

Occasionally, a foot nearly slipped out from beneath you. Soaked grass and the sopping wet bottoms of your rubber soles didn’t help. Wind picked up and your eyes squeezed shut. The direction of the downpour changed and flicked to the side. You jerked to the side, trying to hide your face from the unforgiving water. It soaked the side of your head instead.

Beneath the roar of the untethered storm, a humming engine. You pulled back from the road, hoping the driver could see through frantic windshield wipes. You were a good distance away from the road, so hopefully, they wouldn’t hit you. With a sniffle, you stepped back further.

An engine idled and a window rolled. “Get in the car, you idiot. You’re soaked and working on catching a cold.”

“Leave me alone, Minho. I’m fine. I’m going home. I’ll get there at some point.”

“There are flood warnings and the wind is supposed to increase. Get in the car, so we can go home. Don’t make me get out of this car and come get you.”

“I thought the car was getting towed.”

“The guy had a patch kit, so I asked him if he could patch it instead.”

You sniffled and wiped at your face. It didn’t do anything, besides smear more water all over you. Turned away from his car, you still hadn’t faced him. He called your name and you hesitated, but finally spun around. Your eyes sat teary and red.

“Come on,” his voice softened, “come back so you can get warm.”

Your head tipped in defeat and you finally nodded. He pressed the unlock button and the doors clicked open. You headed around to the passenger’s seat and climbed inside. He didn’t lecture you for getting rain water everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke after a few moments of silence. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you for something so stupid. I know I haven’t been the best significant other lately.”

You stayed silent, blinking rapidly, and staring out the window. Freezing cold, your bottom lip trembled, partly because you were trying not to cry, and because you felt miserable. Your sass-filled ego had taken a nosedive as well. You were nearly twenty minutes from home by car, walking home would have taken forever.

The gear shift moved and Minho turned the wheel. You both rode in silence until he broke it again. “When we get home, do you want to order takeout? We can get food and watch one of those romance movies from a streaming service.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I want to. I want to make up for being so…”

“Dickish?”

“Dickish, yeah. I don’t want to break up with you. I’ve never wanted to break up with you. I’ve been having a horrible time lately, but I see that I need to manage it better. You shouldn’t have felt that you had to walk alone in a thunderstorm.”

“I don’t want to break up with you either. I should be apologiz-”

“Don’t do that. Calling me names was valid. I deserved that.” His fingers gripped tighter around the wheel. He flicked the turn signal and let out a sigh. “I deserve far more than that, honestly, but I’m glad I found you.”

“If I go home and dry off, can we cuddle?”

He glanced over, letting his eyes catch yours. “Is that what you want?”

“I mean, you don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“When was the last time we held each other?”

You shrugged, unsure of the answer.

“Okay, but if you try to tickle me, I’m going to bite you.”

A small smile quipped up from the side of your lips. “I’m not going to tickle you. Not tonight, I don’t think I have it in me.” You reached a hand for his empty one, wanting to hold it.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He let his fingers slip through yours, relishing in the coolness of your palm, silently thanking the universe that the rain washed away your temporary anger and he didn’t have to hog-tie you to get you back home.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike

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#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #lee know #lee minho #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know x you #lee know x y/n #lee know angst #lee minho angst

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fluentmoviequoter · 3 months ago

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Playing Favorites

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader

Summary: Tim trains you differently, uncaring that he's accused of playing favorites. When he realizes that the scars your trauma left go deeper than your approach to police work, he accidentally falls in love with you, and you're beside him for it all.

Warnings: touch starved reader, brief angst, depiction/discussion of past traumas, allusion to past domestic violence, canon-typical injuries and violence, fluff, comfort, obligatory makeout sesh

Word Count: 3.2k+ words

A/N: I used this fantastic idea by @nevereclipse!! As someone who is touch starved, I loved every single aspect of this dynamic and hope I did it some justice🤍🫶🏼

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Less than a minute after your TO slams on the brakes, declares he’s been shot, and demands you tell him exactly where you are, the radio crackles. Officer Bradford has been quiet since you answered him with the nearest cross streets and the direction the shop was facing, and his silence is something you assume you’ll have to grow used to. It’s better than the yelling, you think.

“7-Adam-19,” the dispatcher radios. “Domestic disturbance in your area.”

“Responding,” Tim replies. “What’s standard procedure for domestic calls, boot?”

You stiffen, straightening your back against the seat as you answer robotically, reciting your list of dos and don’ts for this type of call. Tim listens, glancing at you every few seconds. He has a reputation for judging his rookies quickly – and usually, he’s right in his judgements. Yet, he held off on deciding whether or not you would succeed. Though it’s your first day, Tim has, until now, been unsure what to think of you. You know your stuff; there’s no question of that.

“Good,” he murmurs when you finish. “Follow my lead.”

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

Tim slams the door to the shop, but when he walks past you to approach the front door of the dilapidated house, he realizes something. You’ve endured hard things, experiences you’ve probably kept to yourself and dealt with all alone. Despite that hurt and the devastation Tim knows comes with it, you decided to become a police officer. Whether to be the person you needed during the bad days and dark nights or to stop someone from going down the wrong path is irrelevant to Tim. All he knows now is that your potential outweighs your response to your memories, your dedication is stronger than your past. Tim will have to change his ways because you have what it takes to be a success story.

For the first time in his TO career, Tim adapts his training method to fit his rookie rather than molding his rookie to fit his style. For you, he can be different: gentler, kinder, quieter. You need to learn and grow, and Tim will do everything he can to help you...

Right after he kicks the front door in and starts yelling at the couple fighting on the kitchen floor.

“337.6,” Tim says.

Pinching your brows, you answer, “Unlawful use of a California Horse Racing license? Do you really think that will come up?”

“It’s not about whether or not you’ll need it,” Tim explains, “but whether or not you know it.”

“Okay.”

“Why do you know that one?”

“Why do you?” you challenge, smiling.

Tim shakes his head as he turns on to Pico. “628.5.”

You think for a moment, then remember, “Information attained during prosecution for criminal activity in relation to massage therapy is made available to the California Massage Therapy Council.”

Tim scoffs, though he's impressed by your knowledge of Penal Codes.

“I don’t remember the Business and Professions Code section, though,” you add softly.

“That’s fine,” Tim replies.

You stare out of the windshield, pulling your shoulders toward each other as you curl in on yourself.

“Boot,” Tim says. “You don’t have to know the whole code, just the premise.”

“What if it comes up?” you question.

“You’ve got a phone with internet and the entire LAPD dispatch at your disposal. Asking for help to fill in the blanks isn’t frowned upon, it’s good policing. You may ride alone someday but you are not expected to do this job by yourself.”

“10-50 multiple vehicles, at northeast intersection of Pico and Hauser,” dispatch alerts. “Service technician ETA seven minutes.”

Tim pulls the radio from the dashboard and attaches himself and you to the call. You flex your hands as he turns around and drives toward the accident scene.

“What would you like me to do, Officer Bradford?” you ask as Tim parks behind the wrecked cars.

“Get these people out of this lane,” he answers, opening his door. “We’ve got a few cones in the war bags, make them work.”

“Yes, sir.”

You open the trunk as Tim joins the other officers on the scene. While he checks for injuries and ensures statements will be taken, you direct a driver to go into the other lane.

“But I need to turn right!” he calls through his rolled-down window. “I’m late to a meeting!”

You walk to his car to assist him after checking that no one is trying to get through. “Go straight through when it’s clear, turn right on Carmona, and it’ll take you up to San Vincente,” you direct.

“But I’m going to Olympic,” he rambles quickly, gesturing to his GPS.

“You’re from out of town?”

“That obvious?”

You smile and point straight. “Go through this light. Right on Carmona, which merges into Masselin after you cross San Vincente. That’ll get you straight to Olympic.”

“Okay. Right, right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, officer.”

He pulls up to the white line at the intersection just as the light changes to red. Tim says your name, then gestures to the traffic backed up in the Northbound lane.

“Sorry,” you say.

As you turn to jog across the street and direct traffic, Tim calls your name again.

“One thing at a time,” he reminds you. “Good work.”

You nod, then look both ways. You’re out of earshot and are directing drivers to merge before crossing the intersection when Officers Lucy Chen and John Nolan look at your TO with wide eyes.

“What?” Tim questions.

“You just said good work,” Lucy says. “To a rookie.”

“You’re being… nice,” Nolan adds.

“I had to remind myself not to cry on numerous occasions as your rookie, but you tell her good job? I didn’t know you played favorites, Tim.”

“I’m not playing favorites,” Tim defends. He looks over his shoulder to check on you, then sighs. “Are we going to move these cars out of the way or talk about my teaching style?”

“EMTs are here to check the drivers, so we could do both,” Nolan suggests.

“Go put the sedan in neutral, Chen,” Tim instructs. “Nolan, you’re pushing.”

The service technicians arrive as Tim, Lucy, and Nolan get the first car out of the lane. As they take over, and another thanks you for your help and begins directing traffic, Tim leans against the shop and watches you return.

“Are you okay, Officer Bradford?” you inquire.

“How many times did you get flipped off?” he asks rather than answering.

“Four,” you answer. “Sir.”

“Should’ve written them tickets.”

Your brows raise, and you press your hands against your legs to stop yourself from wringing your fingers together. “Really?”

Tim shrugs as he says, “Up to the officer. In a backup like that, no, but if any of them had gotten hostile, absolutely.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“I know you will,” Tim replies, pushing off the shop. “Let’s go.”

As you buckle your seatbelt, a robbery in progress call comes through, and you gladly accept Tim’s offer to take the lead when you arrive at the nearby drugstore, smiling at his faith in you.

“Did you know Tim has a favorite officer?” Lucy asks.

“Yeah,” Angela replies. “It’s me.”

Nyla barks a sarcastic laugh, then smiles when Angela glares at her.

“Who is it this week?” Nyla inquires.

Lucy looks around, then leans forward to whisper, “His boot.”

“Tim?” Nyla asks, still sarcastic. “Falling for a boot? Who would’a thought it.”

“What we had was not this,” Lucy argues. “We were a fling, and now we’re friends. He’s- he’s nice to her, talks to her without yelling, corrects her without getting mad. It’s weird.”

“Lucy,” Angela begins. “As a TO, you have to do what is best for the rookie, not for you. Maybe that’s what she needs. For some people, the yelling and obnoxious reprimands are too much.”

“Tim Bradford does not care about being too much,” Lucy points out.

“Got a point there,” Nyla agrees, leaning back in her chair. “He breaks boots’ spirits, regardless of what they need. There must be something else going on.”

Angela juts her chin toward the door, and Lucy and Nyla turn in time to see Tim leading you into the station. You’re walking side-by-side, and he’s nodding along as you speak. Tim watches your face, then glances at your small hand motions. When one side of his lips quirks up, and he shakes his head, Angela and Nyla look at each other.

“See?!” Lucy exclaims when you turn out of sight.

“Oh, we see,” Nyla replies.

“So, what does it mean?”

“Ever heard of kindred souls?” Angela asks.

Lucy hesitates as Angela and Nyla stand to leave, then decides, “Tim is not kindred anything.”

“Maybe not to you,” Nyla says over her shoulder.

“Is she okay?” you ask.

Tim scrubs an antiseptic wipe across his knuckles as he returns from the ambulance. You were expecting the worst when you got a call for a possible 187, but walking into a home with two screaming teenagers and a bleeding child was far worse.

“Paramedics aren’t sure,” Tim answers. “They’re rushing her to UCLA Children's.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” you murmur.

“No,” Tim agrees. “The detectives will figure out what happened, but unfortunately, we rarely get to play a part in deciphering the puzzle.”

You nod, tapping the toe of your right boot against the asphalt. If you’d gotten here faster, if you’d urged Tim to go inside the back door, or radioed for an ambulance as soon as the call came in, maybe the young girl fighting for her life would have a better chance.

“Hey,” Tim says. You don’t look up, so he lays his hand on your upper back and says, “It’s not our fault.”

You stiffen beneath his hand. Unable to remember the last time you were touched like this, you fight the urge to push him away as pain like pins and needles erupts under the warmth he gives. Then, suddenly, it passes, and the only thing you can feel is the comfort he provides.

Your muscles relax, and your shoulders drop as you unconsciously lean against his hand. Tim spreads his fingers when you seem to melt beneath him. At first, he thinks you’re going to fall. But, as quickly as you went from tense to wholly relaxed, a voice in his mind says, Oh.

There was no question that you’ve had hard times and seen and experienced difficult things that shaped who you are today, but Tim missed your touch starvation before now. With his hand on your back, Tim watches you take a deep breath before you look at him.

“There’s,” he begins, trailing off.

“I know it’s not our fault,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

Tim swallows as he nods, wondering why his hand fits so well. A car pulls over on the other side of the street, and Tim withdraws his hand when Nyla and Angela exit the front seats.

He nods to you before you begin speaking with the detectives, and the admiration you had for your TO and his knowledge begins shifting into something more.

“You alright?” Tim asks.

You raise your hand to your shoulder, press it lightly, and nod. Your frown tells Tim differently, and he gently hooks his finger beneath the collar of your uniform. He doesn’t have to pull the fabric far to see the redness of your skin.

“Get in the shop,” he says. “We have to get that checked.”

“It’ll be fine,” you reply. “Just sore.”

“Wasn’t a question.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” you answer with a salute.

Tim shakes his head and shifts the car into drive. It’s been nearly two weeks since Tim laid his hand on your back, and he’s lost count of how many easy touches he’s given you since then. But it works for both of you. You’re an even better cop than Tim expected. If he’d ask, you’d tell him it’s because of him.

The shop is filled with a tense silence as you drive back to the station. Tim is sitting like a statue in the passenger seat, and the man behind you stares at the back of your head as if he’s trying to make it explode.

You’ve known since the very first call of your training – a domestic disturbance – that Tim’s past affects him. Maybe you can see his trauma because you have your own, or it's evident because you cared enough to look. Either way, you know that calls like this affect him.

Finding a little boy hiding in the closet with a bruise on his cheek and drywall dust in his matted hair broke your heart, but it made Tim angry. You had to pull him off the man sitting behind you, and it’s only because of your demands and warnings that they’re both sitting in silence.

When you pull up to the station, an officer is waiting to take your arrest into custody, and you thank him before you return to the streets of Los Angeles.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after several minutes alone.

“No,” Tim replies.

“Yeah, me neither,” you agree. “Wanna talk about the Braves?”

Tim jerks toward the door, his eyes wide in shock.

“Welcome back,” you mutter.

“It...” Tim begins.

“It’s hard,” you finish for him. “Especially when it reminds you of something or someone you recognize. I get it.”

“I know you do,” Tim murmurs.

“That’s why you’re so nice to me.”

“I’m just teaching you.”

You smile as you slow, parking outside a small strip mall. Turning toward Tim, you explain, “I’ve heard the stories, Officer Bradford. I know you don’t treat all of your rookies like this. But I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Tim nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not today.”

“Wanna talk about the Dodgers?”

“You’d like that.”

“You wouldn’t?”

Your smile matches Tim’s, and everything feels lighter when Angela interrupts to ask for assistance with a new case.

“Big day tomorrow,” Tim reminds you as you walk out of the station together. “Get some sleep, don’t overstudy, and know you’re going to do great.”

“That’s it?” you ask. “No warning? Now if you make less than a 93, it’s a failure?”

“Lucy?” Tim questions.

You shrug, but Tim raises his hand, wrapping his fingers around the crook of your elbow to stop you.

“You are not Officer Chen. You are not a copied version of me. You are your own officer, your own person, and you do what you are capable of doing.”

“What if I’m not capable of doing this?”

“You are.”

“Only because of you,” you whisper.

“You did the work. I just offered an assist.”

You glance at Tim’s hand on your arm and don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his neck. Hugging him tightly, you smile against his shoulder as he returns the hug. His light touches changed your life, but initiating physical affection and taking what you want is different.

“Thank you,” you say. “For everything.”

“You did the heavy lifting,” Tim replies.

As you step back, Tim’s hands pause on your waist. He looks at you, almost like he wants to say or do more. But then he steps back and wishes you a good night.

Alone in your apartment after graduating to short sleeves, you raise a glass and congratulate yourself. Your favorite movie is queued, you picked up dinner from the best restaurant in Los Angeles, and a congratulations card from Detective Lopez is now displayed on your bookcase. Yet, it feels like something is missing. While the movie plays, your thoughts wander to Tim.

A loud knock on your door distracts you from your daydreaming and the quiet night in. Pausing your movie, you walk to the door and look through the peephole. You smile as you open the door and invite your surprise visitor inside.

“Tim- Officer Bradford,” you greet. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re off the clock,” he reminds you. He sees your table and asks, “Celebrating?”

“Yeah.” Shrugging, you explain, “I figured, I made it this far.”

“It’s a big accomplishment. Have room for an extra guest?”

“Depends on the guest.”

Tim smiles and offers you a card. You thank him and set it on the counter as you offer to get him a drink or something to eat.

“I’m good, thank you.”

You nod, leaning against the counter as you look at him. He meets your eyes, and the silence around you is anything but awkward as you stare at one another.

“I came to congratulate you,” he says after a moment.

“Thank you.”

“You were right. I trained you differently.”

“Why?”

“Because I could tell that you were different. Whatever it was in your past that led you here, it made you special. It affected you, so I wanted to use that, let it help you rather than hurt you.”

“You never asked,” you muse.

“People who want to talk about it tend to start that conversation themselves.”

“Which you never do.”

“Not often, no.”

“Whatever happened to you, Tim, whether it made you the man you are or if you are here today in spite of it, you’re a good man.”

“Same to you.”

“You think I’m a good man?” you joke, smiling after the serious moment.

“It’s not obvious?” he replies.

You raise your hands to playfully push Tim away from you, but he catches your wrists and holds your palms against his chest. Standing together, you continue looking into his eyes. You’ve seen more in each other during your training than anyone else has ever cared enough to look for.

Falling in love with Tim was not intentional, and it wasn’t like free falling. After he touched you, he brought you back to life, and every day after, you fell a little more for him.

“Why’d you let me hug you?” you whisper.

“Because I wanted it, too,” he replies.

Tim brushes his thumb over the pulse point on your wrist. He releases your hand and cups your neck, tracing your jawline. You lean toward him while he pulls you closer.

Tim’s kiss feels like entering a new world, like coming home and finding paradise simultaneously. Sliding your hands up his chest, you shiver against Tim when his arm wraps around your waist. Tim bends slightly, lowering his hand to your hips before he lifts you. You don’t break the kiss as he sets you on the counter, and as his fingers tangle in your hair, you hold his jaw and lose yourself.

Through each breath, each movement, you give a piece of yourself to Tim and accept the pieces he offers you. Remembering that you stiffened and considered pushing him away the first time he touched you, you chuckle against Tim’s lips.

“What’s so funny?” he questions, pulling away and straightening your hair.

“I was touch starved a few months ago,” you reply. “And now you let me take whatever affection I want.”

“You’re welcome.”

You push your hand against Tim’s abs, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder.

“Some people think you were playing favorites with me,” you muse, looking up at him.

“I was,” he answers. “Still am.”

“Lucky me,” you murmur before kissing his jaw and tugging his shirt to bring him close again.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯

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indigo-mermaid16 · 2 months ago

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Divisional charts / vargas in Vedic astrology

So your D1 (Rasi chart) is the main vibe—like your full-life blueprint. It’s the base, the OG chart where your personality, life path, and major events all show up.

D2 (Hora) is the money mood—how you earn, spend, your wealth game, and material comfort.

D3 (Drekkana)? That’s your sibling tea and also your courage, hustle energy, and support from people.

D4 (Chaturthamsha) shows property, land, real estate flex, and emotional stability.

D5 (Panchamamsha) is the fame clout—how likely you are to shine or be recognized for your talents.

D7 (Saptamsha) is your babies and creation chart—shows kids, fertility, and creative birthing energy.

D8 (Ashtamsha) is all about transformation, death-rebirth cycles, deep trauma, and sudden events.

D9 (Navamsa) is the soul connection chart—hella important. It shows how your destiny unfolds over time, especially post 30, your spouse, inner potential, and marriage.

D10 (Dasamsa) is your career chart—it shows your professional juice, ambition, and social contribution.

D12 (Dwadashamsha) is the parental code—how your parents shaped your inner wiring.

D16 (Shodasamsha)? That’s your ride or die—your comfort, luxuries, and vehicles.

D20 (Vimsamsa) is your spiritual download—your connection to higher vibes, religion, dharma.

D24 (Siddhamsha) is the education glow-up—formal learning, intelligence, and academic success.

D27 (Bhamsha) reveals your inner fight mode—your strength, weaknesses, resilience, and health stamina.

D30 (Trimsamsa) is the karma and mess chart—hidden enemies, diseases, vices, and mental shadows.

D40 (Khavedamsha) and D45 (Akshavedamsha) go deeper into blessings, curses, ancestral karma, inner DNA vibes.

And finally, D60 (Shastiamsa) is like your past life Netflix—shows what karmas you dragged from your last life and how they haunt or help you now. It's like spiritual cheat codes.

• • •

D1 (Rasi chart) = Your main life story, general everything.

D2 (Hora) = Money mood, wealth, eating good.

D3 (Drekkana) = Siblings, courage, how bold you are.

D4 (Chaturthamsha) = Property, real estate, inner security feels.

D5 (Panchamamsha) = Fame, recognition, how main-character you become.

D7 (Saptamsha) = Kids, fertility, creative babies (like projects too).

D8 (Ashtamsha) = Secrets, death-rebirth energy, psychic stuff hidden under trauma.

D9 (Navamsa) = Marriage, soul growth, how your destiny blossoms.

D10 (Dasamsa) = Career flex, professional world, your hustle energy.

D12 (Dwadashamsha) = Parents impact, how they programmed your brain.

D16 (Shodasamsha) = Vehicles, luxuries, comfort level.

D20 (Vimsamsa) = SPIRITUAL POWERS, PSYCHIC GIFTS, GOD CONNECTION. (This is THE ONE)

D24 (Siddhamsha) = Education success, academic nerd flex.

D27 (Bhamsha) = Inner strength vs weaknesses, your battle energy.

D30 (Trimsamsa) = Hidden enemies, mental health, deep karmic f**kery.

D40 (Khavedamsha) = Family karma, ancestral blessings or curses.

D45 (Akshavedamsha) = Inner divine energy, like how holy or ratchet you are insides.

D60 (Shastiamsa) = Past life dump, deep karma residue, your old soul baggage.

#vedic astrology #sidereal astrology #varga #varga charts #divisonal charts

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matchatarot · 4 months ago

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Aren’t we all yearning for the ones that truly understand us, Bunny? Here is some insight about your spiritual family. To pick a pile don’t overthink it and choose the one that draws you in the most while thinking about the reading’s intent. Only take what resonates! Love, Matcha ♡

☆ masterlist

Pile 1 ₊˚.༄

Your soul tribe is abundant and free-spirited. They are content and proud of where they are in life. They have already done most of their shadow work and experienced spiritual awakenings or ego deaths. I see that at some point in your path, you’ll be experiencing fame and competition, you’ll be meeting most of your soul tribe when you’re in that position of power. They’ll come to you to offer you stability while you’re elevating to new heights. They’ll appear in a moment of your life when you’re feeling a bit negative and low… When you’ll meet them, you’ll feel like you’re finally finding the part of yourself you were searching for. Your soul tribe is spiritually in-tuned and extremely good communicators. They are guided by their passions. Hanging out with them will energize you instead of leaving you tired. They’ll bring even more prestige to your name than there was before you met them. Meeting them will give an energetic boost to your mood, career and overall wellbeing. Your soul tribe has good intuition and pattern recognition skills. They’ll be able to protect you by identifying negative intentions. Your soulmates will encourage you to be the center of attention and not be shy to take the crown. You’ll meet your future spouse thanks to this group because they’re part of this soul tribe. This soul tribe is already active in dreams, you’re meeting in the 4d while patiently waiting for the perfect moment to meet in the 3d. You guys will love celebrating each other, always meeting up for birthdays, holidays or even moon cycles! You’ll have your little habits and rituals that’ll feel so sacred to you all. Also, some of you have pets and you’ll love spending time with each other companions, taking care of the animals while your soulmate travels and things like that.

Honestly, I was so surprised and excited about pulling these cards because it was such a good spread that it encouraged me to start taking pictures of the cards for you to see! Like 3 major arcana’s and the ten of pentacles? Unbelievable! This is so beautiful.

gives you hell by the all-american rejects, 222, 24, 8, 4 yellow jasper, selenite

↳ book a personal reading with me on ko-fi ★

Pile 2 ⊹˚˖ ☆

Your soul tribe has strong fire sign energy. They are smart and assertive. They are stable and respected because of all the wisdom they possess. They think thoroughly before taking action, your soul tribe is following a very commendable code of value while making their decisions. Focusing on love, peace and respect. They’re grounded and abundant, a lot of them could be rich but their wealth is self-made. Even though they’re able to stand still, when they take action they’re fast, dynamic and efficient. This quality is one you’ll particularly admire from your soul tribe. They’re so creative and full of ideas, their mind is always racing! You might have adhd and your soulmates might too. Your intuition is already guiding you towards them and when you’ll meet them you won’t be shy to embrace the relationship and they’ll mirror this energy. You’ll feel a sense of comfort like they’ve always been a part of you. Being part of this group will give you clarity about your life purpose and you’ll know for sure they’re part of yours. They’ll also change some of your beliefs that created blockages on your path, making you feel extremely powerful. They won’t let you get walked over by anybody, even if they’re considered to be in a position of power. Being connected to your soul tribe will be so healing to your inner child and you’ll feel more confident than ever. When you’re with them you’ll feel like you’re bigger and stronger than any negative thing that could happen to you. They’ll also protect you from dangerous situations and people. Being with them will accentuate your psychic gifts and your aura is gonna be so strong that people vibing at a low vibration won’t be able to interact with you or enter your life. They’re either coming very soon in your life or when you meet them you’ll become close-knit quickly. They might appear around eclipse season. There’s a possibility that you’ve already met them when you were kids, in the 3d or the dream realm. Also, if you’ve been dreaming about your kids playing with your friend’s kids, this is something that’ll happen by being reunited with your tribe. With this soul tribe, you’ll feel like you don’t need anybody that’s not part of it and they’ll be taking part in almost 100% of your social life.

528hz, rose quartz, clear quartz, amethyst, pyrite, 40, 444, 6, 0

↳ book a personal reading with me on ko-fi ★

Pile 3 ‧₊˚ ♡

You’ve been trying to manifest this tribe for so long. Since you were a child, you felt their call. You might be losing hope, wondering if you need to embody another personality to make friends. You might have social anxiety or just be introverted and making connections could be hard for you. Your soul tribe will come in once you are confident and comfortable with yourself, ready to make new friends. Your spirit guides are guiding you toward your soulmates and your soulmate’s guides are guiding them towards you. Once you master the art of gratitude and see yourself as the source, the universe itself, when you finally see yourself as the creator of your reality, your soul tribe will come in. They’ll come in with so many other blessings you’ve been manifesting! When you meet them you’ll be overflowing with gratitude. They are so compassionate and loving towards you. They want to make sure that you know they’re reliable and that they’ll always be there for you. You guys are good at understanding what are each other’s needs, you are connected telepathically. They understand your shadows, they’ve also been through difficult things in the past and you guys will be proud to have made all that work and to finally be able to be together. You’ll notice that your soulmates are powerful manifesters. With them, you can create your desired reality. Your soul tribe is versatile, depending on the vibes they can be super chill and peaceful or super passionate and driven. They are good at keeping themselves accountable and they’ll show you how to take the lead in a group. There’s not one main leader of this tribe, but most of the time one person is calling the shots, in the sense that each of you will take the leadership position depending on the circumstances. Your soul tribe will love to try each other's hobbies, you’ll all introduce one another to your favourite media, food, places etc. Don’t doubt that you’ll meet them, as this is fated and predetermined. You guys deserve each other and have soul contracts stipulating that you must meet each other in this lifetime, you just had to go through some past life karma before but you are protected by the divine and this blessing is coming. Don’t become discouraged! Never forget that you’re the one who has the reigns of your life! If you feel like a friend since childhood who always had good intentions towards you is part of your soul tribe, take this has a confirmation that they are.

green onyx, carnelian, green quartz, 4444, 7

↳ book a personal reading with me on ko-fi ★

decks used for this reading: ors et ombres by Stéphanie Lafranque, mystical wisdom by Gaye Guthrie, oracle of heaven and hell by Travis McHenry, ethereal visions by Matt Hughes

#tarotblr #daily tarot #pick a picture #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot #tarot cards #tarot deck #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #soulmates #soul tribe #spirituality #free tarot #pac tarot #tarot witch

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bitterrfruit · 9 months ago

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houndtooth [2]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 3.4k words cw: violence, abduction, gore. 18+ mdni

you try to outrun him.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовский уродливый тварь.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him.

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

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elryuse · 5 months ago

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Tainted Desire

Yandere Jennie X Male Reader

Tags : Obsession, Dangerous Romance, Slight Smut, Dark, Gritty, Forbidden Romance

Words : 2,908 Words

Requested by My Mate @hijack711

You never expected your marriage to end like this.

Sitting in your dimly lit office at the university, you run a hand through your disheveled hair, staring at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on your desk. The silence of the night wraps around you, broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond the window.

Your phone buzzes—a message from your wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.

"We need to talk about the divorce papers. Call me back."

You don’t.

Instead, your mind drifts back to a memory—a moment from years ago when your life was different. When you were just a substitute teacher, and she was just a rebellious high school girl.

Jennie Kim.

The name alone stirs something dangerous inside you.

You hadn’t seen her in years, not until recently, when fate cruelly entangled your lives again. But before she became the ruthless, calculating woman she is now—before she set her sights on you—she was just a teenage girl trying to escape the suffocating grip of her father’s ambition.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day.

The school hallways were empty, students tucked away in their classrooms as you made your way through the corridors, checking your schedule. You had been a substitute teacher for barely a month, filling in for an absent literature professor. The job was temporary, a stepping stone in your career before you moved on to greater things.

But then you smelled it—faint yet unmistakable. Cigarette smoke.

Your brows furrowed. Smoking was strictly forbidden on school grounds, and yet, someone had clearly broken the rules.

Following the scent, you turned a corner and found her.

A girl sat on the rooftop stairs, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily. A cigarette dangled between her fingers, wisps of smoke curling into the air. Her uniform was slightly unkempt—tie loosened, skirt hiked up just enough to break the dress code. Her dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and instead of guilt, there was only defiance.

Jennie Kim.

Even back then, there was something untamed about her.

“You know smoking is against the rules,” you said, stepping closer.

She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke before responding. “So is skipping class, but here you are.”

You sighed. “I’m the teacher. I don’t have a class right now.”

“Then you should be grateful. If I were in class, you wouldn’t have found me,” she murmured, tapping ash onto the floor. “Lucky you.”

You folded your arms, intrigued despite yourself. “Is there a reason you’re up here alone?”

For a moment, she was silent. Then, with a casual shrug, she muttered, “Needed to breathe.”

Her voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a weight she tried to hide.

You glanced at the cigarette in her hand. “That won’t help.”

Jennie scoffed. “What would you know?”

“I know that whatever’s bothering you won’t go away just because you’re filling your lungs with smoke.”

She studied you for a long moment, then sighed and flicked the cigarette away. “My dad’s an asshole.”

You didn’t react, waiting for her to continue.

She hesitated, then muttered, “He wants me to be something I’m not. To follow his rules, live by his standards, become the perfect heir. He thinks Jane—” she spat her sister’s name like a curse “—is the good daughter, the obedient one. But me? I’m nothing but a disappointment to him.”

You leaned against the wall, watching her. “And what do you want?”

Her lips curled into a slow, almost bitter smile. “To take everything from him.”

You didn’t know it then, but that conversation would plant a seed in her mind—a thought that would grow into something far more dangerous than teenage rebellion.

And years later, when you crossed paths again, you would realize that Jennie Kim always gets what she wants.

Even if what she wants… is you.

Years later, Jennie is no longer a rebellious schoolgirl. She’s the new chairman of Odd Atelier, a powerful empire built on ambition and ruthlessness. When she sees you again, the hunger in her eyes hasn’t faded—it’s only grown stronger.

And this time, she won’t let you go.

Even if it means destroying everything in her path.

Even if it means tearing apart your already crumbling marriage.

Even if it means striking a deal with your son.

Because you belong to her.

And Jennie Kim always takes what’s hers.

You always knew that the past had a way of creeping back.

You just never expected it to return in the form of Jennie Kim—not as the rebellious high school girl who once defied her father’s control, but as the ruthless woman who had finally dethroned him.

And now, she’s standing right in front of you.

The gala is extravagant, a display of power and wealth, where the elites of the business world gather to celebrate Odd Atelier’s new chairman. It was your son who dragged you here—his university connections granting him an invitation. You weren’t supposed to stay long, just enough to make an appearance before slipping away.

But then, the moment you locked eyes with her across the ballroom, you knew escaping wouldn’t be that easy.

Jennie moves toward you with the same calculated grace you remembered. But she’s changed. No longer the rebellious teenager on a school rooftop, but a woman in full control.

Her black silk dress clings to her body in all the right places, her dark eyes sharp yet filled with something far more dangerous. Possession.

“Professor,” she purrs, her voice dripping with amusement.

Your throat tightens. “Jennie.”

A smirk tugs at her lips. “I wondered when we’d cross paths again.”

You swallow, keeping your expression neutral. “Congratulations. You finally got what you wanted.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Not yet.”

The weight of her words settles between you. She’s not talking about power.

She’s talking about you.

You try to leave the gala early, but fate is cruel.

Your son—eager to make connections—introduces you to his employer at Odd Atelier.

You freeze the moment you see her.

Jennie stands before you, her gaze dark with amusement. She looks at your son, then back at you. There’s a cruel irony in this situation.

She knows.

She knows your marriage is dying. She knows your son admires her. She knows that you’re vulnerable.

And Jennie Kim has never been one to let an opportunity slip.

“I never expected to work with your son,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “But life has a funny way of bringing people back together.”

Your son is oblivious, grinning. “Jennie has been a great mentor.”

Mentor.

You clench your jaw. That’s what you once were to her.

Jennie smiles, slow and knowing. “Your father and I go way back.”

Your son frowns slightly. “Really?”

Jennie meets your gaze. “Oh, yes.” She steps closer, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “He was the first man who ever made me feel alive.”

Your pulse spikes.

She’s doing this on purpose.

Testing you.

Toying with you.

And you’re ashamed to admit that it’s working.

Her Terms, Your Weakness

Later that night, when you finally manage to slip away from the gala, she’s waiting.

The hotel bar is nearly empty, dimly lit. You don’t know why you didn’t just leave, why you let yourself be drawn to this place like a moth to a flame.

But when Jennie slides into the seat across from you, you know exactly why.

“You ran away so quickly,” she muses, swirling the dark liquor in her glass. “Did I make you nervous?”

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “What do you want, Jennie?”

She hums, tilting her head. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because the truth is—despite knowing how wrong this is, how forbidden this is—there’s still something undeniable between you.

Jennie leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You belong to me.”

Your hands tighten into fists. “I’m married.”

She smiles. “Not for long.”

Silence.

Then, she says something that changes everything.

“I struck a deal with your son.”

Your blood runs cold.

Jennie watches your reaction carefully, savoring every second of your unease. “He wants my sister, Jane.” Her voice is soft, almost teasing. “So I gave him a chance. In return, he’ll look the other way when I take something for myself.”

Your breath hitches. “Jennie—”

She reaches out, trailing a single finger across the back of your hand. The touch burns. “You should be grateful. I could’ve had you the moment I turned eighteen. But I waited.”

Her nails lightly drag against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Now I’m done waiting.”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jennie chuckles darkly, standing from her seat. “Oh, but I do.”

She leans in close, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I always get what I want.”

And then, just like that, she’s gone.

Leaving behind the weight of her words—of her promise—settling deep into your bones.

Because you know Jennie Kim.

And when she sets her sights on something…

She never lets go.

You should’ve walked away.

You should’ve turned your back on Jennie Kim and never looked at her again.

But now, you’re trapped.

The realization settles deep in your chest the moment you step into your home—your marriage of fifteen years hanging by a thread. The air is thick with tension, your wife’s absence a reminder of everything that’s already crumbling.

You’re trying to hold on, to fix what’s left. But the truth is, your hands are already slipping.

And Jennie knows it.

She’s watching, waiting. A predator savoring the moment before she strikes.

You don’t sleep that night. You don’t think you ever will again.

The next day at the university, you try to focus. Lectures, meetings—anything to keep your mind off her.

But then, a message lights up your phone screen.

Jennie: Miss me?

You exhale sharply, ignoring it.

A second message follows.

Jennie: You’re pretending, aren’t you? Acting like you don’t think about me. Like you don’t want me.

Your grip tightens on the phone. You shouldn’t reply.

But you do.

You: Stay away from me.

It’s a weak attempt. A meaningless warning.

And she knows it.

Because Jennie doesn’t listen.

Minutes later, your office door swings open without warning.

And there she is.

Wearing a black silk blouse that clings to her body, high heels clicking against the floor as she steps inside.

You stand immediately, tension coiling in your muscles. “Jennie, you can’t just—”

She shuts the door behind her, locking it.

A smirk plays on her lips. “You told me to stay away.” She cocks her head. “So why am I here?”

Your breath is uneven. “Because you don’t understand boundaries.”

Jennie laughs softly, stepping closer. “Or maybe…” Her voice drops into something dangerously low. “You just don’t mean it.”

She moves around your desk slowly, her fingers grazing the wooden surface as she invades your space.

You take a step back. She takes another forward.

It’s a game—a dangerous one—and she’s winning.

“Jennie—”

Her fingers trail up your chest, her touch featherlight. “You don’t belong here, Y/n.”

Your jaw tightens. “This is my life.”

She leans in, her lips barely inches from yours. “No,” she whispers. “This is your prison.”

Your pulse spikes.

Jennie tilts her head, her gaze searching yours. And for a brief moment, you’re terrified—not of her, but of yourself.

Because she’s right.

Because you want her.

Because if she touches you again, you won’t stop her.

And she knows it.

Control Is an Illusion

You force yourself to turn away, to create distance.

But Jennie doesn’t let you go easily.

“You’re miserable,” she murmurs, watching you with unwavering certainty. “You’re still trying to fix something that’s already dead.”

Your hands clench into fists. “That’s none of your business.”

She smirks. “Isn’t it?”

Silence.

Then, she delivers the final blow.

“If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here, running from me.”

You hate how well she sees through you.

How she knows you.

Jennie leans against the desk, crossing her arms. “Do you even love her anymore?”

Your stomach twists.

You don’t answer.

And that silence?

It’s all she needs.

Jennie smiles. Slow. Satisfied. Dangerous.

“You’re mine,” she whispers.

Then, just as effortlessly as she arrived—she leaves.

And you’re left standing there, heart pounding, knowing that you’ve already lost.

Because Jennie Kim isn’t going to stop.

And the worst part?

You don’t want her to.

You should’ve walked away.

But now, it’s too late.

Jennie Kim has dug her nails into your life, and no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already caught in her web.

She isn’t just dangerous.

She’s inevitable.

You come home that night, expecting the usual silence, the usual avoidance.

But your wife is waiting for you.

Seated on the couch, glass of wine in hand, she barely glances up when you step inside.

“How was work?” Her voice is hollow, indifferent.

You hesitate. “Fine.”

A bitter laugh escapes her lips. “You always say that.”

You’re exhausted. From her, from yourself—from Jennie.

“You’re late,” she continues, swirling the wine in her glass. “Again.”

Tension coils in your chest. “Meetings ran over.”

Another lie.

Your wife exhales, shaking her head. “Y/n… I don’t know how much longer we can do this.”

And there it is.

The inevitable conversation. The slow, agonizing death of your marriage laid bare between you.

You don’t respond. Because what is there to say?

Jennie was right.

This isn’t a life.

It’s a prison.

And you’re already looking for the key

The next day, you see her again.

Jennie waits for you at the entrance of the university, leaning casually against her car, wearing a silk blouse that clings to her frame and a knowing smirk on her lips.

You stop in your tracks. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Thought I’d drop by. Say hello.”

You glance around, paranoia creeping in. “You can’t just—”

“Relax,” she interrupts, stepping closer. “No one’s watching.”

That’s a lie. She’s always watching.

Jennie tilts her head, studying you. “You look tired.”

You don’t respond.

She takes another step forward, her voice dipping into something soft, intimate. “What is it, Y/n?”

You inhale sharply, hating how easily she reads you.

Hating how much she’s already inside your head.

Jennie leans in, just enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath. “She’s slipping away, isn’t she?”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

Her fingers trail up your arm, slow and deliberate. “You don’t love her anymore.”

You grab her wrist, stopping her touch. “Jennie.”

She smiles, her gaze burning into yours. “Say it.”

You shake your head. “I—”

Her lips brush against your ear. “Say it, Y/n.”

You close your eyes, fighting it, fighting her.

But it’s useless.

Because the truth is already there.

Because Jennie owns you now.

And she knows it.

It starts subtly at first.

The way she replaces your thoughts, your routines.

Your phone buzzes during lectures.

Jennie: I wonder what you taste like today.

At night, she sends voice notes—soft, slow whispers that unravel you from the inside out.

"I want to break you, Y/n. I want to ruin you until there’s nothing left of you but me."

You shouldn’t listen.

But you do.

And then come the nights when you can’t stop thinking about her.

When you wake up gasping, her name tangled in your breath.

When you see her face instead of your wife’s.

Jennie is patient.

She doesn’t force.

She waits.

Because she knows you’ll come to her.

And when you finally do—when you finally break—

She’ll be waiting with open arms.

It happens on a night you’ll never forget.

You leave your home, your wife calling after you, but you don’t look back.

Your hands are shaking when you arrive at Jennie’s penthouse.

The door opens before you can knock.

And there she is.

Barefoot, wearing nothing but an oversized silk robe, looking at you like she’s been expecting you all along.

You exhale sharply. “Jennie, I—”

She steps forward, pressing a finger to your lips. “Shh.”

Then she smiles.

“Come inside, Y/n.”

And just like that—you surrender.

Because there’s no running anymore.

Because you were always meant to be hers.

And now, you are.

Tainted Desire

The door clicks shut behind you.

And just like that, you’ve crossed the line.

Jennie watches you, dark amusement flickering in her eyes as she takes slow, deliberate steps forward.

You don’t move. You don’t stop her.

Because this was inevitable.

Because you were always meant to end up in her hands.

Her fingers trace up your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. “You finally stopped running,” she whispers, satisfaction dripping from every syllable.

Your breathing is uneven. “Jennie—”

She silences you with a kiss.

Soft. Slow. Lethal.

And you fall into it. Into her.

Because she owns you now.

Her lips part against yours, her tongue sweeping into your mouth as she devours you whole.

You should feel guilt.

But all you feel is her.

Jennie pulls away, a cruel smile curving her lips as she studies her masterpiece.

You—ruined, broken, hers.

Her voice dips, sultry and commanding. “Leave them.”

Your stomach clenches. “Jennie—”

She cups your face, her nails pressing against your skin. “Leave your wife. Leave your son.”

Her thumb brushes over your lower lip. Soft. Possessive. Unyielding.

“There’s nothing left for you there.”

Your heart pounds, your mind spiraling.

But Jennie’s voice is all you hear now.

Jennie is all you know.

Her grip tightens. “Say it.”

You close your eyes, the weight of your old life crumbling around you.

Jennie leans in, whispering against your lips. “Be mine.”

And when you finally exhale—finally give in—

You whisper the words that seal your fate.

“…I’m yours.”

Jennie smirks.

Because she’s won.

Because you belong to her now.

Forever.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #yandere #yandere stories #blackpink #blackpink jennie #kim jennie #jennie blackpink #yandere blog #yandere girl #yande.re

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accio-victuuri · 22 days ago

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May 2025 CPNs round-up ❤️💛💚

this month is relatively slow — which is fine because it gave us some time to relax and enjoy the content that we have. especially gg’s new drama! anyway, the side by side photo i used in this round up is one of my faves! they always look good in matching long hair! 🥹🥹🥹

and in the subject of matching: cpfs loved this ad going side by side. it’s so sports student x art student coded! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

this month, we also witnessed the birth of wei ruolai x ren shaobai pairing. i swear, the yizhan AU universe keeps on expanding! but it’s not our fault that the characters they play match up so well. some are even pairing this new character with ye mi since it’s all about spying. and since we have legend of zanghai release, it’s only logical to pair zanghai up with baili. they have so much in common! they are not physical people — meaning no martial art skills but rely more on their intelligence. they also love to build things and solve puzzles. they are both trying to make their way through court politics and outwit their enemies! what a power couple! there were also so many good edits made by fans with them.

here are other cpns we enjoyed this month ⬇️⬇️⬇️

• yibo acknowledged the bjyx posters

• SDC rumor that WYB commented on XZ’s dancing

• in XZS vlog, GG is seen wearing a bracelet with a gold charm. tho this is usual in their culture, cpfs can’t help but connect it to the LRLG rumor.

• XZ had an interview with xinhua related to Legend of Zanghai and XZ was talking about how he wants to star in something that has a suspense theme that involves a detective. this is in line with what they both said before that they want to collab in.

• the fact that WYB’s side will mostly be quiet during XZ’s LoZ broadcast. and once he is done, i’m pretty sure we will get WYB content. lol. idk man. this coincidence has been going on for years 🤣🤣🤣

• their studios posted a douyin on the same day with the same BGM

• this OP shared someone they know what in hengdian the time they were filming CQL. she was confused who the male lead was, cause they were always together. lol. they would both ride an electric moto around the shooting grounds. XZ was in the passenger seat of course, behind bobo. Some wanted to ride with Bobo but he said no 😂😂

• “humans come from nature, so we must go back to nature.” << XZ said in this interview. awwww. i love how both of them love nature and would rather spend their time outside exploring!

• XZ made a promotional message for Henan culture lol. but he is from Chongqing. well it’s fine. he is their son in law after all. 😉

• since i am a baili x zanghai truther! it’s so fun cause they both got appointed by the respective emperor in their timeline. people put this side by side! what a great pair! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

• i’m seeing some cpfs sharing side by side videos of bobo’s acting and xz’s in loz. tho i understand why this can be cpn, i’m personally sensitive when comparisons about their acting come up. they have their own styles and path in their career.

they are two different people. i know it’s easy to forget that and make connections here and there because it’s what we do. we are sensitive to it. however, i hope cpfs become more self-aware of how this can come across. they are both professionals. they take acting seriously. maybe it’s just me. but i find it disrespectful and shallow to say that they “copy” each other acting wise. 🙃

-END.

<<< previous post

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

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yellowmellow182 · 28 days ago

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GVH dinogang as ponies

Recently I played Goodbye Volcano High and I realized that colorful queer dinosaurs translate well into colorful ponies. So... I give you this

Below is every character seperately and additional comments on their designs.

Fang was the first I redesigned. For their slim body and 'da snoot' I decided to go with 'a tall mlp unicorn' body type, kind of what Fleur de Lis and Sassy Saddles have, only instead of a horn I gave Fang wings. I enlarged the wings a bit since dino-Fang's wings are... large and added a gradient similar to what Cadence has on her wings.

The whole 'goth clothing' had to be toned down a bit since ponies don't normally wear too many clothes. I left their choker and moved the spiky headpiece to their tail. I also wanted Fang's hooves to stand out a little bit and I remembered that in one of MLP's season 2 episodes, Twilight gets her hooves painted. It's weird we don't get to see it in the show more often, but I decided to do that with Fang.

Their cutie mark was inspired by one of Worm Drama logo variants that we are given during one of the minigames - it's a dino skull embraced in flames like a meteor. There're a few ways to interpret this cutie mark. Maybe Fang's talent is in their band. Maybe it's something related to it or to music in general. Maybe it's a cruel joke from life itself and Fang's cutie mark is the very same asteroid that's going to kill everyone. Could add to the existential crisis Fang goes through in GVH.

I know that Trish is black coded in the game, so I thought about how I could show it in my pony redesign. The first two thoughts were 'zebras' and 'Pinkie Pie'. A lot of fans headcanon Pinkie as black coded thanks to her hair, and with Trish I decided it could help me adapt her hair to MLP FiM style. Also, many suggest that Zecora and zebras in general are the closest thing MLP has to black characters. That and the fact that Trish had these stripe-like markings on her face led me to the idea of adding a bit of zebra to her design. She's... not one, she's a unicorn, but she definitely has zebras as her close relatives. Maybe one of her grandparents is one...

Her cutie mark is Mango ^_^ I headcanon that she received them both during the last summer break and that was the start of her taking entomology as her career path.

Reed... was my first stumble. No 'zebra' bs this time, this won't do. I tried to make him a regular earth pony at first - didn't turn out how I wanted it. The tail would always come out the wrong way, so I took a step back and thought... maybe, for such a diverse cast of characters, I could look elsewhere? I looked at what other pony-like creatures MLP had and stopped on kirin.

Reed is part-kirin, how much exactly is unknown, I lean towards 50/50. From his kirin parent he got the tail shape, the back scales, the snout uhm... thingy, and hooves. From his earth pony parent he got his colors (kirins are usually greenish or brownish as they are very close to nature), his short mane, coat markings on his muzzle and ears, and his lack of horn, which all kirins have. It is unknown if he's capable of turning into a nirik as he's VERY chill, and you'll probably never see him get mad. It's also unknown if he'll ever get his cutie mark. Kirins don't get one, so him being blank flank as a senior is either another kirin thing or a very depressing sign...

Also, don't ask me about the stripes on his legs, he looked naked without them. Maybe he applies them every day, like make-up, maybe it's tattooed, maybe a secret third thing.

Naomi is pretty plain in terms of the cast we have so far. She's probably the only one with a design that wouldn't be a pain to animate. Though it fits her character - she's shy, a face in the crowd, a good student, a person who doesn't exactly scream 'main character vibes'. I left her snout spot and her collar and bow tie as a way to make her design stand out a little bit, but overall she looks like somepony you could see in the actual MLP series.

When thinking of Naomi's cutie mark, I thought of what her actual talent might be. She's apparently good with electronics... and organizing... oh, and suing!... and wants to be a physician... That's many things that she's good at, but what can be stated as her true calling? For that I thought maybe her talent isn't any of these things, maybe her true talent is that she's good at learning new things. Her two colored pens (which I took inspiration from her concept art sheet) are supposed to represent exactly that - she's passionate about learning and thus good at many things that she's learned.

Naser was my second stumble. His headpiece (whatever this thing pterosaurs have is called) isn't easy to adapt into hair. I knew from the start that I would have to go with something similar to Doctor Whooves's or Wonderbolts' mane, but MAN finding balance between pony hairstyle and Naser's head shape was tough.

For the body type I chose 'tall male pony body type', like Zephyr Breeze's or Flim and Flam's. Also, though pegasi don't usually have their hooves exposed like some earth ponies or unicorns do, I figured it could work for pega-Naser as an alternative to his orange fingertips. And of course, we keep the iconic shirt.

The wings... from the concept art I learned that his wing is atrophied, thus I made one of them way smaller and impossible to fly with. Both Naser's wings had scars on them, and I tried to translate it into his pony form to my and the show's art style best ability.

Naser doesn't have a cutie mark YET! He's still got some time... He'll find something... definitely.

Rosa was a breath of fresh air. The most difficult part with her was to decide how to place different colored streaks in her hair and how to get her tail through her skirt (MLP doesn't like having tail holes in their pony dresses, so I had to break the rules a little and do what GVH did - make holes in clothes). I made her a bit chubbier than your typical pony, tho it's hard to tell with my art style. Also, really wanted to keep her head shape as in the game and for that I left her top spikes. Just think of them as hair accessories.

Rosa's cutie mark is the flower we see on her dress in the game, and her talent is gardening. Pretty obvious.

Stella's too a bit chubbier than your average pony and her muzzle is shaped a bit differently, closer to her stego-form. The biggest act of creativity with her was in deciding on what her tail should look like. I really wanted to make it similar to her dino tail, but with all the double spikes this would be difficult. Ponies' tail style often mirrors their mane style, so here's what I did: I took her little hair buns on her head and placed similar ones in pairs along her tail in place of the spikes. Added some ribbons for color diversity. Whether that design would work in real life is a mystery to me, but hey, would Crysalis's hair holes work? If MLP can make strange unrealistic design choices, so can I!

Stella's cutie mark did the heavy lifting in giving pony-Stella back all the colors she had in her clothes. The rainbow band ties together three tarot cards. Could be a metaphor for something? Is Stella's talent bringing people together? Or is it just fortune reading? ;)

And finally, we have Sage. TBH, as soon as I came up with kirin Reed, I wanted to experiment with mlp creatures a bit more. The primary goal was to make them all into ponies, sure. But why stop at primary three (four) races? Stella and Sage always struck me as the most colorful of the dinogang. And what better way to make one of them a pony than to make them into the most colorful pony race there is - a reformed changeling?

Sage is a changeling that experiments with his pony/changeling appearance. For some reason, I thought that Sage being a GNC character and having an interesting take on his gender connects well with changelings and their origin as gender-neutral creatures who, after being reformed, adapted gender norms into their society. What would it mean for a creature whose whole shtick is shapeshifting to transition?

In his design I mixed some pony and changeling elements. Unlike Reed and Trish, in Sage's case this mix is purely his choice as a 100% changeling. He can look however he wants, he doesn't own anyone 'normal'. He even decided on what cutie mark he would get if he could have one, and it's, of course, a fork with pink ribbon - symbolizing his talent for cooking.

Why did I do it? I dunno, I always liked turning random things into ponies, it's fun

#gvh #goodbye volcano high #mlp #mlp fim #my little pony #my little pony friendship is magic #ponified #fang gvh #trish gvh #reed gvh #naomi gvh #naser gvh #rosa gvh #stella gvh #sage gvh #mell draws stuff

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cometcrystal · 11 months ago

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GAME THEORY: the Johnsons are an Evil Family

during my rewatch of pnf, i have recently concocted the headcanon that the johnson family has a legacy of evil. you know, not like Evil-evil, but the dwampyverse brand of evil that exists more as a career path than a morality system. here's my reasoning for each member

suzy - self-explanatory. she's an evil prodigy and will have a lucrative career climbing up the lovemuffin corporate ladder when she gets older. she's even getting in some good nemesis experience with candace

hildegard - has an affinity for cheating in roller derby. has the personality for it. i also think she 100% views betty jo as her nemesis but betty jo doesn't know what that is.

hawkeye - okay her name is literally hawkeye which is a perfect evil name. she's also very proficient with munitions.

jack - besides jeremy, he seems the most unassuming, but maybe his job at the space lab grants him access to tech he couldn't otherwise use...

annabelle - when doof's (evil) building was being foreclosed, she showed a LOT of interest in it (new evil hq). she also loved the gargoyles (evil decor). AND she had a job in an anvil-hanging factory. who hangs anvils besides like bugs bunny or some shit? cartoon villains. extremely evil-coded activity

nicolette - yeah her stories about swimming with piranhas and other such activities are from a video game. but i think it would be really funny if that was just her cover story. she's actually doing all that shit and telling people its from tomb raider or something and shes stealing jewels as a hobby

jeremy - he's actually the black sheep of the family. he doesn't have an evil bone in his body. his mom and dad tried to get him interested in laser guns, scheming, and spike pits when he was little and it never stuck. but even though he'll never work in the family business, they love him anyway.

is this theory 100% serious? not really...OR IS IT. do i like it and think it's fun? YES!!!

#pnf #phineas and ferb #pnf meta #jeremy johnson #suzy johnson #hawkeye johnson #jack johnson #hildegard johnson #annabelle johnson

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thecheshireprincess · 4 months ago

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The Game Itself

Chapter III: Nine of Hearts AKA You Won't Say You're in Love

A Chishiya x childhood best friend reader (Niragi's sister!) AU Series

Content Warning: Canon-typical violence, killing, mentions of blood and injuries (somewhat explicit), mentions of a tumultuous childhood, curse words, Aguni is so girl-dad coded and I refuse to write him any other way

A/N: I literally never want to see this chapter again 😵‍💫 idk what happened, but I blacked out and wrote like 7000 words and then spent over a week rewriting and editing it. I'm so sorry 🤣

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When you've finished getting cleaned up, you make no move to leave the bathroom; standing stuck in a silent face off with yourself in the mirror. Chishiya sighs, pulling himself off your bed and padding over to stand behind you. Though you're not exactly thrilled with his presence right now, he knows one easy way to return to your good graces and settle your fraying nerves all at once.

His left hand extends past you to grab your hairbrush from the vanity, the right gently finding purchase among your sleep tangled locks. Chishiya's touch is soft in your hair but efficient, well-practiced. Your eyes close involuntarily, your brief attitude quickly melting away. Both your best friend and your brother knew that more than just your hair would be tamed when they brushed it for you.

Once the tangles have been worked through, Chishiya begins a double French braid; working his long, nimble fingers down each side of your hair meticulously. You open your eyes again to meet his in the mirror, "are you sure you want to keep wasting your time in medical school? You could have a promising career as a hairstylist."

Your friend smirks in satisfaction at this, taking a beat before responding. He ties off the second side of your hair with an elastic and pulls both braids forward to sit in front of your shoulders, placing his hands against your arms. Maintaining your gaze and bringing his lips to whisper directly in your ear, "the only hair I care to be styling is yours."

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

It was the middle of summer, the sun's rays washing over you, tanning and freckling your skin. The hot air blew past you thickly as you ran the familiar path down the bustling street towards your favorite cafe with Chishiya hot on your heels. Thirteen years old and feeling so free; you don't think you'd ever known happiness like this. Niragi was further back, eyes trained on the two of you. He had long since stopped trying to keep you from racing in such a busy area, knowing that you'd never listen. Today was a special day, after all, and you were still so young; you deserved to celebrate.

Once the three of you were sat in your favorite booth, you were already eyeing the picture of the fat tabby cat longingly, "Niragi," you whined, attempting to draw his attention away from the flimsy paper menu in front of him. Niragi hummed, affirming that he was listening to what you had to say. "When can we get a cat just like this one??"

The man sighed dramatically, setting the menu down in front of him to meet your eyes, "Koko . . . We've talked about this . . ."

You interrupt what you know will be more of the same soliloquy as usual, "Yeah, I KNOW that technically our landlord doesn't allow pets, but Himari has like five cats smuggled in her apartment!" you cry. The injustice.

"Yes, well, Himari doesn't have to worry about staying in the good graces of social workers and receiving visits from them constantly," your brother reminded you, exhaustion obvious in his form.

"I know, but now! Now we won in court, and the social workers won't have to come visit as much, and we can get a secret cat! What could be better?" Chishiya smirked beside you, saying nothing but always on your side.

"Very sweet, but look, you've already got a cat companion right beside you," Niragi jests, trying anything to distract you from the cat he absolutely did not want. The two of you laugh, and Chishiya's smirk widens. Deflect and distract.

The kind-eyed - and super timely - waitress comes around the bakery case with your desserts just then, setting your honey toast in front of you. Your eyes grow as big as saucers seeing the sickly sweet substance in front of you, Niragi grinning brightly at your reaction. Saved by the dessert. He knew letting you get your treat before your meal was a great idea - he had once again successfully dodged the cat talk.

Sunlight streams through the sheer curtains covering your window, bathing your face in light like a good morning kiss. You begin to stir beneath your fluffy duvet, smiling lightly at the memory of your dream. You realize now, smile growing, that Niragi had not wanted that cat at all. Stretching your limbs without opening your eyes yet, you begin to think about the day ahead of you and what it might hold; if the sun had anything to say about it, it could even be nice . . .

Except you had ended someone's life last night

You shot straight up in your bed like a bullet, eyes wide open in realization; though you were in your own bed, you were hardly in your own world. Your sweet dreams had nearly wiped your memory of this sick place clean away, but it was all back now, hitting you like a freight train. Your sudden movement startled the sleeping man beside you and he jumped up too, obviously still on edge, "what happened?! What's wrong? Are you okay?" He moves to run his fingers over you, checking for injuries that weren't there.

You slowly turn your head to look at him, eyes crazed, "what do you mean, what's wrong? Everything is wrong! We don't know where we are. Where Niragi is! And I . . . I murdered someone last night!" You wailed, your adrenaline from the game clearly having worn off and allowing the gravity of your situation to sink in. "How the fuck am I supposed to live with this?" You begin running your now shaking hands through your hair.

Chishiya sits quietly, observing; just as you'd expect from him. Unemotional fucker. You want to slap the calm right off his face because damn it you are so upset. So angry. So scared. What you really wanted was to vent your emotions, to commiserate a little bit with someone. You didn't even expect a solution, just . . . someone to tell you that they agree how much it sucks. That they're scared too.

But you'd never had that, had you? Niragi deals with big feelings the way any decent parent figure probably would, he tries to fix them. He never just listens or lets you wallow in self pity; nor does he complain alongside you. If he were here listening to you now, he'd probably be on the phone trying to find yet another therapist. Good luck finding one in this fucked up world.

And your only best friend since you were old enough to crawl, the person you tell everything to and share everything with, is sitting right in front of you. But he doesn't complain, he doesn't tell you that it's okay because he's afraid too, he doesn't feel upset by this new world. In fact, you're certain he doesn't feel anything at all, ever. It's infuriating.

Chishiya places his hand gently on the back of your neck, cooing indistinctly and shushing you - his poor attempt at being comforting. You were already too far gone, losing yourself to the deep abyss of negative emotions swirling within you. You shake his hand off of you immediately, fury burning inside of you so brightly you can't stand to be touched. You notice a brief flash of something - hurt? - in his eyes as you push him away before his usual emotionless mask is replaced. This stokes the flames even further - couldn't he actually just be upset? If he yelled at you for being a petulant brat. If he threw something across the room and broke something. Anything to show that he was the least bit affected by all this, but no. You're really alone in this feeling. A sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh escapes your lips and you decide you both could use some space to process things.

You roll out of bed without another look at your friend and walk to your closet. You pull out a pair of leggings, a strappy mint cropped workout top, and a gray zip up jacket with a hood; it's obvious you'll need to be comfy and capable of movement in this new world, but that doesn't mean you can't look cute while kicking ass at death games. You enter your bathroom to change and get cleaned up, slamming the door shut to punctuate your continued annoyance. Your frustration grows somehow even more when you move to turn on the sink - nothing. Chishiya had told you the plumbing wasn't working last night, but you weren't in the headspace then to worry about things like that. The least you can do is change your clothes and assess the damage to your appearance. You take a deep breath and glance up to meet your reflection.

Sick. You look sick. Face pale, eyes red and puffy, framed with massive black bags; hair untamed and matted from restless sleep. You regret looking at all, truthfully. You don't suppose putting on makeup will do much good, and it's probably a waste of time in a place like this. A soft knock interrupts the self-deprecating thoughts blasting in your mind - Chishiya. You roll your eyes, but open the door for him anyway. You give him a blank look - if he could be cold, so could you. You can at least try. He hands you a few bottles of water, presumably to wash your face and brush your teeth with. You take them, saying nothing as you turn back to your own battered gaze.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the same way you had in the cafe yesterday, tense. Good tense. Tell him. "I . . . you . . . we . . .," you sputter, unable to spit the words out of your mouth. You were short circuiting. It was like you'd completely forgotten how to speak the only language you'd ever known, and didn't have the letters in the right order. I love you. Instead, "I-i'm going to go check the other apartments in the building. There could be resources we need." And you run away from him. You are a chicken.

Chishiya is left standing in your bathroom, dumbfounded and still holding onto your hairbrush like a lifeline. For the second time that day - and the sun had just risen - he had failed to say the words that you needed to hear. He has never been good at saying the things that you deserve to hear from him, and he knows that.

I'm sorry. I know you're afraid, but I'm going to keep you safe. You did so well last night. I'm scared too. I love you.

The man doesn't know if it's the lack of a proper childhood and decent parents that makes him so cold, or if he really is just an empty human. But would an empty human be able to love you so deeply? And how was it that your childhood was arguably worse, more violent and tumultuous, but you were so capable of feeling and expressing and loving? He's faced this conflict with you for as long as he's known you, but now? Now he has to contend with the fact that either of you could die at any minute.

Now he could be running out of time to say it.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

It turns out that raiding the other apartments had been a great idea. You found tons of stuff - canned foods, snack items, bottles of water, medicine and bandages, and even . . .

Chishiya's favorite biscuits

The ones in the cute yellow bag with red writing. They were in Himari's apartment, and you beamed upon seeing them. Truth be told, you were feeling really guilty. Not only had you let your emotions get the better of you this morning and launch you into a temper tantrum, but you'd then made a complete ass out of yourself with Chishiya in the bathroom. Not being able to tell the person you normally told everything to how you really feel about them is truly debilitating. You wished you could get advice from Niragi about it, but even so, you already know what he would say.

First, he would laugh at you, "of course you're in love with him, anyone with eyes can see that. Good job figuring it out though, I'm proud of you." And when you'd express concern about your feelings not being reciprocated, he'd laugh even harder, "come on, Koko. He's even more obvious than you!" You smile, thinking about him. Just how had that man gotten so smart?

You trudge back into the apartment, accidentally slamming the door behind you. As you drag your haul through the long corridor, arms heavy with your loot, something peculiar catches your attention. Your school bag. While not necessarily out of place, how had it gotten there? You'd had it with you in the cafe before your world was turned upside down, but remember opting to leave it in the booth while you searched your surroundings. You scramble to pick it up and inspect it for clues you knew you wouldn't find. Niragi. He must have gone looking for you and Chishiya and found it. So he HAD come back here at some point.

But now where was he? What if he was dead?

"Chishiya!" you called out desperately to your friend, your awkwardness and avoidance of him temporarily forgotten.

It took him only seconds to appear at the bottom of the stairs, moving as stealthy as a ninja as usual. Maybe more like a cat. Grabbing a bag of the yellow wrapped biscuits and meeting him in the hallway, you hold them out to him, "truce?"

"I wasn't aware we were in need of a truce, Koko," he says slowly, taking the cookies from you anyway. "You know I'd never pass on an opportunity for biscuits, though," he smiles, eyes sparkling.

"Look," you say, pointing a little shakily at your bag, "I think Niragi was here looking for us before we got here. W-where do you think he could have gone?" A simple question, but behind your eyes was something not so simple. Fear. Despair.

Chishiya glances at the bag, then back to study your face. He could see that you're already thinking the worst, so he shakes his head before attempting to comfort you. "His thought process is probably to try and find you in a game. The arenas are all over the city, and it would be unwise to come all the way back over here if he was drawn to a game across the city," he reassures you. "We have six days on our Visas, we should work on finding as much information about our new home as we can." Deflect and distract. Just as Niragi always had about that cat you wanted.

You nod, having had similar thoughts. You got a lot of good information from the players last night, but there was still so much you didn't know. The magician that had played against Chishiya provided some insight into the ranking system; the numbers 1-10 did indeed represent difficulty, which you had already guessed. The suit? Represents the type of game that would be played: Diamonds for Intelligence, Spades for Physical, Clubs a Team Challenge, and Hearts . . . Well hearts were special. Hearts were a game that forced you to play with the heart and emotions of another, and maybe even yourself. You shuddered thinking about the magnitude of a hearts game, hoping with your entire being you'd never end up in one.

And then of course, the man you'd had to shoot had explained the Visa system to you. Linked to the difficulty of the game, you earned days on your Visa equal to the number on the card. You and Chishiya had already earned six days. Thinking on it, you'd hate to play in one of these death games and earn one or two measly days, that hardly seemed worth it.

"We should explore the city. It would be really beneficial to be able to predict which arenas would produce which suits," you interject, "we can chart a map and start looking for patterns." Chishiya nods in agreement, already munching on his cookies and dropping crumbs on his shirt. "It looks like you got us set up with resources already, but we can also make note of places that are good for future supply runs," he observes, eyes glancing over the bags stuffed full with the items you'd chosen.

And so for five days, the two of you do just that. Every morning, you eat breakfast and get ready for the day, pack your backpacks full of supplies, and head out to a different area of the city to investigate and work on your map. You find tons of game arenas, sometimes waiting to talk to the remaining participants after they finish to find out if your predictions were correct. It became somewhat of a fun competition between you and Chishiya - seeing who could predict the highest number of them correctly. It provided you the distraction you so desperately needed, and you were grateful for having had a little while to get settled in a new routine with your best friend.

By the time your Visas are about to expire, you've gotten pretty accurate with three of the four suits. Unsettlingly, though, you were almost never able to accurately predict where Hearts games would pop up. Thinking about it made the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach grow. It would never be safe to play a game with Chishiya. You've also been unable to locate Niragi, and he hasn't returned to the house either. Chishiya does what he can to keep you busy from worrying about it, but even he is starting to feel concerned about your brother's whereabouts.

Too soon for your liking, it's time to leave the apartment to renew your Visas. You're more well-equipped and informed this time, so you should feel confident. Instead, you feel sick at the thought of being separated from Chishiya after spending so much time with him over the last couple of days. It's been nice. Really nice.

"Since we won't be playing together tonight, let's plan to meet back up here after we win," Chishiya suggests assuredly, pulling your mind back to the present. You nod, though with a little hesitation. Your friend notices and sighs, "I promise you that I'll come back. I won't leave you here, not ever." You blink, tears threatening to form.

Chishiya looks back at you expectantly. Calm. "I promise to come back too," you ascertain, letting out a breath and forcing the tears down, "it'll be just a couple of hours." Who are you trying to convince, him or you? He nods, smiling. A rare, real smile.

Your eyes trail over his face, studying him a little longer before the two of you need to leave to make it to your games. As tough as you're trying to be, you momentarily allow your emotions to get the best of you, throwing your arms suddenly around his neck to bury your face into his soft hoodie. The force you've thrown yourself at him threatens to send you both tumbling to the floor below you, but he steadies you with ease. Chishiya usually isn't big on physical touch, but with you, it's always felt natural. Enjoyable, even. His arms snaked around you and pulled you tightly to him, squeezing as much comfort into your body as he has to offer.

A minute or two passes and he whispers in your ear, "let's get going, hm?" The man hummed, gently rubbing circles into the spot between your shoulder blades, "the quicker we get it over with, the quicker we'll be back here." You nodded from your place still tucked into his shoulder, sighing. You can do this.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

The early evening air is cool, brushing against the exposed skin of your face and neck and making you shiver. You look up to study the sky above you, the stars already starting to peek out among the pink and orange canvas of the sky. You had never had the privilege of seeing the stars glimmer so brightly above Tokyo, you felt them take your breath away. Stunning.

You continue walking in the direction of the abandoned community center you had scouted as a game arena earlier today. Chishiya was heading the opposite direction - toward the library you always studied at together. There were games lighting up all over the city, every night. This was the first time you were personally testing your game arena predictions, a higher stakes competition between the two of you. You hoped you were right.

The community center stood tall above you, covered in foliage and vines that you were certain hadn't been there before. Time flows differently here, you knew that with certainty - otherwise you should have run into Niragi the first night you arrived, and the fresh foods should have survived longer than what felt like a few hours to you. Nature was already beginning to reclaim the land; it was partially beautiful and partially unnerving.

[Game Arena - 5:00 Minutes Until Registration Closes]

[Players Required: 12]

You took a deep breath just before you pushed open the flimsy doors to the center; you'd been hoping for a Spades game when you chose this arena. Please let it be ANYTHING but a Hearts game. You yank the hood of your gray jacket over your head and steel your face. Emotionless.

Entering the dimly lit and sparsely decorated lobby of the building, you immediately take note that the front desk is holding the phones, One Per Person, same as before. This time though, they aren't alone. Your blood runs cold; a variety of weapons and an old fashioned lantern lay ominously beside them. There is already a large group of people waiting for registration to close, though most don't even look up at you as you enter. Off in their own worlds panicking probably, which is exactly what you wanted to do too. You approach the desk to grab your phone and suddenly feel eyes burning on you. You decide not to glance around, but if you had you'd have noticed an intimidating presence studying you. Trying to decide if you were the person he had been hunting for the last week.

[Identity Verification in Progress . . .]

Just as before, the phone correctly provides your information. You aren't surprised, but it still gives you an uneasy feeling. Another question on your list - how did they know your name and face? Government records?

[Registration Closes in 4:00 Minutes]

You put the phone nonchalantly in your pocket and move to sit in the row of seats normally reserved for parents waiting for their children performing activities at the community center. You slump down low, allowing your head to fall against the rigid backrest of the chair in thought. You'd taken swimming and gymnastics lessons here since you were really little, as long as you can remember. And Niragi, he'd always been here. Waiting for you. Always waiting, always supportive. You missed him.

You look to the seat on the end of the row, the one he'd always be sitting in. He liked to be as far away from the other guardians as possible. Instead, you now find a large, muscular man sitting there. Hair cropped short, close to his head. Staring right at you. You're surprised when you accidentally make eye contact with the older man, looking away quickly as if you'd been the one caught staring. His eyes continue to burn a hole in your head.

You peek up now to study the others gathered in the space. You notice the staring man has a partner, both of them wielding large guns. They are talking lowly between them, both with their eyes on you. Weird. Chishiya would urge you to ignore them, whatever they wanted from you was not in your best interest. Across from you was a group of three girls, likely in their 20s. You decided they must have been a group of friends from the original world. Your heart sank for them, because you knew what it was like having to play in a death match with someone you cared about. Loved.

A little girl with curly pigtails, likely only ten or eleven stood with an older gentleman. A grandfather and his granddaughter? Now your heart was pounding. It seemed children would not be exempt from the cruelty of this land. A man stood propped up against the bulletin board, wiry hairs sticking out all over the place. His gaze was crazed, looking all over the place, at you and the others. This was not his first game. But it could be his last. And yours.

You watched as another group of three waltzed into the center, the final three needed to start the game. Like the girls, you predicted that they were friends before coming here. They must have forgotten themselves for a moment, because despite being about to register for a literal death match, they walked up to said group of girls to flirt. You scoffed, but simply lowered your gaze to the floor. You don't know them.

[Registration is Now Closed]

[Difficulty: Nine of Hearts] Your pulse rushed in your ears and you couldn't hear for a moment. The one suit you hadn't wanted . . . And at a nine? What the fuck. Seriously?

[Game: Underground Gathering]

[Rules: Three players will act as the persecutors, guarding the torch from the gatherers. The gatherers will attempt to gain access to the torch and gather safely around it in their designated sanctuary. Unlocked rooms in the building are a safe haven for gatherers, but persecutors have free reign of the hallways and can capture gatherers that are running between safe spaces. Weapons are allowed and encouraged]

[Clear Condition: Gatherers - Obtain access to the torch and have all remaining players gather around it in the sanctuary.

Persecutors - Prevent the gatherers from getting the torch and gathering, at all costs; to win, persecutors must have an equal number or more players on their side]

[Game Over: Gatherers will receive a game over if they fail to bring their torch and all remaining members of the party to gather in the sanctuary within the time limit. Persecutors receive a game over if the gatherers succeed within the time limit, or if they are unable to capture enough gatherers]

[Time Limit: Two hours]

You shrunk further into your hood, breathless. The players assigned to the role of persecutor would be forced to kill off the others, that's what the weapons are for. Not only do they have to prevent the stealing of the torch, but they also had to eliminate players to be equal to or less than the three on their side. At least six people would have to die tonight for the persecutors to win. Being a gatherer would be easier, but certainly not without its struggles.

The cheerful voice you hated so much rung out once more, interrupting the war in your mind. [Your roles will now be assigned]

Your phone chimed, pulling it slowly out of your pocket with a sick feeling in your stomach, you see:

[You are a persecutor. Take the torch, grab a weapon, and proceed to the kitchen as your starting position. Good luck.]

You could have fallen to the floor in despair reading these words. How the fuck were you going to kill off six people tonight when killing even one was the worst thing imaginable just a few days ago? Emotionless. You have to stay calm.

You nod to yourself, standing from the chair and approaching the table holding the weapons. Unexpectedly, the power goes out entirely, causing the players around you to scream. Of course, another twist. It would be far too easy if everyone could see properly.

Using the light from your phone, you survey the options available. You didn't think you had it in you to stab someone to death so you chose a rifle. Grabbing the torch, now lit on the corner of the same desk, you begin trudging slowly toward where you knew the kitchen to be.

You were lucky Niragi had insisted on you spending so much time on activities in this building, being able to navigate would surely help your mission. What would he think of what you were being forced into? Would he be disappointed by having a murderer for a little sister?

You reach the kitchen in no time, placing the torch in the middle of the rounded metallic island. The object bathed the dark room in a warm light, glinting off of the shiny, sterile objects all around you. You settle the heavy rifle against your shoulder and lean up against the cool metal, waiting. You were starting to feel a little numb, knowing what would have to transpire in the next two hours.

The swinging wooden door is slowly pushed towards you, allowing your partners in crime to enter. You don't move an inch, but flick your gaze up to see who it was - your heart constricts when you see the older gentleman - the grandfather of the little girl - and the muscly looking guy. The one who was staring holes in your head in the lobby. Wonderful.

The younger man breathes a sigh of - relief? - upon seeing you standing there. This only serves to confuse you further, just who the hell was this guy? Maybe your emotionless act was better than you thought, and the man thought you'd be a good teammate? You lower your gaze back to the floor without a word.

[Game Start] The robotic voice chirps.

Here we go. In two hours, you could be out of here and on your way back to Chishiya. You can do this. Stay cold, stay numb. Do what you have to do.

"Okay, you two. We need to devise a plan," you hear your voice commanding, as though it was separate from the rest of you. "At least six people on the opposing team are going to have to die, AND we need to stop them from bringing the torch to their sanctuary."

Neither of the men move to answer you, so without looking up from the floor, you continue "I'm positive that the pool is their sanctuary. It's at the furthest point away from here. To make things more difficult, you know? A further distance to travel once you've gotten the target. We should split up. One person to guard the torch, and the other two to capture." Your voice sounds cold and calculated. You'd be impressed by you if you were hearing yourself.

The younger man hums in agreement, without saying much more. Not a big talker, you presume. The older gentleman agrees too, "I'm not as young as the two of you. I should stay with the torch," he suggests.

You grab your rifle and push back through the double doors of the kitchen, a silent agreement with his offer. Though your heart is racing, you know you need to stay in character. Fake it til you make it, right? The military like man is hot on your heels, ready to clear the game too.

Walking quickly through the halls, you are on red alert for the other team. It was imperative that you caught them in the hallway as soon as possible, or they could run the time down hiding in their safe zones. You can only see by the sparse emergency lights placed strategically along the floor and the small light from your phones, but you know the man is looking at you again. You look up to meet his eyes this time and sigh. He opens his mouth, and the most shocking thing that could have happened to you does. He says your name. Quietly at first, like a question. When you react, obviously stunned, he says it again. More sure this time.

You know in the back of your head that you should be cautious with this, but the man IS on your team for this game, whether you like it or not. "How did you . . .?" you whisper. He nods knowingly, "I've been looking for you. Turning the city upside down to find you." And now you're scared, but have to know. "But why? How did you know to be looking for me?"

"Your brother. He is willing to burn all of Tokyo down to find you, I swear he's getting closer to it every day, " he says lowly. Your ears perk up and if you weren't in the middle of a death match, you would soar with joy. "Niragi? You know him? He's safe?" You're a little disturbed that Niragi had made friends with anyone, let alone a guy like this, but you couldn't be happier to hear that he's ALIVE and has been looking for you too.

He nods once. "I've promised to get you to him, so we need to focus on clearing this game," his gruff voice sounds. You hum in agreement, looking at him expectantly. His eyebrows knit in confusion at the way you're looking at him. "You know my name, and we're about to kill a lot of people together. You could at least tell your name too," you say sharply.

"Aguni," he responds quietly. Definitely not much of a talker.

It's then that you hear a sound, one of the gatherers. The man glances at you once before taking off stealthily down the hallway toward it. You're surprised that he's able to move like that looking the way that he does. Suddenly the building is way too quiet, and it feels like you're being suffocated by the silence. You hear a short, masculine scream, a crack, and then nothing. You clasp your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming out yourself, finding the wall and leaning your weight on it for a moment.

[A gatherer has been captured, 8 gatherers remaining; 3 persecutors remaining] You know you need to keep moving. The gatherers can only be killed in the hallways, and there is still a lot of work to do to ensure your victory.

You meet Aguni at the intersection of two hallways, "You should go back to the torch," he whispers, momentarily confusing you. "I don't think the old man can handle it and our job will be harder if they get it," he whispers, turning you back around the way you'd just come. He wouldn't say it, but he was trying to spare you the pain of having to kill a lot of people, you knew that.

[Two gatherers have been captured, six gatherers remaining; three persecutors remaining]

You'd just walked away from Aguni, so you knew that must mean the older man was under attack. You begin sprinting, as quietly as you can, throwing the swinging door open just in time to watch the old man drop to the floor, dead, his granddaughter sobbing hysterically beside him. She was holding onto the torch like a lifeline, two of the men from the group of friends on either side of her, trying to pull her out the back entrance.

You freeze. She was a child and you couldn't just shoot her. Of course you couldn't. But you needed to try to at least capture the men that had used her as bait against her grandfather. A hearts game, indeed. As soon as the little girl was out of the way, you took aim, dropping both men to the ground in a single shot each. If you weren't right on the edge of throwing up, you'd almost be proud of your accuracy.

It's then that the robotic voice sounds out, surrounding you on all sides [The gatherers have captured the torch, four gatherers remaining; two persecutors remaining, one hour left]

You dash madly through the kitchen and towards the back entrance the little girl had gone through, slipping through the puddles of blood coating the floor. You were certain that the three remaining adults with her would be close by, and you had to try to take at least two more out AND prevent them from gathering. You were exhausted.

You creep along the empty and dark corridor towards the pool, careful to control your breathing. This side of the building is decidedly darker and creepier, and you have to steel your mind again to keep from panicking. You can hear feminine whispers coming from a nearby room, the nursery; it must have been two of the remaining girls from the former group of three. You wanted to feel bad for them, knowing they'd just lost one of their friends. You don't have the energy right now. You press your body up against the wall furthest from the classroom and slip silently past, wanting to measure just how much further the pool was. You walk a few steps around the curve before seeing the beginnings of blue glow from the pool reflecting on the floor and ceiling. It's then that you accidentally drop your phone out of your jacket pocket, making entirely too much noise for such a quiet environment. Fuck.

You hear the girls gasp and shush each other in turn, they know you're out here now. A standoff. You won't be lucky enough to catch them off guard while running towards the pool now. It will be a fight to the death then.

Time is ticking down, and the two twenty year olds are still sitting in the nursery. You pace back and forth, knowing your hands are tied. After a few minutes, you turn your back to the room to take a quick glance into the pool; the little girl was in there with the torch in the gathering spot, and one man is circling the perimeter. The man that had arrived with Aguni. You couldn't allow the two girls to get past you to the gathering spot. But you also couldn't let the girls die, and the man get to the gathering spot. Your victory was in a precarious position now.

Without warning, an unfamiliar weight hits you in the back, sending you and another person sprawling to the floor - one of the girls. Standoff over. You saw a brief flash in the blue light emanating from the pool, she had a knife. A large one. Using both legs, you forcefully kick her away from you and scramble to your feet. You'd almost forgotten about the second girl, until she yanks your gun wielding arm behind you, twisting so hard to get you to release the weapon you hear a sickening pop and cry out.

You're still holding on for dear life to your weapon, so the first girl comes flying toward you in tears, using all her might to slice her knife across your midsection. Whimpering out again and seeing white blind your vision, you know you won't be able to stop the girls from joining the rest of the team. You feel like you're falling in slow motion as the girls push you away from them and move to enter the pool.

Just then, two shots ring out and you just barely see their bodies crumple like used napkins to the floor. Aguni.

"They can still win, Aguni," you sputter out to the man, "all he has to do is make it to the center of the room with the little girl." As luck would have it, the man was too curious for his own good. He came storming out of the pool room, the door opening to allow the air thick with humidity and chlorine to blast you in the face. Aguni stood waiting for him with his gun raised, the man looking at him in shock. Right, they were friends or something. You're having a hard time keeping your eyes open to watch what's happening as the pool of blood beneath you grows. You aren't exactly a doctor yet, but you know that's not good.

[Two minutes left]

You can hear the two men throwing punches above you. Someone's gun goes flying across the room, ricocheting off of the glass wall that looks into the pool. You spend a solid minute trying to push yourself up to sitting, you need to help Aguni. Your stomach turns when you hear the sickening crack of the man hitting Aguni in the head and sending him unconscious to the floor. The man turns to limp slowly back into the pool. Fuck. They're going to win. You and Aguni will die.

[Thirty seconds left]

But your rifle is still laying on the floor next to your hand, and you don't want Aguni to die because you chose to give up. You still haven't confessed your love to Chishiya. You haven't seen your brother one last time. You wanted to live.

Your adrenaline allows you to pull yourself all the way up, charging into the pool room. The little girl must have left the safety zone to help guide the limping man to the middle of the room. A true miracle. You raise your rifle for what you hope is the last time, and pull the trigger without hesitation to drop the man to the ground.

You realize then that the little girl could win alone, being the last of the gatherers alive. She realizes too, and starts running back towards the torch. Your vision starts to blur with tears and the static that tends to accompany passing out as you watch her little legs get closer to the circle. You allow your body to collapse once more to the floor, there was no way you were going to kill that girl. It was time to accept your fate.

[Time is up, the gatherers failed to gather with their torch in the time allotted. Game clear for the persectors, congratulations] You felt hot tears start to cascade down your cheeks. You cried even harder as the red laser shot down from the sky, you knew what that meant without even looking. Thank goodness you couldn't look. Your breaths were beginning to feel shallower, you were losing too much blood. But Aguni would get to live, you hadn't let him down.

You don't know how long you lay there after being given the game clear. Your shoulder is 1000% dislocated and your bleeding hasn't stopped. You try to drag yourself towards where you knew Aguni had fallen in the hallway, you were the only two survivors. Assuming you didn't bleed out on the floor. The pain from your shoulder and from the jagged slice in your side cause your vision to blur once again as you work on dragging your exhausted body across the floor. You try in vain to call out, your voice coming out a gasp. You feel your head swim and your world go dark.

"You did good, little one," Aguni tells you, lifting you into his arms gently, "Time to get you back to your brother."

You can feel yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, but have just enough energy within you to weakly cough out, "Chishiya."

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

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