#RIP knife too... gone......

[some-mari-thoughts]

Wake up.

You ran away.

[seiigi]

tag dump.

(𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧.) a better knife than a person. (𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙙𝙮.) plumb blossoms in snow. (𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚.) i can feel the poetry rotting in my stomach. (𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚.) i'm not too gone to be healed- am i? (𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙨 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚.) memory is a landscape of hands too afraid to make fists. (𝙝𝙨𝙧 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚.) i fear i will be ripped open and found unsightly.

(𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙥𝙚𝙨𝙡𝙮 / 𝙟𝙤𝙣𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙜𝙞𝙠𝙪.) so if you are too tired to speak - sit next to me because i too am fluent in silence. (𝙜𝙞𝙛𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙚 / 𝙚𝙙𝙤𝙜𝙖𝙬𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙥𝙤.) you're a defiant act of creation. you're a solar system pretending to be a person.

[4linos]

he calls you a gold digger.

ot8 x fem!reader

warnings: angst, asshole skz lol, no happy endings.

wc: 5961

[he calls you a gold digger part 2]

[a/n: this is non idol!skz]

bang chan

The scent of garlic and onions filled the kitchen as you stood by the stove, stirring a pot of simmering sauce. It had been a long day, but the simple act of making dinner for Chan was something that always made you feel grounded. It was a quiet comfort, a reminder that no matter how chaotic the world outside was, the two of you had a place to return to.

You heard the front door open. The usual sound of keys dropping onto the counter didn’t come. No soft greeting, no tired but affectionate “I’m home.” Just silence.

Something was wrong.

You turned, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you peeked into the living room. Chan stood there, shoulders stiff, his face blank. Too blank. His bags were still slung over his shoulders, like he hadn’t even thought to set them down.

“Hey.” Your voice was careful, soft. “Everything okay?”

For a second, he didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on you, dark and unreadable. He looked different worn out, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. And then, finally, he spoke.

“I lost everything.”

Three words. Heavy. Absolute.

Your hands stilled, the dish towel falling forgotten onto the counter. “What?”

“My business.” His voice was void of any emotion, like he had already accepted the words as truth, but that didn’t make them hurt any less. “My money. Everything I’ve built.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Gone.”

The weight of his confession hit you like a wave, but your first instinct wasn’t panic or concern for yourself, it was him. You could only imagine the pressure he had been under, the stress, the exhaustion. He had worked so hard, spent so many sleepless nights building everything from the ground up, and now it had been ripped away.

“Chan…” You took a cautious step forward, instinctively reaching for him, wanting to hold him, to tell him that no matter what happened, you were here.

But then he did something that made your stomach twist.

He stepped back.

It was slight just enough to put distance between you, but you felt it like a physical blow.

“Still pretending, huh?”

The words stung, sharp and unexpected.

You blinked, thrown off by his sudden hostility. “What?”

Chan let out a hollow laugh, the kind that didn’t hold an ounce of warmth. “Don’t act so surprised,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. His eyes bore into yours, but there was something different in them, something you had never seen directed at you before. Doubt.

Your heart pounded. “Chan, what are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said, voice sharper now. “The money’s gone. There’s nothing left. So let’s see how long you actually stick around.”

The accusation hit like a knife to the gut.

You took a step back now, shaking your head, trying to understand where this was coming from. “You think I’m here for your money?”

He didn’t answer right away. That was the worst part.

He just looked at you.

Like he was waiting for you to crack. Like he expected you to drop the act, to run, to do exactly what people had told him you would do.

And that’s when you realized it.

Someone had put this idea in his head.

You had seen it before, the way people whispered in his ear, how he was constantly surrounded by those who only wanted a piece of him. You knew how hard it was for him to trust, how much he had been burned in the past. But you? After everything?

He believed them.

The realization made your throat tighten.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Chan swallowed, his expression unreadable. But the silence was enough of an answer.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in your chest, but it wasn’t out of amusement. It was disbelief. It was pain. “So what?” you asked, crossing your arms tightly over yourself, like it could somehow shield you from the ache in your chest. “Did someone tell you that? That I was just here for your money?”

He didn’t deny it.

Of course.

You let out a sharp exhale, pressing your fingers to your temple as frustration mixed with the hurt. “I can’t believe this,” you muttered. “I’ve been with you through everything. I’ve been by your side when you were exhausted, when you were struggling, when you thought you weren’t enough.” Your voice wavered, but you didn’t care. “And now, now when you actually need me, you push me away? Because of this?”

He clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. “I lost everything, and I just needed to know if—”

“If I was using you?” You finished for him, your voice sharp with disbelief. “Really, Chan?”

He looked away for a second, as if the weight of his own words was finally sinking in. But the damage was already done.

You had been ready to fight for him, to stand by him through this storm, to carry him if you had to. But now, for the first time, you weren’t sure if he would have done the same for you.

You weren’t upset because he lost his money.

You were upset because he thought so little of you.

You were upset because, after everything, he still believed you were like them.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “I loved you when you had everything,” you said quietly. “I love you now, when you have nothing. And I would’ve stayed.” Your eyes met his, and you saw something flicker in them guilt, regret, something.

But it was too late.

“You’re the one pushing me away.”

The silence was deafening.

You turned off the stove, the half-finished meal now completely forgotten. “Let me know when you’re ready to stop treating me like a stranger.”

And with that, you walked past him, the weight of everything settling in your chest like lead. You didn’t know where you were going, maybe to the bedroom, maybe just away but you couldn’t stand there and let him tear you down like this.

Behind you, Chan didn’t move.

Didn’t call out.

Didn’t try to stop you.

And somehow, that hurt even more than the words.

lee know

For months, something had felt off. The warmth that once filled your relationship had been replaced with silence, with cold indifference. At first, you convinced yourself that Minho was just busy that work had been stressful, he was tired, maybe he just needed space. But space turned into distance, and distance turned into something that felt an awful lot like neglect.

You tried to ignore it. You tried to be understanding. You made excuses for him when he canceled plans last minute, told yourself he didn’t mean to ignore your messages for hours, that he wasn’t intentionally avoiding spending time with you. But the truth had been staring you in the face for a while now, and no amount of denial could change the way his eyes no longer lit up when he looked at you.

So tonight, as you sit across from him in your shared apartment, the weight of it all finally crushes you. The silence between you is suffocating, the tension thick enough to cut through. You can’t take it anymore.

“Minho,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. He barely looks up from his phone.

You hesitate for a moment, fear creeping in, but you force yourself to continue. “Do you even love me anymore?”

That gets his attention. He exhales sharply, setting his phone down, but the look on his face isn’t one of surprise. If anything, he looks… exhausted. As if he’s been waiting for you to ask.

His answer is immediate, and it’s colder than you ever could have imagined.

“Would it matter?” He leans back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “You love my bank account more.”

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. That’s the only way your brain can process the sheer cruelty of his words. But the way he stares at you flat, emotionless, indifferent tells you he means it.

You feel the sting behind your eyes, the way your chest tightens painfully. “Is that… really what you think of me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder will make it hurt more.

Minho lets out a scoff, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Should I think anything else?” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “You’ve never had a problem enjoying the things my money gets you. The expensive dinners, the vacations, the gifts.”

You swallow hard. “You bought those things for me, Minho. I never asked for them.”

“And yet, you never turned them down.”

His words feel like a slap, and suddenly, you see everything in a different light. He doesn’t just think you love his money. He thinks that’s the only reason you stayed. All this time, while you were worrying about losing him, blaming yourself, wondering if you weren’t enough. He was looking at you like you were nothing more than someone using him.

You shake your head, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. “That’s really how little you think of me, huh?” Your voice wavers, but you refuse to break in front of him.

Minho doesn’t respond. He doesn’t try to take it back, doesn’t try to explain. He just watches you, unbothered, like your pain means nothing.

And maybe it never did.

You inhale shakily, your hands trembling as you push yourself up from the couch. “If that’s how you see me, then I guess there’s nothing left to say.”

You wait, just for a second. You wait to see if he’ll stop you, if he’ll call your name, if there’s even a fraction of the man you fell in love with left in him.

But he stays silent.

So you turn and walk away, knowing this time, you won’t look back.

changbin

The tension had been building for weeks. No, months.

At first, it had been easy to ignore. The little jabs, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way conversations that used to flow effortlessly now felt strained, every word weighed down with something unsaid.

You and Changbin used to laugh over stupid things, steal kisses in the kitchen, curl up on the couch after long days without a single worry about the outside world. Now, it felt like the walls of your shared apartment were closing in, suffocating you both. Every conversation turned into a fight. Every fight felt like another crack in something you weren’t sure could be fixed.

And tonight was no different.

It had started with something ridiculous, him complaining that you left the lights on when you left for work. It was such a small thing, the kind of problem that would’ve been solved with a simple my bad, won’t happen again in the past. But not anymore.

Now, everything was a reason to snap.

“Oh, so I’m the problem?” you scoffed, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I left the lights on, and that’s enough to start another fight? Do you even hear yourself?”

“You don’t listen to me,” Changbin shot back, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I’ve told you a million times. But you don’t care, do you?”

Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t about the damn lights. It never was.

“Don’t make this about me not caring,” you said, voice sharp. “You pick a fight over everything lately. I can’t even breathe without you finding something to be mad about.”

His eyes darkened, frustration rolling off him in waves. “Maybe if you didn’t act like I was a burden, I wouldn’t feel this way.”

You froze, something in your chest twisting painfully. “What?”

“You think I don’t notice?” He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The way you look at me like I’m just some obstacle in your life? Like I’m just here?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer, eyes locked onto yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t even want to be here.”

That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true. But the words were out, and they stung.

“You don’t get to say that,” you said, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “You don’t get to act like I don’t try, like I don’t do everything I can to keep this together.”

Changbin scoffed. “Keep this together? You barely contribute. Do you even realize how much of this life I built for us? You wouldn’t last a day without my money.”

Silence.

The words hung in the air, suffocating, heavy, irreversible.

Your heart stopped, then restarted, hammering against your ribs.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. It was like all the air had been sucked from the room.

Changbin’s breathing was heavy, his face still set in anger, but something flickered in his eyes, like he was realizing, too late, what he had just said.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because the damage was done.

Numbly, you turned away, walking toward the door without another word. You grabbed your coat off the hook, pulling it on with slow, deliberate movements. Your fingers trembled slightly as you buttoned it, but you refused to let him see.

The air was thick with silence as you reached for the handle.

Then, just as you pushed the door open, you turned back to him.

Your voice was quiet, but sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Watch me.”

And then you left.

The door clicked shut behind you, and for the first time in a long time, the apartment was silent.

Changbin didn’t move. His fists were still clenched, his heart still racing, his mind still replaying the last five minutes like a car crash happening in slow motion.

But as the weight of what he had just done finally sank in, the anger drained from his face, replaced by something colder.

Regret.

hyunjin

The air is thick with warmth and laughter, the kind that fills the spaces between crystal glasses and designer dresses, that hums beneath the polished marble floors of Hyunjin’s penthouse. Everything is perfect the lighting, the music, the effortless way his friends drape themselves across velvet couches, expensive rings catching the light as they swirl their drinks.

You’ve always felt like an outsider here.

No one says it to your face, of course. They’re too well-mannered for that. Too used to playing pretend. But you’ve seen the looks, the subtle smirks, the quick glances exchanged when you walk into the room. You’ve heard the whispers that slip through conversations when they think you’re not paying attention.

“She’s cute, but she’s not exactly his type, is she?"

"God, she’s so lucky. Imagine dating Hyunjin."

“No, he’s the lucky one." A laugh. "I mean, she gets to live like this."

You tell yourself their words don’t matter. That Hyunjin is different. That he sees you, not just the world you’ve stepped into by being with him.

So you smile. You play along. You pretend that their quiet judgment doesn’t cling to you like the scent of expensive perfume.

But then, tonight happens.

It’s a simple thing, really. A moment so brief you could have missed it.

You had left the main room to grab another bottle of wine from the kitchen, your heels clicking softly against the floor as the sounds of the party faded behind you. The conversation drifts from the other side of the hallway low voices, laughter, the easy cadence of people who have never had to question their place in the world.

And then, your name.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t stop to listen. But something in their tone makes your feet still, fingers tightening around the bottle in your hand.

“I mean, come on, man, it’s obvious, right?" A scoff. “She’s nice and all, but let’s be real, she’s here because of you. Or, more like, what you have."

Someone chuckles, the sound like ice in your veins.

“She just loves the lifestyle."

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

Because then, clear as anything, his voice.

"Yeah."

It’s not just the word. It’s how he says it.

No hesitation. No disbelief. No anger, no defense, not even a hint of irritation at the way they reduce you to nothing more than a girl who got lucky. Just agreement. Casual, effortless agreement.

Like he’s always known. Like he’s never questioned it.

Like he believes it, too.

The room tilts slightly. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, the party outside feeling miles away.

You tell yourself you misheard. That there’s some other explanation. But then you risk a glance around the corner, just for confirmation, just to see..

And there he is.

Hyunjin, leaning back against the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the corner of his mouth curled into something close to amusement. There’s no discomfort in his expression, no regret. Just ease. Just familiarity. Like this is normal. Like this is nothing.

You feel something crack inside you.

It’s not loud. It’s not even dramatic. It’s just… quiet. A shift, a realization, a slow-burning pain that settles beneath your ribs.

Because the worst part isn’t that his friends think it.

It’s that he does, too.

It’s that maybe he always has.

You stand there, frozen, as something heavy and unfamiliar washes over you. Anger. Humiliation. Betrayal. All tangled together, knotting tightly in your throat.

And then someone calls your name.

Your head snaps up. The moment shatters. You’re back in the party, back in his world, back in the role you’ve been playing all along.

You inhale sharply. You smooth out your expression. You press down the ache, push the betrayal into some distant part of your mind, and step forward with a smile.

You don’t confront him.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you laugh when he touches your waist. You let him kiss your temple as if nothing has changed. You play the perfect host, refill drinks, weave through conversations with the same practiced ease as always.

You let him think everything is fine.

Because if he truly believes you’re just here for the lifestyle,

Then you’ll make damn sure he regrets it when you leave.

HAN

The moment is perfect at least, it should be.

The warm glow of fairy lights bathes the room in gold, casting soft shadows across the gathered faces of your friends and family. Laughter and conversation had filled the air just moments before, but now, silence settles over them like a held breath, heavy with anticipation. Your heart pounds against your ribs, your hands trembling at your sides as Jisung lowers himself onto one knee.

You stare down at him, wide-eyed, as the world around you blurs. The only thing you can focus on is him his dark, nervous eyes looking up at you, the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the small velvet box he clutches between his fingers.

Your hands fly to your mouth, a choked breath catching in your throat. This is it. The moment you’d imagined since you were young, tracing wedding dresses in magazines and twirling around in your mother’s oversized jewelry, dreaming of the day someone would love you enough to ask you to spend forever with them.

And that someone is Jisung. Your Jisung.

The room waits, charged with electricity. His hands tremble slightly as he opens the box, revealing the most breathtaking ring you’ve ever seen simple, elegant, perfect. Just like you’d always imagined.

And then he speaks.

“Guess I finally paid enough to keep you."

Your heart stops.

At first, you think you’ve misheard. That the nerves crackling in your veins have distorted his words, twisting them into something they weren’t. But no. His voice, quiet yet sharp, laced with something you can’t quite place resentment? Bitterness? echoes in your ears.

A chill spreads through your chest, replacing the warmth that had been building there.

What…?

Your breath catches, fingers curling at your sides. The room hasn’t noticed your family, your friends, they’re all too busy gasping, whispering, snapping photos. They see only the proposal, the grand romantic gesture. They don’t see the way your entire world has just tilted, how something inside you has cracked down the middle.

Jisung slides the ring onto your finger, and it’s beautiful, just as you’d always dreamed. But suddenly, it feels heavy.

Does he… does he really think that? That this moment, this life together is just something you wanted, something you chased, rather than something that grew between you both, something you built with love and trust?

Your throat tightens. The cheers swell around you as Jisung rises to his feet, still holding your hand. He smiles for the cameras, for the crowd, for everyone watching. And you are supposed to smile back. You’re supposed to throw your arms around him, say yes, let tears of joy spill down your cheeks as he kisses you breathless.

But how can you? How can you pretend that everything is perfect when the man you love, the man you thought loved you just as deeply, just implied that this was all some kind of goal? Some kind of prize?

Your lips part, but your voice is trapped somewhere in your chest, tangled in the emotions clawing their way to the surface. You know everyone is waiting for your response, but for the first time in your life, you have no idea what to say.

Jisung squeezes your hand gently, as if urging you to say something, anything. The weight of expectation is suffocating.

You force yourself to breathe, to push through the tightness in your throat. And then, barely above a whisper, you murmur,

“Is that really what you think of me?"

His smile falters. It’s just for a second so quick you almost miss it, but you see it. The hesitation. The slight flicker of emotion behind his eyes, something conflicted, something he doesn’t want you to see.

Your stomach twists.

"Jisung," you whisper, voice unsteady but firm. "Do you really think… that’s all this is to me?"

He doesn’t answer right away. And that silence, that pause, is louder than any response he could have given.

Your breath shudders out of you, your pulse pounding in your ears. Say something, you want to beg. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t actually think that.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, his jaw tensing, his eyes darting away just for a moment, but long enough for you to know.

Your vision blurs at the edges. The cheers around you start to sound distant, like they belong to another world. One where this moment is still perfect. One where Jisung never said those words.

felix

You always knew Mia hated you.

From the moment you and Felix got together, she made it clear maybe not in words, but in the way she looked at you, the way she spoke about you when she thought no one was listening. She never missed an opportunity to make you feel like an outsider, like you didn’t belong in his world.

And the worst part? Felix never saw it.

“She doesn’t hate you,” he’d say whenever you tried to bring it up. “She’s just blunt. She’s always been like that.”

“She likes you, I swear. You’re just overthinking it.”

“You always do this, thinking people are against you when they’re not.”

Every single time, he brushed it off, making you feel like you were the problem. Like you were paranoid. Insecure. But you knew the truth. You saw the way Mia looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. You heard the way her voice softened when she spoke to him, how her entire demeanor shifted when he was around.

She wanted him.

And she hated you for being the one he chose.

You tried to push it aside, for Felix’s sake. You didn’t want to be the girlfriend who made him pick sides, didn’t want to be the person he saw as controlling or jealous. But that nagging feeling in your chest never left.

And one night, everything came crashing down.

Felix had gone out with some friends, Mia included. It wasn’t unusual he had a close-knit group, and you never wanted to be the kind of girlfriend who kept him from them. So you stayed home, trying not to think about the way Mia would be sitting too close, laughing too hard at his jokes, looking at him like he was hers.

You weren’t expecting anything to be different when he got home.

But the second he walked through the door, you knew something was wrong.

He wouldn’t look at you. His jaw was tight, his movements stiff as he set his keys down on the counter with more force than necessary. The air around him felt heavier, charged with something dangerous.

“Felix?” You took a cautious step forward. “What’s wrong?”

He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head as he finally looked at you. But there was no warmth in his eyes. No love. Just something cold. Something distant.

“So it was all a lie.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Mia told me everything. She said you admitted to it.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. “Admitted to what?”

His expression hardened. “Using me.”

The words barely registered at first. They felt foreign, impossible, like something ripped out of a nightmare.

“She said you told her everything,” he continued, voice tight with anger. “That you only stayed with me because of my money. That it was never about me.”

A sharp breath left your lungs. Your entire body went cold.

“Felix,” you whispered, shaking your head, “that’s not true.”

“Is it not?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “Because you sure seemed comfortable spending my money. Letting me take care of everything. And Mia… she said you told her you never really loved me.” His voice cracked on the last part, but he quickly masked it with anger. “That it was all just convenient.”

Tears welled in your eyes. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

“Mia is lying.” You took a step toward him, but he moved back. That single action shattered something inside you.

Felix had never pulled away from you before.

“Why would she lie?” he challenged.

You let out a broken laugh, disbelieving. “Felix, she hates me. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

“She doesn’t hate you.” His voice was sharp, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“She does.” Your voice trembled. “She hates me because she wants you.”

Silence.

A flicker of something crossed his face hesitation, doubt but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I can’t sit here and question everything, wonder if any of it was ever real.”

Your breath hitched. “Felix, please—”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time, you realized you had already lost.

Because he didn’t believe you.

And nothing you said would change that.

Tears blurred your vision. Your chest ached, your heart cracking under the weight of the realization that this wasn’t just a fight. This wasn’t something you could fix.

This was the end.

Felix exhaled, running a hand down his face. “I think you should go.”

A sob threatened to escape, but you swallowed it down. Your hands trembled at your sides.

You wanted to scream, to shake him and make him see, but what was the point?

He had already decided.

So, with a broken heart and unsteady steps, you walked away.

seungmin

The room feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the way Seungmin stands across from you, arms crossed, his jaw tight with frustration. Maybe it’s the way the air between you is thick with words left unsaid, with misunderstandings piling up faster than either of you can fix them. Or maybe it’s just the exhaustion settling into your bones, the kind that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from trying, constantly trying, only to feel like you’re getting nowhere.

You don’t even know how the argument started this time. But somehow, it always came back to this. Money.

“You act like I’m just throwing it in your face,” Seungmin says, his voice sharp but controlled, as if he’s trying to keep himself from losing his temper. “I’m trying to take care of you. Why is that such a bad thing?”

Your hands clench at your sides. You’ve explained this before. So many times before. “Taking care of me doesn’t mean replacing everything with money, Seungmin. I don’t need gifts. I don’t need a damn shopping spree every time we have an argument.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something behind his eyes something unreadable, something distant. “That’s just how I show I care.”

“No, that’s just how you avoid dealing with things,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. The words hang in the air, heavier than either of you expected.

Seungmin’s lips press into a thin line. He takes a slow breath, tilting his head slightly, like he’s thinking, calculating his next move. And then, without another word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his black card. The limitless one. The one he’s used to fix things before.

He throws it onto the table between you. The sound is small, barely more than a soft tap against the wood, but it echoes in your chest like a gunshot.

“Take what you want and go.”

Your breath catches.

Not because you’re surprised, he’s done this before. But because this time, it doesn’t just feel like a way to end the argument. This time, it feels like he’s pushing you out completely.

Your heart aches, but you’re too tired to let it break. Not again.

You stare at the card. It feels like an insult, like a test, like a final confirmation of something you never wanted to believe: that no matter how much you love him, no matter how much you’ve fought for him, he still doesn’t see you. Not really.

Slowly, you lift your gaze back to his. He looks indifferent bored, even. But you know him better than that. You see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

Still, he says nothing.

And that’s when you realize, you’re done.

Done proving yourself. Done trying to make him understand something he refuses to see. Done fighting for something that shouldn’t need to be fought for in the first place.

You take a deep breath, forcing the lump in your throat to disappear. When you speak, your voice is calm. Steady. Final.

“Keep your money,” you say. “I was never here for that.”

For a second, just a second something flickers across his face. But it’s gone before you can name it. And he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t stop you.

So you turn. And you leave.

Your steps are slow, deliberate, as if you’re waiting for him to call out, to take it back. To say something.

But he doesn’t.

And when you finally walk out the door, Seungmin is left standing alone, staring at the black card on the table, the proof of everything he just lost.

I.N

The restaurant was buzzing with life. Soft music playing over the speakers, the low hum of conversation, the occasional clatter of silverware against plates. The warmth of dim lights cast a golden glow over the long dinner table where Jeongin, his friends, and their girlfriends sat, chatting and laughing.

You sat beside Jeongin, as you always did, trying to find comfort in the presence of the girls, the only ones who ever made you feel like you belonged. They were kind. They never hesitated to speak up when Jeongin’s friends made their usual offhand comments about you.

And they always did.

It started small, as it always did. A jab here, a snide remark there.

“She looks miserable.”

“Is she even listening?”

“Does she ever talk, or do you just keep her around for the company?”

It wasn’t new. They had never liked you, and they never tried to hide it. You weren’t sure why, and after months of trying to figure it out, you had stopped searching for a reason. Maybe they thought you weren’t good enough for him. Maybe they just didn’t like how different you were from the girls they surrounded themselves with.

Maybe they just enjoyed having someone to tear down.

You tried to ignore it, as you always did. You focused on your food, on the warm, reassuring presence of the girls beside you, who were already rolling their eyes and preparing to snap back at them.

But the worst part the part that always hurt more than their words was Jeongin’s silence.

He never said anything. Never told them to stop. Never made them see how much it hurt you.

At first, you convinced yourself that he just wasn’t good at confrontation. That maybe he didn’t notice how deeply their words cut. Maybe he thought ignoring them was the best way to make them stop.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t true.

Because no matter how many times you told him, no matter how many times he saw the way you shut down, the way your hands clenched under the table, the way your voice grew quieter with every insult, he never did anything.

And then, tonight, they took it a step further.

“How much do you think she’d take if you broke up with her?”

The words were casual, spoken with a grin, like it was just another joke. But they weren’t laughing at you this time.

They were laughing about you.

And then Jeongin laughed too.

The sound hit you like a punch to the stomach.

Not a hesitant chuckle. Not an awkward attempt to brush it off.

A real laugh. Like it was funny. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t mean anything.

The girls beside you stiffened. One of them sucked in a sharp breath, her hand reaching out like she wanted to stop you from reacting. Another was already snapping at the guys, her voice sharp, angry.

But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Because the one person who was supposed to care, the one person who should have never let it get this far was laughing with them.

You turned to Jeongin, hoping begging to see something on his face. Regret. Guilt. Anything.

But he wasn’t even looking at you.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done.

Something inside you broke.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, blinking quickly as your vision blurred. Your heart pounded in your chest, a painful, hollow ache spreading through you.

The conversation around you continued, the laughter still ringing in your ears, but you couldn’t hear it anymore.

All you could hear was your own heart shattering.

The chair scraped against the floor as you stood abruptly, the sudden movement drawing attention. Jeongin finally turned to you, his brows furrowing in confusion.

Like he didn’t understand.

Like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

The girls were already shifting, ready to go after you, but you shook your head. You didn’t want comfort. You didn’t want pity. You just needed to leave.

So you did.

You turned and walked away, your breath unsteady, your hands shaking.

And as you stepped out into the cold night air, the only thought running through your mind was simple.

If he really cares, he’ll come after me.

But deep down, you already knew.

He wouldn’t.

//

masterlist.

❌ proofread

[xenteaart]

the hard way

pairing: vampire!chris x to be vampire!reader genre/warnings: dark romance, mean chris, angst? kinda dead dove, mentions of death, blood and a lil gore (not too graphic tho imo), it's okay in the end??? and they're in love plot: reader is getting turned into a vampire and it's not as cool as she imagined author’s note: obvsly heavily inspired by railway and that SPITTING SCENE. idk it's prolly gonna flop but i wanted to picture that process and a not so hot side of it

“no.” “why not?!” “because i told you so a million times already. we’re not discussing this.” chris spits out and furrows, growing more agitated with each passing second.

“what, you don’t want me to be equal to you?” you ponder desperately while your mind searches for any, any reason at all as to why chris won’t turn you. it’s been getting to you for the last couple of months, and you’re sure you’ve gone through every possible explanation your troubled brain could come up with: he doesn’t love you. he doesn’t wanna spend eternity with you. or maybe it’s a power thing. or, or, or...? this endless cycle of worry and uncertainty has been keeping you on edge for way too long to think clearly now. “gosh, it has nothing to do with equality,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “what is it then?” “drop it.” you snap. “we’ll have to find out the hard way, then.”

you grab the nearest kitchen knife, and it turns out to be the one you use for cutting meat, a chef’s knife as they call it. how fitting. chris barely has enough time to catch up with your madness infused impulse, and when he turns his gaze back to you, the knife is already deep in your guts.

you thought it was gonna be romantic or somewhat dramatic at least. something from the movies where he sinks his vampire teeth into your neck, and just like magic — your eyes flash bright red, announcing the beginning of a new life.

“you dumb bitch,” he exhales shakily and somehow manages to catch you in time because the sharp pain in your stomach makes you lose your balance instantly. you’re still bitter and angry in the heat of the argument and you expect him to be the same way, but when you glance up, chris looks nothing but panicked. “that’s a new look on him,” you think, and it confuses you.

chris growls and sinks to his knees, carefully holding you and trying to move as fast as possible. what you don’t know is that turning can only be done in around thirty seconds since fatal injury. that might explain the rushing and chris’s pure bambi eyes panic but your consciousness is already starting to drift away to hold onto that train of thought.

chris bites into his wrist with unmasked fury, tearing and ripping his own veins even though using a knife would have been much cleaner. probably less painful, too. “swallow. now! come on, don’t you fall asleep on me now, focus!” he grabs your face and presses hard on the jaw joints, making you open your mouth like a puppet doll.

the sickly metallic taste of your own blood at the back of your throat from the internal bleeding mixes up with chris’s thick blood that he generously spits into your mouth, and you want to throw up. your head feels dizzy as your eyelids are getting heavier, your hearing suddenly fails completely as if someone turned the volume down from ten to zero. limbs are falling weak, and the pins and needles in them are so, so far from pleasant.

the thing about turning is... you actually have to die first. be fully, completely gone to be able to come back changed and corrupted, turned to the extent of your DNA having been violently rewritten. that you did not think through enough. the muscles in your throat contract almost on reflex, swallowing and gagging on the gooey salty substance, making your chest heave while coughing strangles you further. the tingles and nausea are so overwhelming and all consuming you actually catch yourself thinking dying would be a relief now. and then it follows as you wished.

you doze off for god knows how long but, by the looks of it, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because as you regain consciousness, chris is still looming over you, his own blood fresh on his lips. he’s blurry, though, everything is.

“come on, suck on me. c’mon, baby, there we go,” he coos as he brings his wrist to your lips, forcefully pressing it into your mouth and leaving you with little to no choice. the phrasing, unlike usual, doesn’t sound dirty or hot now, more like a life-saving command while you’re still so out it. it feels good, though, chris’s blood.

it doesn’t taste so metallic and gross anymore, and the texture feels almost soothing on your dry throat, like hot honey milk on a friday evening. suck, gulp, suck, gulp, suck, it almost lulls you back into serenity, some primal instinct of being attached to your only life line, finding comfort in someone’s warmth and touch and taste.

you wonder how much you’ve drunk already and whether chris will have anything left but you’re so, so thirsty you can’t even bring yourself to care.

what finally makes you stop is the sudden sharp ache in your gums. it feels so piercing the aftershocks are almost reaching your brain and eye sockets, and as you feel your old teeth fall out, a pair of longer fangs cuts through and settles into the upper teeth row. hot tears are stinging your eyes and you whine like a wounded deer, still unable to speak properly. it’s all too much, and you start to regret what you’ve done, and maybe, just maybe that’s why chris so passionately refused to put you through it. this kind of hunger and the animalistic, blood thirst driven rage were never something he wanted to inflict upon you.

your entire body is shaking but it’s not really a fearful tremor, more like restlessness, a new sort of “itch” somewhere deep, deep inside that you’ve never experienced before, the feeling so intense and soul wrenching you simply can’t disobey it. it makes you want to jump up and run.

“don’t worry, i’ll teach you how to handle it.” chris cups your face after taking off his leather gloves so you can feel the comfort of his actual skin. the touch is calming, but barely enough compared to that growing desire and need to satisfy the itch. “you stupid crazy cunt, why do you never listen,” he whispers into your forehead, his lips lightly brushing over your cold sweat covered skin, as he holds you closer, squeezing you against his chest in a protective manner, though the real danger to yourself is now planted within you.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looks wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over onto his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[oceantornadoo]

butcher!simon riley x bartender f!reader, a lil dark/dubcon smut

the one where simon never joins up, staying a butcher’s apprentice as he watches the people from his school grow up and leave. classmates gone, his father fucked off to somewhere, his mother and brother needing taking care of. work, eat, sleep, and of course, fuck.

everyone needs some stress relief. he’s running the shop now, the blood of animals practically burnt into his skin. got his own apprentice, a scrawny kid who can barely lift a knife, reminding him too much of tommy. that thought is how he ends up in a new pub on a different side of town and finds, of all things, you.

the bartender in a shitty hole in the wall. cursing at motorbikers and throwing out men who get too touchy, snaking their hands up your arm when you give them drinks. there’s a similar glint in your eye, callous and hardened but determined, having to make something of yourself to protect the ones you love. he sits at the corner table and he waits. like all kindred spirits, you find each other eventually.

he gets you off on your ten minute smoke break.

your chest smothered against the alley wall, jeans and panties ripped down in one go as his thick fingers find their way around. “ya let every man tha’ walks into yer bar do this?” simon grunts into your ear, his hand forceful on your jaw. you smirk, as much as you can with two fingers plunging in and out of your seeping hole. “only the ones that look sad enough. i like pity fucks.” for that comment, he stops his movement, thumb finding that tight little wrong hole.

“say no.” he presses in, barely, and you’re already scrambling out of his grip, wondering what the hell you got yourself into when you mentioned you were going for a smoke. “fuck you.” he grins, canines glinting under streetlights. “tha’s wha’ i’m tryin’ to do, sweet’art.” you arch your spine, trying to tempt him back to paying attention to your clit. “i’ve been working too hard all night to not come from this, simon. get back to work.” you spit out his name like there’s dirt in your mouth. he pulls out his fingers, ignoring your whine, and flips you around, bare ass against the wall.

“suck.” you do, obediently, bobbing your head up and down like you would his cock. your mouth opens with a pop as he peels his fingers out and right back into your pretty cunt. this time, his thumb finds your clit, small circles that are your undoing. your forehead falls to his shoulder, uncharacteristically intimate between two strangers, and you both watch his fingers move as you get closer and closer to the edge. he pinches your clit roughly and that’s the end of it, pleasure bursting through your veins as you come, mouth open against his clothed collarbone. “fuck.”

he yanks the waistband of your pants up and you nearly combust at the rough drag of your underwear against your sensitive cunt. he chuckles low when you jump, earning a glare as you step out of his grip. “i don’t have time to return the favor,” you warn, already two minutes over your allotted break. he shrugs like he has no problem with it. “got nowhere else to be, bird.”

he sits on that corner bench until the bar closes at 2am. he sits some more when you do a quick mop, not offering to help or lift a finger. by the time you’re done counting the till, it’s nearly 3 in the morning. your feet ache, there’s sweat everywhere, and the vodka cran someone spilled down your spine is still sticky. you don’t have the heart to tell him this when he offers to drive you home, content to murmur quiet street directions from the passenger seat.

simon shadows you as you unlock your apartment door, only kicking off his boots when you glare at him. he’s there when you take off your makeup in the bathroom and doesn’t move when you pointedly say you’re taking a shower. “leave the curtain open.” he replies. you huff as you wait for the water to warm up. “and who’s cleaning the water that’ll spill out?” he shrugs, and in anticipation of the steam, pulls off the black sweatshirt he’s wearing. his torso is a culmination of pale skin and healed scars and cigarette burns, tucked under a worn wife beater. too tired to argue, you strip and wash mechanically, leaving the curtain open. simon just watches, and although you can see the tent in his pants, doesn’t even touch his cock.

that changes when you get in bed. he strips down to his boxers and doesn’t let you explore, turning off the lamp before you can catalogue more. moonlight still glints through the blinds you need to fix, giving you a front show to how he gets to his knees in bed. you’re suddenly alert, afraid of the creature you dragged home.

simon doesn’t want to fuck you like this, so he tugs at the ratty shirt you’re wearing until he can see the pretty tits he saw in the shower. it quick, pulling down his boxers and tugging his cock dry until he spurts white stripes on your nipples, like a claiming. he strips off his wife beater and half-heartedly wipes you down before tugging the shirt back down. simon ignores your mouth, hanging half open, in favor of maneuvering you on top of his chest, your face in his neck.

“simon, i-“

“sleep, bird. gotta be up early ‘nough to fuck ya an’ get to work.”

you close your mouth and he feels you grind your jaw against his shoulder. simon squeezes your ass, almost hard enough to hurt, before leaving his hand there. a warning.

“sleep.”

after that, you’re never able to shake him off.

-

my masterlist here

[barnacles34]

A Bourgeois Comedy

Male Reader x NJZ Haerin x NJZ Minji

18+ smut

a/n: I've been intensely sick these past days. Finally feeling better. Here's a little piece I did while I was sick. <3

IMPORTANT UPDATE

---

'Got a spare ounce of willpower?'

Minji didn't look up. 'Fresh out. Used it all resisting the urge to close this door.' 

'Harsh. What about caffeine? Any spare?'

'Machine's down the hall. Unless you've forgotten its location in the last twenty minutes?'

'Remember the location. Lack the motivation for the journey.' You leaned a shoulder against the frame. 'It's a whole thing.'

'Uh-huh.' Minji’s keyboard: click, click, tap. 'So you're just going to stand there?'

'It's low-energy loitering. Environmentally friendly.'

Her typing stopped. 'Go loiter somewhere else.'

'Can't. My energy reserves are critically low. Need a jumpstart.'

She finally turned her head. 'And how, precisely, do you plan on achieving that?'

'One second. Just a hand-hold. For sustenance. Come on.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because.' Her fingers paused over the keys. A hesitation. 'No. Just… no.'

'Is it the wilting? Maybe I should get these dark circles fixed? Would that help my case?'

'No. Don't do that. Please.' 

'Ah, the first 'please' of the day. Mark it down.'

'Ugh.' Just a grunt.

'You know, I know a Dr. Kim. Gangnam street. Supposed to be good.'

A laugh finally escaped her. 'You’re impossible.'

'Wrong. Minji,' you held out your hand, palm up flat. 'See this? Put your hand here. Just for a second. Scout's honor, no biting.'

'You're such a damn dork.'

'And you're a total loser.' You pulled the door closed behind you.

Half-teasing, half-hope. That's the tightrope you walk. Minji's rule is simple: cross the line, you're gone. Permanently. But you haven't been booted yet. You keep pushing, and somehow, you stick.

—

Later. Deep into the evening. She’s curled against you on the couch - soft fabric, faint flowery scent, warm. Some dumb dog grooming competition plays, unnoticed. You lean into her warmth, let your breath out, a little too heavy.

She shifts.

Then, she stilled completely. 'Okay.'

'Okay, what? Finally admitting the poodle deserved that ribbon?'

She turned her head, slow. Her gaze locked onto yours. 'Okay. Kiss me.'

'...Say again?'

'Kiss. Me. Simple concept, right?' She paused, her lips looking tangible in the worst way possible; and her next word slipping out quieter, almost desperate, 'Please?'

You scanned her face. No joke. No test. The usual script, ripped up. The Tom & Jerry routine dissolved. Her expression wasn't asking; it was direct, almost impatient. She just upended the world and expected you to keep up. That look. Yeah. That did it.

You had to get the last word, had to twist the knife just a little before you - inevitably - lost yourself. 'Right now? During the Shih Tzu semi-finals? Classy, loser.'

Then your mouth was on hers, and the world dissolved.

Soft. Unbelievably soft. Faint sounds vibrated from her throat into your mouth. Pulling back felt like surfacing, gasping for air. You saw her then: wrecked, face flushed bright pink, heated, a touch of stunned deer in her wide eyes. She just watched you, breathing unevenly. Her hand came up, thumb brushing, feather-light, across your bottom lip. Her eyes, implacable; her fingers, gliding along the firmness of your face.

'Right,' she said. Squeaked, almost.

Then: 'Love me.'

There was no air between you anymore. Lips like candy, velvety, gliding sickeningly sweet against yours. 

—

There were days. You think. You lost track anyway; waking tangled with Minji, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, skin bare, both of you exhausted in that specific, amorphous, body dissolving satisfying way. It felt jarringly new and utterly inevitable, all at once. Quiet morning light catching her cheekbone - in those moments, you understood:

'I think,' you murmured one dawn, finger tracing the curve of her bare glowing shoulder, so perfect you wanted to latch onto it, and never let go, 'I'd actually die for you.'

Her eyes fluttered open. A slow, sleepy smile touched her lips. 'Weirdo love bombing.’

You stopped. Thought about it. 'Okay, maybe tiny bit. But I'm serious.' You held up a stray strand of her hair against the light. 'This one hair? In danger? I'm finding a sword.'

'You don't own a sword,' she mumbled, burying her face against your chest.

'I know.'

—

The power dynamic shifted. She called it 'collecting back-pay,' this sudden, focused intensity on you. Cat and mouse reversed. She’d walk in, keys still singing, kick off her shoes while her eyes hunted you down. Undoing her ponytail in that split second. A look that just said: you, now. Her lips, often faintly bruised by evening's end, found yours before a single 'hello'.

Zero complaints.

‘Can’t you just… call in sick, babe?’ she murmured one night, fingers twisting in your tie. The one she’d given you. The one you wore every damn day.

Babe. Still landed weird. Good weird.

‘Can’t. They made me 'important' now, apparently.'

‘That’s… good, right?’ Adorable, how serious she looked.

‘God, no. Means I work twice as long for maybe five percent more pay. It's crap.'

‘My poor suffering man.’ Her hands worked the knot loose, sliding the tie down. ‘You work so hard.’

‘You wouldn’t believe.’

She slipped off her little house slippers, then sank down to her knees on the rug before you, still holding the end of your tie.

‘Just relax,’ she said, looking up, her eyes dark. ‘Lean back. I’ll make it all better.’

She unbuckled your belt; pants heaved lower along your thigh; then, her soft breaths riding along your clothed hardness. Then inch by inch, her hand tousled the cloth down. Staring intensely, her breaths looming on your shaft. 

Then: she licked a stripe along the side of your cock. Hand along your shaft at the base, holding you still as she pressed soft trailing stripes. Just as her tongue made a desperate path along the head, her mouth devoured you. 

A few coughs, deeper still. Mouth working you loose. Little strips of her spit trailing down, her hollowed cheeks - your hands were about to tear the fucking couch apart.

Deeper down her throat, you were dying, literally, constricted in the heavenliest of vices - cock trapped in Minji’s throat - you sprayed ropes and ropes down her mouth.

‘Gross.’

Yet she swallowed.

And cleaned your cock; with a gaze that bared no tired eyes.

You were in for the night.

—

A few days passed. Messy days. You were stuck together until the very last minute - each and every day. Entangled together; Minji would apply her eyeliner as you caressed her cheeks, and she’d nibble the ridge of your jaw while buttoning your shirt. 

Brilliant days.

—

At home, on a foggy evening, you spread yourself against the couch - waiting for Minji to come home. The door clicked, and you could hear Minji shuffle into the door.

She met your gaze, ‘Give me a kiss.’

So you did. 

Going deeper, feeling the soft curves of her entire body, hidden under damning cloth.

‘I need to fuck you so bad.’ A whisper into her perfect ear.

‘Uh. Babe.' She coughed, more out of shock than anything else. 'I brought someone over.’

You looked past her. There was someone there, standing.

A flushing redness spread across her cheeks, and she bowed - no comment.

Sturdy stiff, flushed hot; you exchange glances with Minji, who so lovingly has creased eyes of joy for you - a hint that she’ll tease you for however long it stays on her mind.

Brush off imaginary dust, try to maintain some semblance of courtesy in front of someone who’s shell shocked.

‘Hey!’ Not the best introduction.

‘Hi…’

Minji came to save the day, ‘Introduce yourself, come on.’ She pressed a hand to Haerin, a nervous butterfly.

‘I’m Haerin.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Haerin.’ You barely craggle out.

…

It’s white noise after this, you don’t remember anything; Haerin; that’s all you remember.

She was clad by a cloud of camo adjacents - green camo pants, a darker camo hat, and a grey jacket that clung against her slim body; but she was beautiful, wandering big eyes, thin long fingers decorated with painted nails.

Her eyes, even in careful rumination of Her, you gravitate toward her eyes - careful, soft, feline-like - as if any aspect of her was to be complement of her Eyes.

Dissonance escaped you after the first beer. In the kitchen, chopping up variations of aged cheeses, Minji stood adjacent to you cutting up fruits.

‘You’re hilarious.’

‘You should’ve told me.’

‘Told you what? Who could ever predict that you’d say that?’ She giggled some more.

‘Do you think she minds?’

‘Haerin? Probably. A little. Most likely. She’s just like that. Shy. Quiet. Very unresponsive.’

‘I made it worse.’

‘Probably.’

‘Fuuuuck.’

‘Come on. Don’t worry. You earned points with me.’ Tipping your chin up. She pressed a thumb against your lip - letting you taste the sweet fruits she cut - and kissed you soft. ‘You brazen bull.’ 

‘God. I need you so bad.’

‘Baby. Haerin’s in the living room. There’s time for that later.’

‘Please stop entertaining the possibility.’

‘I want it as much as you.’

‘ - But?’

‘Mysterious disappearances in the middle of friendly reunions don’t exactly spell out cordial, babe… Hey - come on - get off me - ngh.’

—

Some arbitrarily large amounts of alcohol later; red-stained wine glasses, charcuterie board stained with a variety of acidic ideals; you find Minji’s lips again. In front of Haerin. 

It’s capillary force, as natural as a plant seeks the sun or water: her lips. Soft against yours. The fact that Haerin’s watching? Mortifying. Absolutely so. But it’s destiny (what can you do against that?) so you delve.

You weren’t privy to what Minji or Haerin thought, it was just Minji’s fingers pressing notes of sing-song motivation with her fingers on your sides, and, you were sure of it, totally so: Haerin’s eyes indelibly locked in on your exchange. 

Voyeur. Is that it? She was a voyeur? You ask of Minji through the antiquated language of kissing the top of her lip, entering her mouth, sharing spittle. And she responds, licks back, moans softly: that’s it, she’s a voyeur. Cruel Minji. 

You try to mangle out a look at what she was doing with all this eyespace (was she pressing against her moistness hidden in soft cloth?) (finger-deep in herself?) (And.. Did she want to join?) (are her toes pressing deep into her slippers, barely maintaining herself?). 

Minji punished your nape for the slightest indolence, tight fingers, pulling you into her velvet mouth - the slightest breath between you forbidden - the softest exertion ignored - she was, at this moment, a machine.

Minutes passed like this, Haerin’s soft clothes mushing together, the squelches of Minji’s lips. Almost suffocating, Minji let you go - breathing heavily with beads of condensation floating on her honey forehead - so fucking hot. 

Your eyes landed on Haerin, and first thing, her eyes dilated full, like two black holes: the concept of irises ridiculous. As you stared at Haerin - not sure if she was finger-deep in herself; the majority of her hidden under the table - Minji breathed a bristling breath on your neck, and in an even more suggestive breath: ‘It’ll be fun.’

No answer.

The both of you knew. 

You waited for Haerin’s expression, as did Minji, for confirmation, or the nil possibility of her running out right this moment.

And so: her hands landed on the zipper of her jacket, and revealed a faintly pink tank-top. God almighty.

‘Follow me.’ Minji broke the silence.

You followed Minji as she tore off one layer after another, then splaying herself along a bed - half-naked - that spared no space for three - well, space for three if one was on top of each other. 

Then Haerin entered last. This time, you had a better view of her: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

‘Now kiss.’ 

‘What?’ The both of you say.

‘Kiss each other. Go on.’ 

‘Uh…’ You look at Haerin. She looks back. This time, the floor wasn't so interesting; her eyes were on you.

‘No hand holding.’ You heard from the background. And you laugh: it’s all so absurd, Minji’s half-naked on the bed, your girlfriend of years, chest low and tight, pupils dilated, watching you kiss her friend. 

Kissed. Again and again. Saliva moist against Haerin’s lips, against yours, hers and yours. She tasted faintly of menthol, strong mint, a trite sensation against the soft weaves of her tongue against yours. Every breath held her scent, every breath she took spread on your skin like a breath against cold glass - her soft, beautiful little exhales. 

You had glimpses, of Minji, hand tucked deep into her pants, little shallow shadow-changes on the groin of her pants - what could only be her fingering herself. Lip-bitten raw, huffing, moaning softly with eyes that didn’t leave you. You were hard, unimaginably hard, almost passing out - Haerin’s kissing you, her delicate palms caressing the bristled nape of yours, and Minji, sat on the bed, finger-fucking herself with hawk-eyed concentration.

You began shuffling towards the bed, with Haerin’s lips buried into your neck, sucking phantom hickeys onto your neck. 

And Minji made space for you, sat a little to the side, held the hem of her pants to take it off. 

‘Minji.’

‘Babe.’ Her hands wrapped around your waist, and softly, inch by inch, she pulled down your pants. She kissed your navel, almost worshipping you, before pulling down the last piece of cloth that hid your member. It was the loudest silence. Two pairs of dilated eyes, engaged on your swollen member begging to be taken care of (which, inevitably, will happen). 

First, Minji’s hand encircled around your member; a few rough strokes; then saliva mixed unevenly on her palm, a smoother gliding sensation; soft strokes, Haerin’s eyes tracked every soft stroke, and each stroke led her closer towards you. 

Minji added a few more dribbles of her spit on the head, then her hands moved faster, and smoother. By the next stroke, her mouth circled your head, then she swallowed your cock. ‘Fuck, Minji.’ She murmured a bit before going deeper, her tongue massaging your underside, her mouth leaving thin trails of sheening spit all over your cock. She choked, once or twice. 

Haerin came closer, eye-level with Minji, eye-level with your cock. She was kneeling, like worship, like Minji. She was about to suck your dick. Pony-tailed hair. Waiting patiently as Minji sucked you off into the depths of hell. 

Then: Minji was off your cock with a soft pop. ‘Such a big fucking dick. I thought I had to share.’ Haerin flushed again, ‘I thought you wouldn’t tell him.’

‘Him? He knows. Haerin. Just give it all up. Suck his dick. Worship it. I want you to.’

Perhaps that’s what did her in; you know, just the way her eyes locked on your spit-sheened cock. Her thin perfect fingers encircling your shaft, teasing the soft rigidity, the gliding sensation of Minji’s spit clinging, and she went up and down, up and down - squelch after squelch. Her first peck followed not long after, her tongue caressed the pre cum leaking. Her mouth encircled the head of your cock, and her cheeks hollowed. ‘Fuck.’ ‘Is it good babe?’ ‘Fuck yes.’ Instead of replying, Minji wrapped her tongue around one of your balls, sucking, teasing, worshipping your entirety. 

Your toes pressed firm against the mohair carpet. Haerin’s hands found themselves on your thighs as she took you deeper into her mouth.

The one who couldn’t even say a sentence to you, eyes stuck to the floor, now sucking your life out.

You began twitching; Minji under your balls, licking profanely; Haerin, taking you deep into her mouth, big eyes locked on to you, her perfumed hair yielding to your grasp. 

‘Get on the bed.’

The air dried blanket molded to their - now naked -  bodies. Golden light reflecting, blurring against their perfect skin. Two goddesses, placed parallel, eyeing you with an implacable lust. 

You entered Minji’s arms first. Who let out a sigh as you pressed your body weight against her; letting her hand curl against the back of your head; legs intertwining behind your back; and whispering Fuck Me.

Lining yourself up, you breathed one deep sigh into her neck. Before entering dead slow. Feeling every velvet fold of hers caressing your cock, soaking your cock in her tight pussy. The beautiful sounds she made. You pressed up to the hilt. ‘You’re so hard. Is it because Haerin’s watching?’ She giggled what she could, and lost what she had as you pumped into her one more time.

You smashed against her wet core again - making a wet slap - wringing out the most beautiful noises out of her. Slap, slap, slap, smashing your cock inside her, her perfectly molded pussy, wet with slick - some of it sticking and stringing along your shaft. 

‘Fuck me. Daddy. Fuck me.’

You desperately latch onto her mouth - exchanging a spit-stricken kiss as you fucked her over the cusp of her climax; Her loins shook, her body twitched, and she screamed euphoria into your mouth.

Through it all, Haerin pressed a palm against her pelvis - you had glimpses - her fingers worked along her delicate folds. She groaned, moaned, squealed. And as you hooked Minji's leg on your shoulder to show, exactly, how your dick went in undulations out of Minji’s wet core, Haerin came on her fingers. 

Then Minji cums on your cock. Breathing. Softly. Trying not to break anything you haven’t already broken, she pulls herself up, softly, head-level with you, ‘Now, there’s somebody waiting. Right there, and I need you to grant her wish.’

‘Being?’

‘You already know.’

You did. God almighty, you did. 

Haerin’s golden chest heaved as she recovered from the crest of her climax, and her eyes - god, her eyes - invited you over with a gaze that insisted upon itself. 

You start moving over, Minji’s palm sliding along your forearm - telling you that it’s alright, that she wants to watch, maybe even join. 

Apropos of all that happened before, you slid, softly, into Haerin’s arms. Your lips molding against hers; your hands pressing the soft flesh of her inner thigh, vis a vis open up; and from then on, you lined your slimy cock at her entrance, her glossy entrance, and entered.

She squealed, right in your ear. Held you tight like she might crumble to dust otherwise. 

Minji hobbled over, hovering just above, ‘Is it good, Haerin?’

She didn’t reply. Sounds of her slick moisture. Of her raggedy breaths broken by the thumb between her teeth. Large eyes that stayed closed for the most part. 

You latched onto her neck, still ravenously pressing yourself into Haerin. Her body recoiled against your latter strokes. Little wet sounds. Soft moans. Minji held her shoulders down as you went deeper. Right up to the hilt. That’s when she groaned, that’s when she really loosened up. Then, her body chased your cock. Gripped. Soft wet sounds turned blasphemous. As if slapping a body of water in a cave. Minji observed with delight, and kissed Haerin’s cheeks to encourage her to keep up.

You left her neck, kneeling in an upright position. Moving against her faster now, holding her soft waist: a handle. Back arching, she squealed another time - finally, reaching the cusp of her orgasm. Softly shaking under your touch. Her bristled skin - full of electric lust. Droplets passed along your shaft. But you didn’t stop. 

You pressed four fingers against her softly curved navel and a thumb on her clit.

Minji looked at you with a wry smile.

You fucked Haerin hard. To the point of muscle failure. Triceps blazing hot; thighs worn out; and a tuckered Haerin with sweat pressed god-like into her skin.

With cum seeping out of her pussy.

Wherein, Minji collected it all in her tongue. And kissed Haerin.

IMPORTANT UPDATE

[toxicanonymity]

omg the way every inch makes me drool idk what u did to me i haven’t been the same since 😃 ur so talented i owe u my kidney for that fic alone ! would ever consider part two?? no pressure !!!

EVERY INCH 2

2200 words, m!ghostface x f!reader

follows Every Inch. NEXT: Every inch 3

SERIES MASTERLIST

A/N: He's never unmasked. He is night walks coded. Thank you for all the love on my first Ghostface fic. This was a "one shot fail" because of your engagement & enthusiasm. WARNINGS: I8+ piv, noncon, he calls himself daddy, voyeurism, dirty talk, masturbation, knifeplay, hair pulling, manhandling, choking kinda, degradation, pet names. NO USE OF Y/N. 

SUMMARY: Last time you saw ghostface, he was unconscious from the car wreck and you had your way with him. Now, he's coming to take what's his.

You've put Ghostface behind you, at least in terms of fearing for your life. He's finally left you alone. He must be too humiliated to face you after you restrained him and had your way with him in the car while he was passed out. You still look at the picture you took every day.�� You'd like to get it printed and stick it on your bathroom mirror.  He looks so pathetic with his own mess all over his robe. But it's not just the humiliation you love to see. It's his cock. . .

Yeah, his cock.  You've thought about it more than a few times. He would've given you every inch. All you had to do was ask. And the video of him whimpering? You save that for special occasions. Like when you need to cum in a hurry. 

It's Friday night and you're lying in bed after getting home from seeing a movie.  You make sure your vibrator is charged before you start reading, but soon enough you get distracted.  You're looking at your video of Ghostface coming all over himself when a call pops up on the screen. No ringtone.  Your phone is still on silent from the theater.  

The restricted number still makes your heart jump even after such an empowering victory. But you rip the bandaid off and answer it on the first ring. "Hello?"

"So... how'd you like the movie?" the voice changer asks you. 

You panic and hang up, but when he calls right back, you answer again. "This isn't funny, whoever you are."

"You know it's me, baby. You feel it in your. . . pants."

"What do you want?"

"I asked how you liked the movie." 

Friday night. Lucky guess. You know he’s not going to let it go, so you might as well answer. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of acting aghast that he knows what you did tonight.  "Fine, I liked it. It was fun,” you say dismissively. 

"Picked a bad time to refill your drink. . .  Missed a great kill."

Your heart jumps. ". . .you were there?" The theater wasn't even that crowded. How could he go undetected? Surely you would have recognized something about a man you rode into oblivion. 

He's bemused. "What, you thought I was gone? Nowhere?”

"wishful thinking," you reply. 

Ghostface says, “Oh, we both know what you really wish for. . .”

You’re not even going to argue. 

“How was your date?" 

"How was yours with your hand?" You retort.

"You didn't look interested.” 

"What, are you gonna ask me out?" Your face heats up as you hear your own words.

"Not tonight. 'Cause you've got a date with that toy and my picture, don't ya?”

You freeze. 

He taunts, "Want a third wheel?"

You ask, "How long have you been watching me?"

"Never stopped, sugar." You feel like a fool for thinking he had. “I’ve just been a little. . . distracted.” 

You scoff. 

". . . Okay, did you call just to talk?"

"Wanted some audio with my visual this time."

"Pervert."

“oh I'm the pervert," he chides. Your face is burning up.

"You know, you’ve still got something of mine.”  His knife. You’ve hid it somewhere special.  “Keep comin’ for it. . .but don’t wanna interrupt you.”  

You look out your window, which faces the woods.  "Cause you put on a good show, baby." There’s never been a reason to close the curtains.  You preferred to see danger coming. Danger like him. A lot of good that’s done you. 

“You’re a creature of habit, aren’t you?” 

Are you that predictable?  

“Lucky for me,” he adds darkly.  His breathing becomes audible.  “Oh, you like this, don't you . . . knew ya would. . .  .  .Dripping already.” His voice is steady through the equalizer, but his speech pattern tells you his dick is hard. And god damn if he isn’t turning you on. 

“Dip a finger and show daddy how wet you are.” 

Before you know it, you're doing it. You don’t show him, but you curiously dip you fingers and pull apart the clear string of of your arousal

“Two fingers . . let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”  You lie there clenching your thighs together. 

“Ah, fuck it. Go ahead, turn it on,” he says but you don’t move. You clench your thighs together.  “Turn it on,” he repeats firmer, and something possesses you to turn your vibrator on. 

“Yeah, that’s it . . .”

You don’t even need the picture now, or the video, or your reading. But you don’t exactly want to let him make you come this fast. 

He sighs and says, “You’ve got a nice, juicy pussy." He spits, which the voice changer doesn’t process.

You close your eyes and recall what it felt like impaling yourself on his cock. 

"You don't have to say it," he reassures you menacingly. "I know I’ve got a nice cock.” 

He’s right about that.  You close your eyes as you touch yourself.  You’re too horny to think straight, but in the back of your mind, you try to tell yourself he killed your friends. He killed your friends. It doesn’t make you any less turned on. You sigh in shame at yourself. How does Ghostface have you wrapped around his finger?

“Oh, it’s only natural, baby. This cock’ll fuck you right up.” God, why does that turn you on? “In the guts and the head.” 

"Real shame I wasn’t awake.” He breathes heavily for a few seconds. "Coulda been even better for you.” 

You fail to suppress a moan as heat is bubbling in your core. 

“Yeah. . .Can’t stop thinkin' about this cock, can ya?” 

You turn up the intensity of your vibe. 

“Not everyday someone takes every inch of this.” He moans weakly then spits again. “Filthy girl.  Swallowed it right up.” 

“So tell me, sugar," his breathing is even heavier now. "How do you want it?”

“What if i don’t” you lie, then gasp at the tension in your core.

“Then why’d you take it,” he says with a bite and the heavy breathing stops. 

“Because,” you pant. “It was there.”

You’re getting close.  “How do you want me,” you self-loathingly ask. He doesn’t answer. You look at your phone and he’s gone. Shit. You open the video you took of him and as soon as you hear him whimper, your body jerks as the tension bursts inside you. As soon as you finish pulsing, the regret hits you like a tidal wave. So fucked up. Soooo disgusting.  You need a shower. 

—---

You take a long, hot shower, listening to music. You sigh, feeling a little better already. You turn off the water.

“Soaking wet. That’s how I want you.” You freeze and the only sound is the dripping water for a few seconds while the song changes.  

“Come on, you’re smarter than this.” The voice changer echoes through your bathroom and you almost fall over. “What’s next? Going down to the basement?”

You stand silently in the shower with your heartbeat echoing in your ears.  There’s nothing you can do.  You squat down, hugging your knees.  There’s no good option.   

The shower curtain slowly draws open and he looms above you.

“My turn, baby."  The glint of a knife–your own kitchen knife–catches your eye. He tilts his head slightly and observes you for a moment.  Then he pulls your hair and violently forces you to your feet. You begin to slip and he catches you, then manhandles you out of the tub and you whimper. You’re thrashing around wet and naked.  He drags you to the bathroom sink and puts you between him and the sink, both of you facing the mirror. He reaches out and wipes the mirror with his robe to make sure you can see. 

The sight is surreal. You’re completely nude with Ghostface up against you.  One gloved hand cups your breast while the other raises the knife.  He stays behind you and holds your own kitchen knife to your throat.  

He inhales audibly. “So clean and so filthy.”  

You elbow him in the gut. “Let go of me.” 

“Afraid not, baby. . .” The hand leaves your breast and slides lower.  He presses on your hip, bringing you tight against him. “Too late now.” His hips push forward and the massive shape of his hard cock makes you weak. 

He holds you still with just one of his big arms as you struggle.  “Coulda had it how ya wanted.” 

The unwelcome throb between your legs is spreading through your abdomen. 

“Now you’re gonna take it right here.”  He keeps you pinned to the counter, the arm with the knife holding you still while he lifts his robe and tugs his PJ pants down.  “You’ve put me behind you after all.”  He jerks you back against him, pulling you off the counter and holding you tight against his hard dick.  He lightly trails the tip of the knife down your cleavage and your stomach, dipping into your belly button on its way down to your mound. Then he holds it handle-up and teases your cunt with the flat of the knife as you watch in the mirror. The cold metal sends a shiver down your spine and you watch your nipples harden.

“Who are you?”

“Your favorite bad guy. Ask me a. . . harder one.” He grinds himself against you.

“What do you want?”

“To know what your insides feel like.” You suck in a deep breath and register the smell of weed as his cock twitches against your bare skin. “When I’m awake,” he adds. 

He pries your legs apart with his knee, then his glove brushes your inner thighs as he aligns his cock at your entrance. “Oh you’re ready ready,” he says. He notches himself with the thick head of his cock resting snug against your wet little hole, then he holds you tight and shoves himself into you with a sigh.  You have to try not to moan with the most welcome stretch. “Hell yeah,” the mask says into your ear. Thank God you’re so wet, because there is a lot of him. He pulls back, then slams into you, bottoming out with a grunt then another sigh. You watch your face in the mirror and try to wipe the enjoyment off it. 

The hand with the knife rests against your chest as he pounds you. “You’re lucky you’re so hot.” You want to memorize the feeling of his cock inside you so you can come to it later instead of giving him the satisfaction right now.  He pants as he thrusts into you harder.  “So. . .damn. . . hot.” You look down watching your breasts jiggle as he rails you. “I don’t think so. . . baby.” He grabs your chin and makes you look back up at the mirror. Your drooping eyelids give away how good you feel. 

“Take it like a bad girl.” He grunts and brutally fucks you in the way you’re afraid only he can. No, no, you shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this. “A real bad girl.” A climax is gathering in your lower belly.  “Cock hungry little slut,” he bites and it makes you twitch. “This pussy’s mine now, you know.” 

He buries himself inside you for another minute and makes it rough. “Now or never baby," he pants. “Know you wanna come on this cock.” God, you do. “Do it now.”  He slams into you harder than ever and groans as he begins to pulse inside you.  You can’t stop it. The feeling of his climax trips you into your own.  Your needy cunt chokes his cock, milking him of an unfathomable load.  He fucks you through it and your body jerks into his imposing, robed form. His cum is in every crevice of your core.  You can’t help but moan and sigh.

“Good girl,” he says.

His cock slides out of you, leaving a void that slowly caves in on itself. He tucks it back into his pants. 

------

Ghostface forcibly positions your chin to take one last look in the mirror. Then he picks up your phone from the counter and forces you to swipe the camera on.  He points it at the mirror and says, “say cheese.” He tosses your phone back on the counter, then slams you chest-first into the back of the door with an impact. He holds the knife to the side of your neck and says, “you’re welcome.” He really smells like weed.

“Now where’s my knife.”

“I don’t have it,” you claim. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“What’s so special about it?”

“It’s mine.” 

“The cops have it.” 

“No they don’t. Why are you lying?”

You’re not really sure. He presses the flat of the knife so hard against your throat you start to choke. “Okay,” you manage hoarsely. He lets you breathe.  You look behind him toward the toilet. 

He drags you by the elbow to the toilet. He opens the back of it and the knife is wrapped up in a grocery bag. “You watch too many movies,” he says. He pushes you out of the way, opens the door, and leaves. The song turns to Call Me by Blondie.

NEXT: PART 3

--------------------------

Please engage (reblog/comment)  if you want more of this <333 It might go a long way in motivation.

Yes this is my night walks coded ghostface but I think most people reading this don't know what night walks is lol.

Call Me:This Blog::Red Right Hand:Canon. But in this case it especially makes sense 🥹

@hearteyed-shawty had a song rec last time: I'm Yours by Isabel Derosa.

Slasher master list

@ghostslittlegf @sunflowerleii @igotmajordaddyissues @rileyquinn07

[pandapetals]

Ain't No Grave

Chapter Two: Crawling Home previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, joel POV, infected, trauma, pain, guilt, mentions of blood, killing, guns, knives, not graphic gore but could be triggering, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, lots of pet names used, established relationship, protective joel, jackson setting

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics. very much inspired by work song by hozier and ain't no grave by johnny cash.

Joel had lost his fucking mind.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore — just moving, hands working on instinct while his brain screamed this isn’t enough, this won’t be enough. The blood was everywhere, slick and warm, steaming in the cold, and you’d already gone limp in his arms. He’d expected you to pass out. Hell, he was counting on it. But what he hadn’t expected was this.

The way you looked now.

Pale. Still. Like something already gone.

His stomach lurched, and for a half-second, he almost dropped the belt tourniquet, his fingers stiff and useless. Four inches of your wrist and hand lay nearby in the snow, pink and red against white, a grotesque thing he couldn’t look at for long. His breath hitched, but his hands kept moving.

Stop the bleeding.

His jacket came off, hitting the snow with a hard thud. He wadded it against what was left of your arm, pressing down until the blood seeped through, hot against his skin. Too much. Too fucking much.

“C’mon, baby. Stay with me,” he muttered, unsure if he was saying it out loud or just in his head. His voice was shaking — he could hear it but couldn’t stop it.

He grabbed your jacket, tearing it open, the fabric resisting before giving way with a rough rip. Every second felt like it stretched out forever, the cold gnawing at his hands, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air.

Cauterize.

The word dropped into his head like a stone—a terrible, necessary thing. He fumbled for his knife, the hilt slick with blood and sweat, and struck a match with numb fingers. The flame flared to life, tiny and defiant in the freezing air. He held the blade over it, watching the metal darken and glow.

He hated this. Hated how your face was slack, hated the memories clawing at the back of his mind — too many people lost, too many bodies buried, and now you, the only good thing left in his world, bleeding out in front of him.

“I can’t lose you,” Joel rasped, more to himself than anything else, his voice raw and breaking. “You hear me? I can’t…”

The knife glowed, and he pressed it to the wound.

The sickening hiss of flesh meeting hot steel filled the silence, and even though you didn’t make a sound, Joel flinched like you had. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, but his hand stayed steady.

Do it. Get it done. Save her.

Joel felt you jolt beneath his hands, your body arching weakly against the snow. Your eyes snapped open, glassy with pain, your mouth moving in a scream you didn’t have the strength to make. The raw sound of it never came; somehow, that was worse.

His stomach turned. His throat burned.

He wanted to scream for you. Wanted to howl, to break, to throw the fucking hatchet into the trees and tear the sky down. But there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t room for it. Not out here.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice shaking, though his hands stayed steady, pressing down hard against the ragged wound. Blood still seeped, thick and hot, painting his skin, but it was slowing.

Your eyes fluttered, a soft, broken whimper escaping your lips, and then you slipped under again, your head lolling to the side.

And for a beat, Joel just knelt there.

Snow falling in slow, lazy flakes. Blood steaming in the cold. His chest heaving, eyes stinging. The world narrowed to the sound of your breathing — shallow, but still there.

He swallowed hard, shoving the grief down deep. No time for it. No space for what was clawing its way up his throat.

Once the bleeding slowed and the flesh around the cauterized wound blackened and charred, Joel forced himself to move. He stripped the last of your ruined jacket, packed snow against the burn, and wrapped it tight with what clean cloth he had left. His fingers moved automatically now — soldier hands, survivor hands.

He knew the panic would rip him apart if he stopped for even a second.

So he didn’t.

He secured the last knot of the makeshift bandage, bloodied hands trembling against your skin, then lifted you into his arms. You were far too light, your face far too pale.

“Got you,” he murmured, his throat thick. “I’ve got you.”

Joel shouldered his pack, his teeth gritting against the sharp pull in his muscles as he lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your head lolling against his chest, face bloodless, breath so shallow he had to lean close just to feel it.

He started walking, his boots crunching through the snow as he headed toward the pharmacy, where the horses waited, tethered out front, steam rising from their nostrils in the frigid air. Every step felt like it took a year.

His mind spun, chasing half-formed plans, desperate prayers he didn’t have the words for.

Get to the horse. Ride hard. Don’t stop.

Jackson was about six miles out — twenty, maybe thirty minutes if he pushed the horse hard enough, faster if luck was on his side for once. He could do that. He’d done worse. He’d get you there, get you to someone who could help. Maybe Maria. Maybe Ellie.

Then the dark thoughts slipped in, ugly and persistent. What if this was for nothing?

What if, somewhere along that ride back, your breathing slowed? What if your eyes opened and they weren’t your eyes anymore? What if he felt your teeth at his throat before he could do a damn thing about it.

Or worse — what if the infection was already moving through your blood, racing toward your heart the moment those teeth sank into your wrist? What if no amount of hatchet swings and tourniquets could stop it?

Joel clenched his jaw, the hot sting of tears burning the back of his eyes.

Can’t think like that. Can’t.

He adjusted his grip on you, pulling you closer to his chest as if he could somehow keep you tethered to this world by sheer will alone.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice raw and cracking. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me now.”

The horses came into view, stamping anxiously in the snow. Joel forced his legs to move faster, every instinct in him screaming to run, though his body felt heavier with every step.

He didn’t know if this was hope or madness anymore.

It didn’t matter because he’d already made his choice.

Joel hoisted you into his arms, your weight too light and still against him. He swung up onto Whiskey’s back with practiced ease, though his muscles screamed in protest. He barely felt it. His focus was razor-sharp, burning through the fog of panic.

Stella—your horse—whinnied nearby, tugging at her reins. She’d have to wait. He’d send someone back for her if there were time. If there was anything left to come back for.

He cradled you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other steady on the reins. Your head lolled against him, skin ice-cold beneath the blood, lips parted in a shallow, ragged breath.

“I got you,” Joel kept muttering, the words slipping past cracked lips, mostly to himself. A promise. A prayer. A lie. He didn’t know anymore.

He dug his heels into Whiskey’s sides, the horse surging forward, snow kicking up behind them. The wind bit at his face, but Joel barely noticed. His gaze never left yours, flickering down every few seconds, watching for any change — twitch of muscle, any unfocused glare in your eyes, the subtle shift from you to… something else.

A groan slipped from you, faint and broken, and Joel’s heart lurched against his ribs.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered again, tightening his grip, as if he could anchor you there by force alone.

You mumbled something, words half-formed, your voice slurred with pain and fading consciousness. He caught one word—his name.

Like a knife in his chest.

His throat clenched around a knot so thick it felt like it might choke him. The memories came hard and unbidden, sharp as broken glass. Sarah’s face, small and pale, cradled in his arms as the warmth bled out of her, her blood-soaked hair sticking to his skin. The way her hand had gone slack, how the world had shattered in a single, irreparable moment.

Then Tess. Her eyes were steady, jaw set with that stubborn, defiant tilt. “Get her to safety, Joel.” The way she’d planted herself between him and death, buying him time with the last of her courage.

Faces. Names. Voices. Ghosts. All of them folding in on him now.

All the people he had held… and failed.

His grip around you tightened, pulling you closer against his chest, as if sheer force could hold the darkness back.

Not this time. He wouldn’t let you join them. Wouldn’t let your face become another thing to haunt him when the nights stretched too long and the silence got too loud.

The forest blurred past, branches clawing at the air. Whiskey’s hooves pounded against the frozen earth, the world narrowing to the steady thrum of the horse’s gallop and your chest's faint rise and fall against his.

Joel gritted his teeth, the sting of tears threatening again.

“I ain’t losing you,” he said, his voice rough, breaking, fierce. “Not like this.”

The wind howled past him, biting through his clothes and skin like shards of glass, but Joel barely felt it. His world had narrowed to the ragged, uneven rise and fall of your chest against his and the deathly stillness in your face. 

He kept glancing down, the distance between each check shrinking, hoping — begging — for some sign. A twitch. A sound. Anything.

But you didn’t move.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t do this to me. You hang on, you hear me? Don’t you fuckin’ quit.”

Nothing. Just the sharp thud of hooves against frozen earth and the faint whistle of wind through the trees.

His stomach twisted tighter with every mile. Every second that passed felt like it was stealing you further from him. He could feel it, like sand slipping through his fingers, and no matter how hard he squeezed, he couldn’t stop it.

He remembered Sarah going quiet in his arms, how the light had left her eyes before he even realized it.

He remembered Tess’s final look, a silent order: Keep moving.

He wasn’t ready to see that in your face.

The trees began to thin, and familiar landmarks rose out of the darkness—the old, rusted truck bed, the half-collapsed shed, and the crooked fence post.

His heart kicked up, pounding so hard it hurt.

Almost there.

Whiskey snorted, hooves slipping on a patch of ice for half a second before righting himself. Joel kept one arm tight around you, the other pulling the reins, willing the animal to move faster, ignoring the burn in his muscles, the way his fingers were going numb.

Then the gates of Jackson appeared ahead, tall and solid against the night sky, lanterns flickering along the top.

Relief should’ve come then, but it didn’t because you were so goddamn still.

“Open the goddamn gate!” Joel bellowed, his voice raw, half-breaking.

Figures scrambled along the walls, shouts echoing in the night, but he barely registered them. His whole world was the weight in his arms and the faint warmth of your skin against his.

“Hold on, baby,” he rasped again, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “Almost home.”

The gates began to creak open, and Joel didn’t wait. He kicked Whiskey forward, riding through before the opening was wide enough, the horse’s hooves skidding on packed snow as shouts echoed from the watchtower.

He was off the saddle before the horse stopped, boots hitting the ground hard, jarring his knees. Your weight in his arms made his muscles scream, but he didn’t notice. Didn’t care. His arms ached, blood soaked through to his skin, and none of it mattered.

You needed help.

You needed someone who could fix this. Stop it. Make it right.

“Joel?” a voice called, somewhere behind him. Familiar. Tommy.

But Joel didn’t stop.

Footsteps crunched in the snow as Tommy caught up, his voice sharp with confusion and fear. “What the fuck happened? Jesus, Joel — are you hurt? Where’s—”

His words cut off when his eyes dropped to you.

The blood. The limpness. The awful, shallow flicker of your chest rising and falling.

Tommy’s face paled. “What—what the hell—”

“Not now,” Joel ground out, his voice ragged, not looking at him, not slowing. His world was reduced to the next step. And the next.

People were shouting — Maria’s voice was somewhere nearby, someone was running for the infirmary, but it was all a blur. A rush of sound that barely registered.

He felt Tommy grab his arm, trying to stop him, to get an answer, but Joel yanked free, tightening his hold on you.

“Get outta my fuckin’ way,” he snapped, his voice hoarse, nearly breaking.

Tommy fell back, his eyes wide.

Joel didn’t stop; he couldn’t. He kept moving, your head lolling against his shoulder, skin too cold, too still.

“Hang on, baby,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Just a little more.”

He barreled toward the infirmary, like the world might end if he didn’t get there in time.

“Joel!” Maria’s voice cracked through the cold night air, sharp as a whip. She was chasing after him now, boots crunching hard in the snow. Tommy was close on her heels, his face tight with worry, eyes darting between Joel, the blood, and your limp form.

He’d seen Joel like this years ago, that wild, feral look in his eyes — but this was worse. This was Joel unraveling.

“Joel, I swear to God—”

Joel spun on them so fast it startled them back a step, his face twisted, voice hoarse and raw. “Can’t you see she needs fucking medical attention?!”

Maria blinked, thrown by the sudden crack in his voice, the frayed edges she wasn’t used to seeing. But it only took her a second to recover. Her expression hardened, slipping into that cold, sharp-eyed leader’s mask she wore so well. She crossed her arms, posture stiff.

“What happened?” she demanded, tone clipped, eyes locking on his.

Joel’s chest heaved, breath misting in the frigid air. He didn’t answer, didn’t have it in him, and didn’t have the time.

Maria’s gaze dropped to the limp body in his arms, following the bloodied sleeve, the missing wrist, the makeshift bandage charred at the edges. Her lips parted, her eyes flashing wide for half a heartbeat before narrowing.

“Does it look like I’ve got time to explain?” Joel snapped, his voice breaking on the last word as he shifted your weight in his arms.

Tommy stepped up, laying a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Darlin’,” he said quietly, gently. “Let him get her help first.”

But Maria wasn’t done. Her jaw clenched. “Was she bitten?” she asked, voice low, cautious, and cold.

Joel stiffened. It was small — a tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of his grip on you, but Maria saw it. She always did.

Her face changed, the anger flaring back. “You brought her in? Joel—if she turns—”

“She’s not gonna fucking turn!” Joel’s voice cracked, breaking like a damn giving way.

Maria scoffed, disbelief twisting her face. “You don’t fucking know that,” she snapped, her voice rising, eyes wide and sharp. “How long’s it been? When did it happen—?”

“I ain’t got time for this,” Joel growled, his voice raw and low, the tone that felt like it could break something in half. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching in his face, every part of him coiled so tight he felt like he might shatter.

Without waiting for another word, he shoved past them, your limp form cradled tight against his chest, and barreled toward the infirmary doors like the world was closing in behind him.

He didn’t hear what Maria yelled after him.

Didn’t care.

Because none of it mattered if you didn’t make it.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[hobicakess]

Wonderful World — JJK One-Shot Series

SUMMARY: The world had gone to shit just like many had theorized. The living was not only fighting the dead, but they were also fighting against themselves and each other. Jeon Jungkook has been in the field by himself for months, living off of scraps, his own rules of survival, and barely enough water. Along the way, he finds a ditzy girl spoiled girl ironically Princess and her crusty white dog. He understood they'd be a handful, but he was Jeon Jungkook, and he could handle anything.

RATING: 18+ (im not the momma you are in control of what you consume.)

PAIRING: Jeon Jungkook x Bimbo!reader

CONTENT WARNING: apocalypse!au, gore, blood, ditzy!reader, angst, slow burn, eventual established relationship, jungkook is sighing every three seconds, eventual smut, crusty white dog (yes that's a warning), minor character death, named reader, corrupt dystopian society, meanie jungkook, princess is just a girl, more to be added AUTHORS NOTE: i am back in my zombie apocolyse era!!!! this is heavily inspired by zombie land because i love it sososo much. the post for this story will be in shorts pushing 1k- 3k? words and my ask box is always open to request and thoughts for this series. If you are new to my blog welcome hottie! be sure to check out my other works, you"ll love it over here xxx

Jungkook had strict rules.

Four sips of water a day, only eat when his stomach is cramped to the point of when he couldn't walk, never sleep over an hour, don't let anyone in. He didn't need extra weight slowing him down from his destination. Was he being hard on himself? Maybe. Since losing his group in an unexpected ambush all those months ago he couldn't bring himself to be softer on his habits even if he had more than enough resources to keep him alive and breathing for the year. He was guilty, and angry. Angry at himself and angry at the world for what it had come too. Despite his personal angst Jungkook refused to die holding onto the hope he would finally reunite with his six soulmates.

Another unspoken rule of his was to never walk upon the main roads. Stay away from those maniacs dressed in military clothes and those who drove military trucks. So he stuck to the shadows, camouflage into the trees with stealthy movements. Quick and quiet, never stay in one place longer than two days. He's been in here for at least a day spending that time securing the area and everything around it before he could properly set up his base in the abandoned thrift store he found. Hopefully he could get as much rest as a person could during the end of the world. As he tracked back to his base swiftly moving through the tree-line with the new finds he managed to scavenge. He stopped when he heard a squeal that didn't sound like the parasites that took over the world. Peeking through the green he saw a woman. A frown taking over his handsome features as his eyes rake her clothing.

A tiny pink cropped tank top, tight denim shorts that had jeweled pockets, ripped black fishnets and wedged heels that threw him off more than the unethical outfit. On her back was a clear backpack and inside was a tiny sleeping dog who was unaware of the life or death circumstances their owner happened to be in. Surrounding her were geeks groaning and growling, taking swipes at her. Their only objective is to eat,eat, eat.

Jungkook didn’t deal with other people, for obvious reasons but he was still the selfless Jeon Jungkook who couldn’t turn his back on anyone, especially a woman clearly in need of his help. So he quickly jumped from the trees, holding onto his crow bar tightly and as he approached the woman and the group of zombies.

Until she screeched, "You broke my nail" pulling out a knife from her thigh garter taking down all four of the dead. Breathing heavily she blew a curl from her face as she turned, jumping at the sight of Jungkook's large frame looming over her with his crowbar up as if he was ready to attack her. She squeaks gathering herself into a tiny fighting position as she points her knife at him and he notices the handle was decorated with a dark skinned hello kitty print.

“You’re literally so sexy. I’d let you kill me as long as I’m in a chokehold.” Her big brown eyes trailed to his beefy tattooed and tanned arms causing his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. Clearing his throat he put his weapon down turning on his thick soled heels back into the ditch disappearing into the greenery. She wasn’t in any danger anymore so he wasn’t needed.

“You know it’s not very nice to leave a lady unattended in the middle of a road especially during an apco-" he was quick to grab her, shoving her down against the tree trunk. He smacked against her mouth, as a group of military men began to drive along the side of the road closest to them. His eyes met her wide ones as she blinked her wispy lashes at him. His gaze trails over the freckles that danced over her button nose, and cheeks, slight blood splatter caked there along with her forehead. She giggles quickly as he removes his hand from her mouth revealing a bright and pearly smile.

"Kinky." his lip curls in annoyance as he turns his back on her again.

“You can’t just leave us! Me and Minnie are great company.” He stopped walking when he heard the name of her dog minnie. Who's been surprisingly quiet through the whole ordeal. Looking over his shoulder at her, he then shaking his head, he continued on taking longer steps.

“Okay I get it silent and boarding, dark and mysterious, tall, tanned, and handsome.She rambled on scurrying behind him.

“Whew you know what hulk- ACK!” a thud echoed through the trees making him turn seeing her fallen to her knees in mud. She sniffles as she tries to stand on her feet, failing miserably only getting her hands dirty in the process.

"They leave me all alone, take my stuff, then I break a freaking nail because of those nasty freaks, now I'm covered in mud following around an avenger who doesn't even. . ."

She's fully sobbing now, fat tears falling down her chubby cheeks as she gives up moving. "Just strike me downnnn"

Again his selfless heart was aching as he winced. He grumbles as he stomps towards her reaching his own hand out for her to take, after all this he couldn't find it in himself to just leave her not now. She sniffles as she looks up at him, then stares at his hand. With another pretty smile she takes it, letting him pull her upright, allowing her to rub her muddy hands on his black tank top with a defeated sigh.

“Thanks Thor.”

Huffing he began walking again this time slower so she wouldn't lose him. As he gets to the brick wall that seperates the forest from the store. She stares up at it and swallows hard. “How are we gonna get up there?”

Rolling his eyes Jungkook pulls his backpack off of his back, throwing it over the wall. He reaches towards her and she gasp, “You are not throwing my precious Minnie over that wall!” Stepping back from him a pout set on her lips. He shrugs and begins to climb up, leaving her there to watch as he disappears over the wall. Pouting and huffing, she removes her backpack from her back, strapping it in the front just in case she falls on her ass. “I'm way too pretty for this”

Scaling the wall she walked along it ignoring Hulks loud huffs and tapping of his boots. That's when she found a hole there big enough for her to fit through happily making her way through.

Jungkook might just leave her there on the other side of the wall. Hopefully she'll use whatever's there in her brain to find her way over the wall with her crusty white dog who he wished he could sleep like. He jumps at the tap on his shoulder turning to her standing behind him hands behind her back as she gave him a closed lip smile puffing the apples of her cheeks rocking back and forth on her wedges. “Guess what hulky.”

He raises a pierced eyebrow as she points in the direction she came from. “Found a hole in the wall!! You didn't even have to climb over silly.”

The happiness in her face fell as Jungkooks face hardened. Storming over to the said hold, cursing. He could have sworn he sweep the whole perimeter. How could this have gotten under his nose? He turns back to you standing pouty and confused. Since the first time meeting him Jungkook opens his mouth to speak.

“Good job princess” his voice deep and hoarse from not using it for months.

"OMG how'd you know my name" She smiles practically bouncing on her feet from the praise and his attention, twirling on a piece of her hair like a school girl with a crush. Shaking his head he turned back to fix the wall.

Inside of the thrift store, Jungkook listened quietly to her ramble about her love for thrifting and how she would rather thrift than online shop. Then he watched her get teary eyed again over not being able to online shop anymore. “It's just not fair!!! Like I was living the most barbie dream girl life, ya know?”

Accepting the tissue he handed to her staring at the sleeping dog in her lap. “Then bam the Internet shuts off, then boom my freaking neighbor tries to eat me.”

“Like I'm just a girl! I'm not fit for this at all.” Blowing her nose into the tissues finishing her tantrum while Jungkook debated on what to say. “I watched you knife four geeks by yourself, I think you're doing pretty good.”

“ Really?”

“Really?”

She giggles sniffing, as she held out her hand. “I’m Princess Marie sorry for the late introduction ‘s very rude.

Clasping his hand into hers, “Jeon Jungkook. Don't worry about it too much.”

His gaze drifted to her bloody broken nail.

“Let's clean this up, kay?”

Eagerly she nodded dark curls bouncing.

“Mmkay kookie”

Jungkook wouldn't admit it out loud but being in the presence of another human being that wasn't trying to kill him was nice. He knew that princess and her crusty dog would be a handful but he was willing to deal with it. Plus he missed being called by his favorite nickname.

- © hobicakess ! do not steal, modify, copy, plagiarize, nor repost any of the works on this blog without given permission!

[cjjohansson]

i remember.

natasha romanoff x reader - angst, fluff - 6.2k

You don’t know what’s happening. That’s the first thing you think of when you wake up in an alley, gloved hands covered in blood. Confusion filters through your head. 

What happened?

Where are you?

You stand up slowly, your body swaying as you look down at what you’re wearing. You’re in a pair of black jeans, with rips throughout both legs and as you look closer you only notice how the rips have been made from slashes of a knife as your blood is dry underneath them. Your hoodie is soaking wet, your hands going into the pocket to be met with a gun and a knife. 

None of this makes sense. 

Standing there confused you try your hardest to remember anything. Anything at all. 

Red hair. Piercing green eyes. 

Death. Destruction. Pain. Loss. 

Memories whip through your brain as soon as your hand wraps around your gun. But still, none of it makes sense. 

What year is it?

You stumble down the alley, hand still wrapped around the gun resting in your pocket. You stare up at the buildings surrounding you. New York. You’re in New York. 

You watch as people pass by, words fading in and out of people’s conversations. You feel a pull, your body trying to get you to move in a certain direction but you have no clue why. 

You decide to give in, allowing your body to move. You stumble into someone muttering a sorry as they tell you to watch where you’re going. 

“What year is it?” You ask them, panic and confusion filling your voice.  “2018…” Panic feels you all over again. No that doesn’t make any sense. That’s not the year. 

Red hair. Piercing green eyes. 

A name to match the features. It echoes around your head in confusion. You know her. You can feel it. You can feel it with everything inside of you. 

Your breathing picks up, and you need to hide. You rush down another alley, hiding behind a dumpster as your head falls into your hands. 

It hurts. Your brain hurts. 

Everything is rushing through you. A place called SHEILD, the Avengers. Red hair and piercing green eyes. 

But then that stops. 

Memories of your hands hurting people now rush through you. People hurting you.

Cold. Dark. Wet. Pain. Agony. 

Then it all hits you at once. You can remember it so clearly. 

The mission, your arm getting trapped under rubble, telling her to leave. The building exploding. All you can remember after that was black and then it’s the pain. 

5 years. How, how has it been 5 years? 

Natasha? 

Natasha. Red hair, piercing green eyes. 

Her face is now so clear in your head. 

You’ve been gone 5 years. You need to find her. 

You stand up again. Walking out of the alley, taking in your surroundings as you try to get your memory to cooperate with how to get to the tower. 

She will be at the tower. 

She is the only person who makes sense. 

Everyone else is a blur. 

You find yourself walking so fast down the street, people staring at you as you practically start running. The route becomes clear in your head as you finally stop outside. 

Your hand grips your gun, you can’t be too careful, not until you find her. They could still be looking for you. 

As you walk in, alarms go off behind you as you pass through the door. Confusion fills you as you hurry to the desk. 

“Natasha. Where is Natasha?” Your hand is gripping your gun so tight.  “We need you to step back.” Voices surround you. You turn slowly, people with guns ready and raised. Your hand now lifting out of your hoodie, gun in hand like it would even match theirs. 

“NATASHA. WHERE IS NATASHA!” You shout, frustration coursing through you, why won’t people answer you?  “PUT THE GUN DOWN!” You don’t. You move closer towards the man who is shouting. Before you can reach him he shoots. 

You feel the bullet lodge into your shoulder. But you don’t stop, no pain registers. 

“I need Natasha! Listen to me!!!” You beg, you plead. Why won’t they listen?  “Natasha, who?” You wrack your brain for an answer, you try so hard, your hands finding your head as you start to hit it to try and remember. 

“Red hair, piercing green eyes!” The men around you turn to each other, murmuring as they continue to look at you.  “Come with us.” Sirens go off in your head. You aren’t leaving unless it’s with her.  “No. No. You bring her here to me, NOW!” You raise your gun again. Everyone raises theirs to face you, matching your stance. 

“We need you to drop the gun.”

“Not until she is here.” You don’t give up. If you’re leaving it’s with her. 

She is the only thing clear in your head. Your body calms with the thought of her. Memories of whispered confessions, secret nights lying beside one another, her laugh, the way your body reacted to hers, and vice versa. She is the only thing clear. You need her here now. 

“Y/n?” A man’s voice has you turning around. Your gun now facing him. His face seems familiar but you can’t place a name. It’s so frustrating, having that familiarity, but none of it makes any sense. “I don’t, I need Natasha.” You stumble over your words, tears filling your eyes at the pain going through your head. 

“Okay, okay. Do you remember me?” The man asks you, you close your eyes, trying so fucking hard to remember but you can’t. You shake your head at his question, opening your eyes to see him moving closer. 

“No, stay back! Don’t, don’t come closer!” You shout at him. His movement instantly stopped at your words. “Ok, I’m sorry. I’ll stay right here. Everyone clear the room!” He shouts his last sentence your body tensing as you watch everyone start moving around you, hurrying to the doors. You’re left in the lobby of the tower, just you and this man standing opposite each other. 

“Natasha.” Is all you can get out of your mouth once everyone has left. “She is coming, ok. How about we lower the gun and take a seat?” You shake your head no. You can’t sit down. Your hands find your head again. Your gun hits the side of your head as your frustration builds. You’re pacing around now. Even more, memories spiral around. 

The man with you, his face shows in some of the memories, but his name is still so far away. It frustrates you to no end. All of this is so confusing and you’re becoming tired. 

“Clint? What’s going on?” You turn around at the voice. Your arm lowers as your body sags in relief. Her voice is the same, she is the same. 

“Y/n?” She asks in shock, your body shaking as tears build in your eyes. She is real, you remember her. She starts rushing towards you and you hate how your body’s reaction is to raise your gun again. But she doesn’t stop moving. She keeps coming closer. 

“Stop, stop.” 

“Y/n, it’s okay. I’m here.” No, no. This could be a trap. 

“Tell me something only you would know.” Her eyes widen, you can see her wracking her brain for anything. 

“You have a birthmark that looks like a giraffe on the inside of your left thigh.” She smiles shyly at you but it only breaks you more. 

“No, no, they…they’d know that now!” You shout at her, gun gripping so tight as you move your aim to her head. If you pulled the trigger it would hit right in between her eyes. 

“Ok. Ok. Let’s calm down. It’s fine. Your favorite time of the year is winter, and it’s because it means we have longer nights in bed where we can just cuddle and be us. We can make hot chocolates and watch films in the comfort of each other arms. With no one else annoying us because they know it’s our time. Your favorite color is green, but not any green but the green in a forest when the sun hits it just right, it’s your favorite because you always said it reminded you of me. You only like marshmallows when they're toasted over a fire, other than that you hate them, they have to be gooey. You only like peanut butter with apples, anything else and you hate it. You used to hum songs in the shower no matter your mood. You would always wake before me and pull me closer to you and let me sleep for a little while longer before we had to get up to train-”

“Natasha…” You sob out, dropping the gun as you fall to your knees. Natasha finally approaches you properly now. Her arms surround you as she brings you so tightly into her. You hesitate to put your arms around her, but you grip her thighs so tightly you’re afraid you’ll leave bruises. 

“I remembered you. Only you. It’s taken me too long. I’ve been gone. I got taken. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Five years. Natasha. Red hair, piercing green eyes. I remember you. I only remember you.” You can’t stop crying, your face pushing harder into her neck and finally, you allow your arms to surround her as you take in the scent of her shampoo. 

“You’re ok. You’re here now. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” Natasha whispers into your ear. Her hand comes up to the back of your head, holding you where you are, not letting you out of her arms. It’s like your body reacts to her now exaggerated breathing, her silently telling you that you need to calm down, you need to breathe. You take yourself out of her neck, your forehead finally resting on hers as you stare into her eyes. 

“I remember you.” You mutter. A smile and tears grace her face as she cups your cheek. 

“I’m glad you did. Let’s get you home, okay?” Confusion fills your face. Moving back and looking around you. “This is home?” You’re confused and rightfully so, it has been 5 years. 

“We moved a few years ago, somewhere bigger, more private. Come on, let me and Clint take you home.” She starts to stand up, her hand reaching out for yours. “Who’s Clint?” You whisper, holding her hand gently as she starts to walk towards the guy who called your name earlier. “This is Clint.” She points to him, he offers you a gentle smile, your face staying straight as you take him in. You know his face is familiar and you know that you do know him, the earlier memories of him popping up but everything else is blank. You hate it.

You stay silent the whole car journey, your hand fiddling with Natashas as she sits in the back with you. You keep trying to remember, but nothing is coming through, memories rifle through your head but they're all silent. Only she is clear, her voice is clear, her laugh. Nothing else. You can feel Natasha's eyes on you, moving between your bloodied gloved hands that she hasn’t said anything about, to your face, and then the blood seeping from your wounded shoulder. 

You pull up to the ‘compound’ as Nat called it, people rushing out of the doors have your body tensing, your hand instantly going into your pocket to grab your gun but come up empty remembering that you dropped it at the tower, but your hand wraps around the knife still present in the pocket. 

“Hey, it’s okay. They’re good, they’re safe. You know all of them but 3, it’s okay.” Natasha turns to you, her hand finding your cheek as she tries to reassure you. 

You step out of the car slowly, Natasha staying close to you as you finally approach the people standing in front of you. 

“Y/n?!” You meet eyes with another tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was in your memories. He seems shocked, relieved, and also kind of scared. But you’re not shocked, they must have thought you were dead for the past 5 years. You go to reply but stop short when you take in the person coming up behind him. That’s another face in your memories but they’re not good. 

You take a glance at Natasha, her gun in a holster on her side, you reach towards it before anyone can see what you're doing, aiming the gun at him. Everyone stands still, no one talks, no one breathes as you stare at him. 

“You said it was safe.” You say out loud, your words aimed at Natasha, but you can’t look at her, you can’t take your eyes off of him. “It is. Put the gun down.” Natasha steps in front of the gun but you aim it higher, moving your body a fraction so if you shoot it will still hit him. 

“It’s not safe if he is here!” You try to tell her but she shakes her head. “He is good, whatever memories you're thinking right now, he is good. He was taken too. He was brainwashed, he is Steve's best friend, think back more, before the Avengers, think!” You close your eyes when you feel Natasha’s hand touch your chest, your arm lowering as you allow her to take the gun. You try to think, pushing away the bad, you try to think of anything and then it happens. The guy's face coming up next to the blonde man, both wearing army uniforms. It hurts, it’s confusing, and nothing makes sense.

“You’re safe here, I wouldn’t lie to you. Would I lie to you?” Natasha whispers between you both, your eyes opening and meeting hers, your body relaxes again as you shake your head no. She wouldn’t lie to you, she never would. She sends you a small smile as her hand finds yours again, walking you towards the compound, towards the people who move out of the way for Natasha and you. Only one person goes to speak, but Natasha shakes her head and pulls me along with her, the person instantly silencing themselves. 

You take in your surroundings. Counting every step you take, remembering the way to where Natasha is taking you. She places her thumb on a doorknob, the door clicking open, and she takes you into what looks like an apartment. You walk through yourself stopping just after the door not knowing what to do with yourself.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, then we can talk, okay?” You nod your head, words seeming like they can’t come to you right now, the confusion lingers, and nothing makes sense. Everything is so quiet. 

A knock at the door has you gripping your knife again, Natasha pauses and moves back towards it being met with the guy called Clint. He hands some clothes to Natasha, sending her a smile before she closes the door again and meets you back in the middle of the room. She walks you through into a bedroom until she opens another door and you're suddenly in a bathroom. 

“Do, do you want or need help cleaning up?” You stare back at her, you don’t want her to leave, she is the only thing that makes sense. You nod, accepting her help as she places the clothes onto the side, moving to another cupboard taking some towels out, and placing them onto the same side. She stands opposite you, her eyes still filled with tears as she takes a deep breath. Her hand moves slowly to your jacket, peeling it off of your body gently, her hands then go to the bottom of your hoodie, lifting it over her head. When it hits the floor she steps away from you, her tears falling, her mouth hanging open as she stares at you. 

You don’t understand why until you look down on yourself. Your left arm is…it’s metal? Shock feels your face as you take off the gloves covering your hands, your flesh arm moves to touch the metal, it’s freezing. You spot a mirror on the wall moving quickly to stand in front of it, you try your hardest to ignore Natasha's gasp as you stand with your back to her. You take yourself in, your metal arm, scars littering your whole torso. 

You close your eyes again. 

Your left side was trapped in the explosion. You open your eyes suddenly, more memories coming to you as you hurry to take off your trousers pushing them down your legs. Your left leg is metal too… You suppose it makes sense, you were trapped, they were probably ruined, and whoever got to you knew you’d be useless to them without anything replacing them. You flinch slightly when you feel hands slowly gliding up you're back. You look into the mirror your eyes spotting Natashas as she looks back at you through the mirror. 

“You were trapped…” 

“I know.” 

“I shouldn’t have left.”

“I told you to.”

“I shouldn’t have listened.” 

“You’d be dead if you stayed.” 

She doesn't say anything to that, because she knows it’s true.

Her hands surround your waist as she buries her head in between your shoulder blades. 

“I missed you, every day, I missed you so much.” You hear her mumble. Your back starting to get wet from her tears. You don’t know what to say, the past 5 years don’t make any sense, you can’t tell her you missed her too when you don’t even know if, in those 5 years, you even remembered her. And it breaks your heart when your silence makes her sobs echo within the bathroom. 

You don’t move, allowing her to get out what she needs to. This can’t be easy for her either. She thought you were dead for 5 years just to show up all over again. The years of bent-up anger and grief spilled out of her. 

You only then move when you feel her arms losing their grip and her sobs only seeming to get louder, if that was even possible. You turn around just in time to catch her, her body giving out to her emotional turmoil. Bringing her head to your chest, while holding her so tightly just so she can feel that you're real, feel like you are truly here after all this time. And secretly to remind yourself of the same things. She is still here too, she is also real, she isn’t something your mind has conjured up in your state. 

It isn’t long before she pulls away again, turning her back to you as she subtly wipes her eyes and cheeks before moving towards her shower. She doesn’t say a word, she doesn’t make a single sound while she focuses on her task at hand. And when she is done, she stays with her back to you and leaves the room before you can even utter any more words to her. 

You let the water completely engulf you as you try to focus on everything flowing through your head. You need to remember everything, every single moment, every single name and memory. The bad, the good, the ugly, you don't care. You lean over to grab some body wash on the side and the smell seems to trigger everything. 

Memories flood through you, names, faces, voices, everything. Your whole life flashes before your eyes and it should overwhelm you. But all you feel is relief. Relief of remembering, regardless of the bad you remember after being taken, that somehow fades away when Natasha’s face sits at the front of your mind. 

You're drawn from your thoughts when you can hear shouting echoing through the sound of the water hitting the sides of the shower, rushing out and throwing on the clothes Natasha left you before stepping out of the bathroom. 

Natasha is standing with the door wide open as Fury stands opposite her. They both stop talking when you slam the bathroom door to draw their attention away from one another.

“Nicholas.” You say clearly, shock filling Natasha's face as you move closer to them. 

“Y/n.” He echos right back, a smirk filling his face when you finally approach him, your arm winding around Natasha's waist to bring her closer to you, needing to feel her body heat against your cold skin. 

“Why are you both shouting, I could hear you both in the shower.” Natasha stays silent, her eyes furrowing as she looks up at Fury, his face having the same expression as hers. He doesn’t answer you and neither does she, he simply looks between you both and then speaks to Natasha, “10 minutes, meeting room.” And then he walks away. 

Natasha gets out of your grip, closing the door when Fury moves away. She stays quiet again, her back facing you as she stays with her back to you. The coldness confuses you, it hurts just as much. 

“We should head to the meeting room.” She finally says, her back still to you. “Nat, what’s, what’s wrong?” You whisper, placing your hand on her shoulder but you're met with her shrugging it off and moving away from you. 

“You were dead, for 5 years, to me, to all of us, you were dead. I grieved you, I put flowers on your empty grave every week. Every week since your funeral. For a whole year, I couldn’t go on missions, I couldn’t work. I didn’t leave the tower until your funeral, and then after that, I didn’t leave my room for 3 months. I then didn't go on missions for 6 months either, because you were dead. And I, I hated you for that, I hated that you made me leave, I hated that you radioed Tony to come and get me and I hated that we were forced to leave without even looking for your body. I hated that when I finally found the strength to pack your stuff away, I found a ring in your shoes. And right now, god I am so fucking happy and relieved you're alive but…” She breathes, she wipes her eyes and she meets your eyes, and the look in them breaks you. 

“But, I have now lived 5 long years without you and I’m not the ‘me’ you remember or know, Y/n. I’m not.” 

“I remembered you, Natasha, I woke up in an alley not even knowing what year it was and all I could remember was you. I remember YOU. I can- let me get to know who you are now, let me, let me remember you for who you are now.” You beg her, you need her. Especially now.

“You remembered the old me, Y/n. I’m not someone who you can love anymore. I’m not, that’s gone, that person died the day that you died.”

“Natasha…”

“We need to go to the meeting room.” She tries to deflect.

“I want to talk to you more than talking to Fury.”

“I can’t do this right now, please. Just please, let me take this in, you're here and you're alive and I don’t, I can’t process this right now.” She opens the door and walks out, the conversation over with. 

She leads you down to the meeting room, walking in front of you the whole time, every time you try to match her pace she only walks faster to get further away from you. You hate the distance between you both but you do understand it, as much as it hurts. She needs to process this, you’ve been gone, a lot has happened in those years and you can’t force her to stay if she doesn’t want to. So you’re not shocked when she walks you into the meeting room and leaves immediately after. 

---------------------------

You tell Fury everything. How you somehow survived the explosion, and how you remember your body being pulled from the rubble, thinking it was SHEILD but it wasn't. You tell him about the months of tests completed on you, the super soldier serum that now floods through your veins. You tell him every mission you remember, the dates, the countries, the kills. He takes you to the med bay next, and more blood is taken from you as you show them your new leg and arm, they pay close attention to the scars covering your body and you try not to cower away at that. After he is done with that he takes you to the gym, making you run the fastest you can, lifting the heaviest weights you can. You ignore the looks of shock on his and Marias faces as they write everything down. 

When you finally land back in the meeting room, you all sit in silence. Fury and Maria, continuously look at each other and then back to you. You sit back twirling your thumbs as you wait for them to say anything. And Maria is the first one to choke. 

“How do you feel? You couldn't remember anything but Natasha 5 hours ago.” I shrug my shoulders trying to find the right words to say. 

“Honestly, I feel okay. At first, it was overwhelming not remembering anything, but then when everything hit me, I was just relieved, relieved that I could actually remember. Yeah, my time at Hydra was shit, but it happened, and I’m here now. And there is only one Hydra base left which I just gave you the location too and within days that will be gone too. So I feel relieved because I won’t go back there. Because I am here, with people I know and remember. I may be different now, I know I’m different and in a week I could be feeling completely different, so if and when I do feel different, I will come straight to Maria. I promise, I am here and I am present.” I lay my hands on the table as I finish talking, Fury and Maria nodding their heads at my words. 

“I’ll sort out your death certificate. I’ll sort out your bank account and ID, all of that stuff. You’ll have it within a day. Oh, and all of your pension that we owed you for being dead I guess.” Fury tells you, standing up and leaving, but not without placing his hand on your shoulder and saying, “I’m glad you're back Y/n.”

Maria stays sitting for longer, her hands fiddling with paperwork as she gets it all together. You know she wants to say something, but you know she won’t. “So, Natasha kind of hates me, I guess.” You try to break the silence, but Maria's sighing makes her stop her movements. 

“It was rough. She wasn’t Natasha anymore, any trace of her was gone and it took a while to try and bring her back but she didn't, not really anyway. I’ve seen Natasha be so many different people, around different people but around you, that was Natasha. How she was with the guys, it wasn't how she was when you were here. But no one could do or say anything because we all knew it wouldn’t matter. Because you were gone and because of that, she wasn't ever going to come back. Especially after she found the ring. She used to wear it you know. All the time, no one said anything, worried about how she would react and then one day she stopped, and we all just thought, she had accepted it. That you were gone and wasn't coming back. She doesn’t hate you, I know she doesn’t, but right now, those 5 years of grief and loss, she is hating herself for giving up when you were out there all along, alive.” Maria, sits herself down next to you, leaning against the table as you furrow your brows, trying to process her words. You get it, like you already said, you understand. You can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like if the roles were the other way. Honestly, you would probably react the same way she is. 

“It wasn’t her fault.” You whisper, tears building in your eyes.

“To her, it is, was her fault. So what are you going to do about it, super soldier?”

------------------------------

You had been at the compound for a week now. It had been good, fun even. You knew most people, that is the original 6 of the Avengers. It was nice to be with them again, joking and laughing like you did all those years ago. It also helped that some new additions to the team were also nice.

It would have only been perfect if Natasha was there too but she wasn't. She had disappeared when you finally came out of your meeting with Fury and Maria, and it didn't surprise you when Clint was also gone. You knew where they were, at Clint’s farm. She needed space, you understood that but you wished she at least told you she had left, but you had to realize she didn't owe you that at all. 

It was by the second week at the compound that it then started to feel like you were now intruding into Natasha's life without you. She still hadn't come home. The constant thoughts of just leaving so she could come back were always floating around your head but another part also kept telling you that she just needs to process this and then she will be home, she will be back and it will all be okay. 

It was so conflicting, the constant back and forth. You wanted, no needed to call her but knew you shouldn’t. It kept you up most nights, resulting in you ending up falling asleep on the couch instead of in your cozy new bedroom, courtesy of Tony, it felt weird sleeping in a bed without her. It might have been 5 years, but in those 5 years, you hadn't even slept in a bed. It just never felt right, you didn't know what to do with your arms, and you didn't know how to lay. It was as if you could only exist with your arms surrounding her and it was tearing you apart.

By the third week, you were begging Maria for permission to use a jet. Natasha hadn’t answered any of your calls, texts, or even emails. Neither had Clint. Everyone could see it was affecting you, they all kept trying to tell you she would be back when she was ready but at this point, it didn't feel like she was coming back. Clint showed up in the middle of the third week, you tried speaking to him about Natasha but he wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t answer any of your questions, but he could hear and see the distress. You felt erratic, you didn’t feel like yourself and it was making it all worse. He wouldn’t let you see her or speak to her, he wouldn’t even say her name. He wouldn’t even tell you if she was safe, and that’s when you lost it. 

You had him pinned against a way, Bucky and Steve on either side of you trying to pry you off of him but even with their strength, you didn't move a muscle. And finally, when Clint realized you weren’t going to let go that’s when he muttered that Natasha was safe, something he could have done 30 minutes ago when you had asked in the first place. But you continued to hold him. Maria walked into the room then, coming up by your side and telling you to let him go. You could hear it in her voice that she wasn't going to ask again and you dropped him, walking away and out of the door without turning round. 

It got to the point where the weeks turned into months. Still no sign of her, still no word from her. It was breaking you apart. You completely distanced yourself from everyone, only coming out of your room in the middle of the night to go to the gym and then taking as much food and drink as you could back up to your room. You hadn't slept, and the bed still didn’t feel right. It was exhausting. 

And that’s when it suddenly felt like you were being punished. 

That this was only a fraction of what Natasha felt. And that she was doing this on purpose.

It all turned to anger. 

You didn’t expect to get taken. You thought you were going to die. It wasn’t your fault you lived, it wasn’t your fault you didn’t look for her. You didn't remember anything until waking up all over again in an alley 5 years later. 

She was punishing you, even if she didn't realize it. 

You called her again. Her answerphone breaks you. You cried down the phone, begging for her to come home, to talk to you. To stop acting like you had died. That you have both already lost 5 years, you don’t need to lose more. 

---------------

Tony was having a party, you don't know what for. Something about it had ‘been a while’. You wanted nothing more than to stay in your bedroom, but Bucky and Steve wouldn’t let you. They forced you up, made you shower and get dressed. 

The party was boring, Thor had gone back to Asgard so in turn had taken his mead, which was the only thing that could even get you the slightest bit drunk. It felt pointless drinking when it didn’t do anything. 

The night seemed to go too slow, people coming and going as they pleased. People greet you for one minute and then say goodbye. It felt pointless. It felt like maybe 5 years ago you should have died instead. It felt like life didn’t have a meaning anymore. 

Everyone tried to get you to stay, the party still in full swing but you felt so dejected and so far from everyone it just seemed so pointless. All of it seemed pointless. They could see it too, the light in your eyes was gone, the lingering thoughts of Natasha affecting how you carried yourself every day. They saw the similarities from when Natasha lost you. It started to feel like Natasha definitely wasn’t coming back and everyone else finally started to agree. 

The party had been over for a few hours now, the clock reading 3:23 am. The room was still a mess but it felt fitting that it was the only place that would stop your thoughts from flying all over the place. You were no longer in the clothes you wore to the party but were now sporting an oversized hoodie and sweats. You got yourself comfortable on the couch. Throwing the rubbish on top of it onto the floor, someone else will deal with it tomorrow. 

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. You needed to sleep. It had been days since you last slept, you were well and truly exhausted. You just needed to sleep to get your head straight again. 

----------------

You felt a weight on your chest, your body going tense instantly, wanting to sit up. But a hand on your cheeks stops you. You keep your eyes closed, afraid that if you open them it won’t be real. That the familiar touch and smell isn’t Natasha, that she is a fragment of your exhausted and emotional mind. Her whole body lay on top of your own. Her head is tucked into your neck. Her hand tangled in the hair on the side of your head. 

“I know you're awake.” She whispers, her breath tickling your neck. 

“You’re real.” You sigh out, opening your eyes and wrapping your arms around her back. Holding her tightly against you. Her body fits perfectly with your own.

“So are you.” She whispers again, not wanting to ruin the quietness that surrounds you both. 

“I’m sorry, I left, I just…”

“I know, I’m sorry too.” You move your body to lay on its side, Natasha's body falling beside you, trapping her between yourself and the back of the couch. You move your hand slowly to run through her hair, her breathing slow and gentle. She stares at you so intensely, and you can’t help but stare back. 

“You remembered me.” She whispers, moving closer despite the very little space between you both anyway, resting her forehead on yours. 

“I think I will always remember you, Natasha.” You breathe out, a small smile gracing her lips as she opens her eyes after taking a deep breath. 

You feel her head moving again, so slowly and subtly but you know her, even if it has been so many years, you know her. Her lips meet yours slowly, and your body starts to shiver from the action. 

The kiss is slow, but hard, every unspoken word flowing between you. 

“I will always love you, whether I am dead or missing, or simply just alive, I will always love and remember you, Natasha Romanoff, that will never change, I promise you that.” You whisper against her lips as you both pull away, a smirk now lying on her lips. She presses her lips against yours again, short and sweet just like her. 

“I will always love you too.”

You remembered her, and you always will. 

[professorcloak]

Beneath the Bloodstains

warnings: gore, injuries, fluff, weapons

The first time you meet Daryl Dixon, he barely spares you a glance.

You don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone—gruff, distant, always half a step away from disappearing into the trees. It’s been that way since you joined the group a couple of weeks ago, scavenging supplies and keeping your head down. You weren’t looking for friends, and neither was he.

But then you save his life.

It happens fast—too fast to think. One second, he’s tracking a deer in the underbrush, the next, a walker barrels out of nowhere, snarling and snapping, its decomposed flesh sloughing off in thick, putrid chunks. The stench is overwhelming—rot and bile mixed with the sickly-sweet scent of decay. Its yellowed, broken teeth gnash inches from Daryl’s throat, gnarled fingers clawing at his jacket as it forces him to the ground.

Before he can reach for his knife, you’re already there. Your machete arcs through the air, sinking deep into the walker’s skull with a sickening crack. The blade splits bone and brain matter, a spray of dark, coagulated blood splattering across your hands and face. The creature twitches violently, its fingers convulsing before going limp. A thick glob of rancid gore dribbles from the caved-in skull, pooling on the dirt.

When you turn back, breathing hard, Daryl’s staring at you. Really staring. There’s a flicker of something in his blue eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper. Then, just as quick, it’s gone. He shoves the corpse off with a grunt, wiping gore from his face with the back of his hand before nodding once, a gruff sort of thanks, and retrieving his weapon without another word.

After that, something shifts. It’s small at first. A nod when you pass each other in camp. A second portion of whatever stew is cooking over the fire, left near where you sit. An extra knife, slipped into your gear without a word. Daryl doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching, always nearby.

You don’t push. He doesn’t like questions, doesn’t like people getting too close. That’s fine—you’re not looking for anything, not really. In a world where survival is everything, attachments can be dangerous.

But some nights, when the firelight flickers and the world feels a little less doomed, you catch him watching you again, something unreadable in his expression. Like he’s figuring you out. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to let you in.

Then the next attack comes.

It’s a routine supply run gone bad—too many walkers, too fast. The group is scattered, forced to fight in pairs or alone. You and Daryl are back to back in an abandoned store, the air thick with the rancid stench of the undead. The walls are splattered with dried blood, shelves overturned, their contents long since raided. Rotting bodies are slumped in the corners, their eyeless sockets staring into nothing. The faint buzzing of flies hums through the stale air.

Your blade is slick with gore, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The floor is a slick mess of crushed skulls and decomposing viscera. The moans of the dead echo off the ruined aisles, growing louder, closer.

Daryl’s crossbow fires with deadly precision, each bolt punching through rotting flesh and bursting out the other side, leaving gaping holes dripping with congealed black blood. But there are too many, and when one lunges from behind a toppled shelf, you barely have time to react. Its clawed hands rip into your shoulder, jagged nails peeling away fabric and flesh, the pain instant and white-hot.

The walker’s breath is a rancid, wheezing rasp against your ear, its teeth snapping inches from your neck. The coppery scent of your own blood floods your senses, mingling with the putrid stench of rotting flesh.

Before you can scream, Daryl is there, his knife flashing in the dim light. He drives it into the walker’s temple, the blade sinking in with a sickening squelch. The thing spasms violently before collapsing, its ruined face twisted in a permanent grimace.

Daryl grips your arms, steadying you, his hands warm and firm despite the blood smearing between you. His eyes dart to the wound, his jaw tightening.

"Ain’t deep," he mutters, but there’s an edge to his voice, something almost frantic beneath the gruffness. His grip lingers, fingers pressing just a little too long against your skin before he pulls away. "C’mon. We gotta move."

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re safe again.

The moment you’re back at camp, he pulls you toward the fire, his grip rough but careful. He pushes you down onto an overturned crate, then crouches in front of you, fishing a bottle of alcohol from his pack. He doesn’t say a word as he douses a rag with the harsh liquid, pressing it against the torn flesh of your shoulder. The pain sears through you, sharp and blinding, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Daryl doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the tension rolling off him. His hands are steady, but his jaw is locked tight, his breath coming in slow, measured exhales. The firelight flickers, throwing shadows across his face, making the lines of worry stand out sharper than usual.

"You should’ve been more careful," he grumbles finally, voice low, almost accusing.

You huff out a tired laugh. "You’re one to talk."

His gaze snaps up to yours, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t answer, just presses the rag harder against your wound, making you hiss through your teeth.

"Daryl—" you start, but he shakes his head.

"Don’t," he mutters. "Just—" He exhales sharply, looking away. "You scared me, alright?"

The words are barely above a whisper, but they hit you harder than any walker ever could. You stare at him, heart pounding, the pain in your shoulder momentarily forgotten.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Just finishes wrapping your wound, then stands abruptly, muttering something about needing to check the perimeter before stalking off into the darkness.

You watch him go, fingers curling over the fresh bandage on your shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something other than just survival. --

just a short lil fluff story :)

[ijbolgawon]

THE BASTARD'S WITCH. kaz brekker

in which. kaz finally gives in, even if it makes him look weak

wc. 1.2k

a/n. i suggest listening to this song since it's one of the main reasons i even wrote this lol

Kaz Brekker knew the sound of footsteps approaching, the distinct rhythm of each person who dared step into his office. He heard the short creak of the floorboards outside his office, the subtle shift of weight, and for a brief moment, he thought it was her.

Y/N.

His grip on his cane tightened as he turned around.

But it wasn't Y/N. It was Pekka Rollins.

Two of Pekka’s men loomed behind him, their postures too relaxed, too sure of their authority.

“Mister Brekker, isn't it?” Pekka greeted, his voice like the slow drag of a blade against stone.

Kaz didn't move. He slowly watched as the man pulled a chair in front of him as his men grabbed Kaz’s shoulders, kneeling him in front of Pekka.

He made a show of looking around, as if he were the one letting Kaz stay here, rather than the other way around.

“You’re after the Heartrender,” Pekka asked, even if it sounded more like a statement.

Kaz’s expression didn’t waver.

Pekka smiled, all teeth. “Go ahead. Take the job. But if you do, I’ll make sure your little Summoner doesn’t see another sunrise.”

A long silence.

Kaz forced himself to remain still. Not to react. Not to show the way the words latched onto something deep, something ugly.

“She’s not my concern,” Kaz said. Even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. He felt his own cane being pressed to his throat.

Pekka chuckled. “That so? Then why does it feel like she is?”

He leaned forward, slowly. “I’ve been watching her, Brekker. Ever since she came to the Menagerie, I knew she was special.”

Kaz’s fingers twitched inside his gloves, his hands itching with anger.

“She still wears that collar,” Pekka continued. “Still belongs to Heleen. Which means —” His voice dropped, his words slow and deliberate. “She belongs to me.”

Kaz said nothing.

Pekka studied him, his head tilting slightly. “So here’s the deal. If you want the Heartrender, you kill her. If you want Ghafa’s freedom, you do it for me.”

He continued, a slight smirk forming on his lips, “Or maybe I’ll just kill the witch myself. And we’ll see if you still care to finish the job after.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then another.

“I’ll deal with her.”

Pekka’s smirk widened. “That’s what I like to hear.”

And then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone, leaving him alone, knees stuck on the wooden floor. Kaz stood there for a long moment, his mind already working, already calculating.

He would deal with her.

The job was supposed to be simple. In and out. No blood.

Yet Y/N found herself gasping against the alley wall, pressing a trembling hand against the wound just below her ribs. The knife had been quick. She hadn’t even seen the attacker’s face.

One moment, she was making her way back from the job Kaz had sent her on, the next, steel in her ribs. Blood seeped through her fingers, warm and thick.

She straightened, forcing herself upright as she heard footsteps. Making her way back to Slat, barely alive, a trace of blood sticking to all the buildings she had passed by.

Throwing herself on the nearest chair inside, she ripped her coat open, fingers grazing over the bloody cut. Her free hand grabbed the aid kit, mindsely searching for the needle and the thread.

There is no way she could've done it by herself, but she didn't want anyone to find out she had failed at the easiest job: she was a Grisha after all.

As soon as she began stitching, Jesper made his way inside, a soft smile on his face.His grin faltered when he saw her.

“Well, that’s not good.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, “Brilliant deduction.”

Jesper walked forward, gaze flicking to the blood darkening her coat. “What happened?”

“I accidentally stabbed myself”,she jokes, showing him that she was not in the mood.

Jesper sighed, defeated. “Kaz is already pissed, you know. And now this?”

“Why is he pissed?”, he takes in her frown, then his face suddenly changes. Like the realization hit him. ‘You can't tell her’, he recalls Kaz's words, and he wishes he hadn't opened his mouth.

Jesper hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pekka paid him a visit.”

Not failing to notice the way she stiffened, he continued.

“He made a deal,” his voice was too casual, too careful. “A million kruge. Inej’s freedom. But there’s a condition.”

Y/N swallowed. “What condition?”

The door slammed open. Kaz barely had time to look up before Y/N stormed in, her coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal the blood staining her shirt.

He took it in immediately: the slight hitch in her breath, the tension in her shoulders, the fire burning in her eyes.

“You’re going to kill me for a million kruge?” she asks, voice latching with despair.

Kaz shut his ledger. “You should be resting.”

She scoffed, stepping forward despite the limp in her stride. “Is a million kruge more important than me living?”

Silence.

Her breath came sharp, uneven. She reached into her belt and pulled out a knife, flipping it so the hilt faced him.

“Then do it.”

Kaz didn’t move. Her fingers curled around his wrist, forcing the knife into his palm. “Do it, Brekker.”

He felt the weight of it, the cool steel pressing against his skin.

Then, slowly, he placed the knife on his desk and stepped toward her.

She backed away instinctively, but her wound betrayed her, her knees buckling, and she stumbled.

Kaz caught her before she could hit the ground, his gloved hand draped around her waist.

Her breath shuddered, their lips almost touching. “You’d do anything for your freedom, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers curled around his sleeve, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then kiss me.”

A command.

Kaz saw the shift in her eyes, the pull of her power curling around the words. But he had already anticipated it.

His fingers pressed into her wound.

She gasped, her body jolting as pain lanced through her. And then he kissed her.

His lips crashed against hers, sharp and unyielding, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was not soft or gentle. It was the same as everything Kaz did: calculated, precise, deliberate.

When they finally pulled away, she winced, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence. Kaz looked down.

Blood.

His hand was still pressed against her wound.

Understanding flickered in her eyes, then horror.

“When a Grisha is in pain, their powers don’t work,” Kaz murmured. “I knew you were about to command me.”

He had been pressing on her wound from the moment she stumbled. Not to hurt her. Not to stop her.

But to choose. To choose the kiss. To choose her.

Y/N’s hands trembled against his arm, the pressure he was applying making her even more dizzy.

“Kaz…”

He stepped back, his touch remaining as a ghost on her skin. The weight of the moment settled between them, thick and suffocating.

“I’ll deal with Pekka.”

Then, before she could say anything else, before she could look at him like that, he turned and walked away.

[tacticaldiary]

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

Part 2

(11/10/2023)

[countyourfreckleslikestars]

Team O after dark.

“You voted O. Now you get your reward.”

Summary:

After a tense 50/50 vote, you, Su-Bong, and Nam-Gyu find yourselves with no answers, no guards, and one shared certainty—you’re not sleeping tonight. Not alone. Not untouched. Not without being reminded exactly who you belong to.

Word count- 2,741 (got carried away, whoops!)

Warnings:

18+ ONLY — NSFW / MDNI

Double penetration, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie x2, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, possessiveness, reader is wrecked, soft dom!Nam-Gyu (fuck yall my man is a soft dom) cocky dom!Su-Bong, pet names (“baby,” “flower”), nawt proofread

The sound of cheers and boos fill the cold, echoing hall with each vote, each one deciding whether you might live to see another day… or die trying.

You sit on the thin mattress of your metal-framed bed, cramped between Su-Bong’s legs as he sits behind you, arms wrapped loosely around your waist. His palms run up and down your arms in slow, lazy strokes—not comforting exactly, more like grounding. Steady. His usual cocky grin is gone, replaced by something quieter. Something you’ve only seen a few times.

Nam-Gyu sits in front of you, fingers threading through yours, thumbs gently brushing your knuckles. He’s close—so close his breath fans your cheek, and his voice stays low when he speaks.

“One more game, ok baby?” he murmurs, watching your face like he’s waiting for even the smallest flicker of fear.

You nod, slow and uncertain. The motion is more a reflex than anything else. Trust is a rare currency in here. But you’ve made it this far—with their help.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking between the bright screen in the center of the room and the guards standing at attention. The voice crackles overhead again, sharp and emotionless.

“Player 230.”

The air seems to pause.

Su-Bong’s hands still on your arms. Then he shifts—pressing a kiss to your cheek so quick and light you barely feel it. He hops down from the bed, flashing you a smirk over his shoulder as he strolls toward the walkway.

The voting panel glows blue and red—O or X. Stay or leave. Live or die.

He doesn’t even hesitate. He plants both palms on the button, leans forward, and presses it. The O.

Then turns around with his arms over his head, hands forming a big, dorky circle.

“Team O gang, let’s go!!” he shouts, chest puffed out, looking absurdly proud as he joins the blue side.

Cheers erupt from some players, boos from others. It’s chaos. You flinch at the volume, but Nam-Gyu just squeezes your hands tighter, trying to pull your focus back.

Like clockwork, more move down the line and more numbers are called.

“Player 124.”

Your stomach drops.

Nam-Gyu stands, gently tugging his fingers from yours.

“One more, ok sweetheart?” he whispers, eyes soft. “Just one more.”

This time, your nod is firmer. You watch him walk down the same path Su-Bong took—calm, confident, like this was always going to be his choice. His hand lifts to press the O button, and the light flashes blue.

He turns briefly to look at you before crossing to Su-Bong’s side. The two of them bump shoulders, sharing some whispered joke. You’re too far to hear it—but it makes Su-Bong laugh, and the sound cuts through the rest of the noise like a knife.

Then—

“Player 123”

Your number.

The air leaves your lungs all at once. You can feel dozens of eyes turn to you. Your limbs feel too heavy to move.

You stand on autopilot, moving slowly toward the walkway, footsteps echoing louder than they should.

The buttons flash in front of you. One blue. One red.

You stare.

Your mind spins.

You could press red and walk away. Start over. Forget this nightmare.

Or… you could press blue. Stay. Trust Su-Bong and Nam-Gyu. Just one more game.

Your fingers tremble as you lift your hand. Your eyes shut tight as your palm hits the panel.

A blue glow flares behind your eyelids.

You exhale hard.

The guard steps forward and hands you an O patch. You take it, silent. Rip off your X, slap the new patch in its place.

You walk toward the blue side, legs stiff. And the second you’re close enough, Su-Bong grabs you first—arms around your waist, spinning you in a quick circle.

“I knew you’d do it, señorita,” he says, grin wide and bright again.

Nam-Gyu’s arms come around you next, slower, more deliberate. He murmurs something soft against your temple that you don’t quite catch. But you nod anyway. You don’t have words. Your heart’s still pounding too loud to hear anything else.

⸻

You’d think the tension would ease after voting.

But it doesn’t.

Because the numbers tie.

Exactly 50/50.

And suddenly the room is a powder keg—everyone buzzing with frustration, anger, fear. No one knows what happens next. The guards stand motionless. The voice goes silent.

Eventually, food is passed around. Everyone lines up and is given a little rice triangle and bottle of water.

You eat in silence, back on the bed with Nam-Gyu and Su-Bong flanking you again—like magnets pulled to your sides.

They don’t leave you for a second.

Even with dozens of empty beds nearby, they sit close enough to touch—close enough their knees brush yours, their shoulders press into you.

Nam-Gyu gently unwraps your kimbap for you, offering it to you like he’s feeding a child. You take it with a small smile. He doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

Su-Bong eats with one hand, the other draped lazily across your lap. His thumb rubs absent circles over your thigh as he chews. His leg bounces occasionally—restless, like his body can’t keep still, but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

“I think she needs a reward,” Nam-Gyu murmurs after a while, voice low and intimate. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

Su-Bong snorts. “Think? I already know what we’re gonna do.”

Nam-Gyu smiles faintly, brushing a thumb over your wrist. “A good girl deserves good things.”

You swallow thickly. The tension shifts—soft but charged.

Something electric crackles between you.

Their eyes on you feel different now. Not comforting. Not teasing.

Hungry.

After dinner, the food is cleared. The empty wrappers and crumpled paper napkins tossed aside like they never meant anything. You can feel the air shift—like everyone’s waiting for something. A fight. A scream. Another announcement. Anything to tell them what’s next.

But nothing comes.

No guards. No answers. Just the buzz of electricity and tension.

You stay sitting between Su-Bong and Nam-Gyu, your legs tucked under you, your heart still thudding too loud.

The room’s lighting is dim now, the flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead making everything look slightly off—like a dream that’s starting to twist at the edges.

“Lights out in 30 minutes”

Su-Bong stretches out his legs in front of him, his arm draped across your back like it belongs there. He talks, casually, but it’s not for the group. It’s for you and Nam-Gyu.

“She looked hot as hell walking up to that button,” he says, voice just low enough to avoid being overheard. “All nervous. All tense.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. He notices.

“You liked that, huh?”he grins, looking towards Nam-Gyu

Nam-Gyu’s smile is softer, but there’s something behind it now—something darker, heavier. “I did,” he admits, and he says it while looking right at you. “She was shaking.”

His fingers brush your knee.

Su-Bong leans in, breath warm at your ear. “Knew you were gonna pick O. Couldn’t bring yourself to leave us.”

You open your mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

Nam-Gyu’s hand settles just above your thigh. His touch is light, lazy—but his thumb draws slow, possessive circles over the fabric of your pants.

You’re hyper-aware of every breath. Every graze. Every heartbeat.

Across the room, two players start bickering, voices rising. Someone throws a half-eaten rice ball.

But Su-Bong doesn’t even flinch.

“After lights out,” he whispers, voice low and smug. “You’re ours.”

Nam-Gyu hums, nodding. “We’ll be quiet.”

“Mostly,” Su-Bong teases, giving your thigh a squeeze. “If you can be.”

You swallow hard.

Nam-Gyu leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, whispering so only you can hear: “You want us, don’t you?”

You nod.

But Su-Bong isn’t letting you off that easy.

“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“I… I want you,” you whisper back.

They both smile like wolves.

———-

Time moves strangely after that. Every minute feels like an hour. You try to distract yourself—lie back on the bed, close your eyes, count breaths—but every brush of their hands, every glance exchanged over your body, sets your nerves on fire.

You feel them watching you. Every. Single. Second.

Nam-Gyu pretends to be listening to a conversation a few beds down, but his hand stays on your lower back.

Su-Bong fidgets constantly. Not in the usual ADHD way. He’s wired—his leg bouncing, his knuckles tapping the frame of the bed, his gaze flicking toward the bathroom door again and again like he’s waiting for the moment to pounce.

When the overhead buzz dims and the lights begin to fade, your breath catches.

They move instantly.

Nam-Gyu shifts first—calm, quiet, nodding toward the bathroom like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Su-Bong is already up, walking ahead, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets—but his eyes flash the second they meet yours.

Nam-Gyu brushes your knee under the blanket, and you take that as your signal.

The three of you make your way toward the bathroom together, steps quiet, calculated. Most players are already settling into bed, no one really paying attention. Except the guards.

Of course.

The stand in front of the door, already knowing what’s on the other side.

You knock on the door, a pink guard opening the slot.

Nam-Gyu speaks up first. “We need to use the restroom.”

The guard doesn’t react. Then, after a beat,

“No access at this time,” he says flatly.

Su-Bong blinks once. Then bursts out laughing.

“Oh nah,” he says, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t think you get it.”

Nam-Gyu glances toward him, already trying not to smile. You, on the other hand, feel like your soul just tried to crawl out your throat from trying not to laugh.

Su-Bong steps up to the front, arms crossed, smirk curling.

“Ay,” he says, dead serious. “We’re gonna fuck. So unless you want us to do that right here—in front of everybody—I suggest you let us through.”

Silence.

The guard behind the door doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

Then—

Clank.

The lock clicks open.

The door swings inward.

Su-Bong bows mockingly. “Why thank you.”

Nam-Gyu snorts softly, guiding you by the small of your back as the three of you step inside. Su-Bong blows a kiss at the guard on the way in.

And the second the door shuts behind you…

That’s when things finally begin.

———

The second the door shuts, Su-Bong twists the lock behind you with a grin, then spins around like he’s just been let loose in a candy store.

“You heard what I said,” he smirks, stalking toward you slowly. “So now we better make it worth the guard’s time.”

Nam-Gyu’s already behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips ghost along your shoulder, warm breath raising goosebumps on your skin.

“She was good today,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-sweet against your ear. “Voted with us. Didn’t hesitate.”

“Pretty little thing walked all the way down that aisle shaking like a leaf,” Su-Bong says, stepping in front of you. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “But still pressed that O like a good girl.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Nam-Gyu slowly lifts your shirt, his hands reverent but unhurried, letting the fabric slide over your skin inch by inch. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and you can feel the heat of him, the tension, the control he’s barely keeping in check.

“You want your reward now?” he whispers.

You nod. Then remember what Su-Bong told you earlier.

“Words, baby,” you hear him say again in your head.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Su-Bong chuckles darkly. “God, I love when she begs.”

He drops to his knees in front of you, fingers already tugging at the waistband of your uniform pants. “Bet you’re already soaked, huh?”

Nam-Gyu’s hands slip under your shirt, up your stomach, then to your chest, pulling your shirt over your head. “Let’s find out.”

You gasp as Su-Bong presses a kiss just above your underwear, teeth grazing your skin.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles when he pulls your bottoms down. “You really are dripping.”

Nam-Gyu tugs you closer to him, holding you upright while Su-Bong spreads your legs just enough. Your knees feel weak from him being so close, balance barely there.

But they’ve got you.

Su-Bong licks a slow stripe up your center, then groans dramatically. “Yup. Deserved this.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling as he dives back in—messy, greedy, like he’s trying to consume you. His tongue works in relentless, practiced motions, cocky little moans escaping his throat every time you twitch or grind into his face.

Nam-Gyu kisses your neck, then your shoulder, all while whispering praise in your ear. “Doing so well,” he murmurs. “You’re so sweet for us.”

When Su-Bong slips two fingers inside you without warning, your knees buckle. Nam-Gyu catches you easily, pinning your hips forward so Su-Bong can keep going.

“Oh my god—”

“You can come,” Nam-Gyu says softly. “Let him taste it. You deserve that, don’t you?”

You don’t even get a chance to answer.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train.

Your whole body shakes. You gasp, nearly cry out, but Nam-Gyu’s hand covers your mouth just in time.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Quiet, baby. Remember where we are.”

Su-Bong pulls away with a wet grin, chin slick, eyes wild. “Best pussy I’ve ever ate.”

He gathers some of your release on his fingers, rising to his feet before pressing them to Nam-Gyu’s lips. He wraps his mouth around them without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as a low groan escapes him, savoring your taste. Then he looks at you—dark, hungry—and without a word, turns you around, guiding you backward toward the far wall.

‘You want more?’ he murmurs.

‘Yes,’ you breathe. ‘Please.’

They don’t make you wait.

Nam-Gyu pulls his waistband down just enough, lifts one of your legs, and slides in—slow, careful, but thick and deep enough to make you whimper. He groans against your throat.

Su-Bong comes up behind you now, whispering dirty encouragements like a devil on your shoulder.

“She’s taking you so well,” he murmurs to Nam-Gyu. “Fuck, look at her face.”

Nam-Gyu buries himself deeper, fucking you slow and smooth against the bathroom wall while Su-Bong palms himself over his pants. “You want me next, right baby?” he grins. “You want both of us?”

You nod, eyes glassy, already gone.

“Good,” Nam-Gyu pants. “Because we’re not done until you forget your name.”

Su-Bong spends no time pulling down his own pants, lining himself up behind you before thrusting in, resulting in a deep groan from him, being muffled by your hair.

“Shit flower, taking us so well. So -fuck- so fucking tight. Bet you ain’t had two big ass dicks at one time, huh?”

Your brain can’t even make full thoughts, only you babbling nonsense at the feelings of both of their cocks ramming into your little pussy.

Your orgasm creep’s up quickly, the tight knot in your lower stomach tightening.

Nam-Gyu finishes first, spilling deep inside you with a breathless groan, his thrusts slowing as he presses lazy kisses along your shoulder. The warmth of him fills you up—but Su-Bong doesn’t stop.

If anything, he fucks you harder.

“Greedy little thing,” he rasps against your ear, voice low and wrecked. “Still squeezin’ around me like you want more.”

Your body trembles, the overwhelming stretch of both of them, the slick mess between your thighs, the feeling of being used and worshipped all at once—it’s too much. And not enough.

You sob out something incoherent, and Su-Bong just grins, his fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you.

Then he leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

“Such a dirty little flower… letting us ruin this perfect pussy, moanin’ like it’s all you’re good for. But fuck—you’re so good, baby. So tight, so fuckin’ perfect. Made for this. Made for us.”

That knot in your stomach snaps again, harder this time, and you shatter—crying out as your orgasm rips through you, body clenching so tightly around him he swears and jerks forward.

Su-Bong buries himself deep as he cums, filling you with a groan that sounds more like a growl, like he’s branding you from the inside.

He doesn’t pull out. Neither of them do.

Instead, he kisses your cheek and murmurs, “Good girl. Took both our loads like you were born for it.”

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