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shaisuki · 4 months

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OMFG im so embarassseeed to send this but can you do gentle sex with loottssss of praise with geto and gojo. maybe a part two of a game of cat and mouse. maybe they're feelijg nice?

(𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗞) 𝗙𝗔𝗩𝗢𝗥𝗦

ft. bully! gojo satoru and geto suguru.

content warnings slight somnophilia, nonconsensual groping, noncon, dubcon, praise, dacryphilia, mild injuries, references to depression, bribery, fingering, gaslighting, jealousy, oc character, bullying, pet names. dead dove do not eat.

notes part one here. part three, here. do you really all want that revenge and chasing arc? inbox open.

SERIES MASTERLIST

synopsis after the punishment you took plus being sick gave them the reason to visit after your two days of absence.

you spent the next two days in bed. your phone turned off to block the calls and messages coming from them. not needing any reminder of what they can do while you shut the world for awhile.

after what happened, you couldn't bring yourself to attend your classes. absentmindedly staring in space while the world buzzes around you. passerbys staring at you in concern while you aimlessly drag your body around until your feet brought you back to your dorm room. taking a long, cold shower and plopping in your bed. crying your eyes out until they were puffy and red. you stayed in your bed the first day. squeezing your eyes until they are no tears to cry. every ache of your body reminded you of them. the bruises. the welts. you were lucky your ass didn't blister from the harsh spanking you got from him. only laying in your stomach until the time ticks by in the clock.

what meant to be a rest day turned to be a sick day. your head pounding and every breath feels like you were chasing it with a body that feels hot while your insides turns cold like water freezing in a fridge. luckily your roommate kindly checked on you. tending to your needs until you were better and with that they left you alone with a better chance to recover in your own in which you are grateful for and you snooze in your own.

while you slumber away from all your problems, there suguru and satoru was restless. there's a barrage of missed calls in their call logs and a handful of messages in the chat box, both you didn't see nor responded. they don't missed they say but actions lie and after the two days without you, nor a strand of your hair or a silhouette, they visited you in your dorm room.

knocking once, twice and the door swung open and they expected it to be you. with your surprised reaction and they can't wait to wipe that relieved look in your face after getting a surprise visit from them, instead your roommate was the one who greeted them. staring at them inconspicuously. a bored look in their face wondering who would bother you at this time.

“she had been sick and is recovering. you should visit for another time.” they explained. ignoring the irritated look in their faces. “if you insist. lock the door before leaving.” they gave up as satoru began to threaten them about dorm privileges. it comes in handy and they were granted access to your own safe space. your roommate left shortly muttering about being late to a group study and won't be back until tomorrow which granted an opportunity to be left alone with you.

the curtains were open. a slight breeze coming from the outside your window gently blew. giving your room a natural cooling. your roommate weren't lying when they said you were sick and is currently recovering. a thermometer is neatly placed in your bedside table along with medicine and a glass of water.

a soft whoosh being heard in the room coming from your sleeping figure. tucked in the blanket and satoru almost gleefully want to jump on you but suguru stopped him.

“careful, satoru. she's sleeping.” the blue-eyed man pouts before slowly putting his weight on your bed while suguru settles besides your sleeping figure. covered by the blankets to preserve your body warmth and satoru being the one who can't keep his hands on himself decided to tug your blankets down. leaving you to shift in your sleep but satoru doesn't care as always of your comfort.

mind in a tangled mess of being deprived of you. satoru always was on his whims. never letting anyone to dictate what he's to do but sometimes he could listen to suguru. he knows suguru missed you. they both did. no phone calls not even a message and he's angry. your left them high and dry.

removing his glasses and putting it away, his sweater followed through. showing his defined muscles. he hovers above you. drinking in the sight of your sleeping figure and it's different from how you usually is.

a simple oversized shirt draped in your body. showing your bare legs and the cloth riding up exposing your creamy thighs ridden with the bruises you took from them. some are healing and the others, fresh from the punishment they've given you the other day.

your round cheek is smooshed in the pillow and your unkempt locks of your hair sprawled above you. you're almost innocent and satoru isn't the type to fawn over someone. such domesticity is present in yourself. almost innocent. he leans down to you. his lips brushing in the apple of your cheek and just simply inhaling the scent in your neck. his hand went simply to touch your thighs. soft and warm like clouds from the plushness and the heat you're radiating.

it was the best of your sleep in your entire life, maybe since you started college. it has been nothing but nights that are spent when satoru and suguru would bring you to places you've never seen just to use you as a tool to warm their cocks. it was a nightmare. late in the night you would be back in your dorm room like you were trash. in your sleep there's nothing of it. the humiliation they would do to you. the names that you didn't heard since childhood. the tears coming down just to tire you out until you've fallen asleep. in your slumber, it was all quiet. a dreamland that is granted to you for only a night and then you woke up.

your eyes flutter to adjust your sight in your room but before your eyes could open. you feel a presence near you, you only assumed it was your roommate it was taking care of you when you were sick. you call their name.

“akira?” you call out softly but instead it was the voice that terrorized you and when you hear that voice, he's also here.

“who's akira?” suguru asks you, beating satoru to ask you first. of course they know who is it. they were just messing up with you. satoru studied your expression. a mixture of shock and fear mingling into your face and he smiles at your frightened expression. tears quickly appeared in your eyes and he frowns at your expression. a terrified look is thrown at him and he's hurt by it. a little.

“where's akira—i mean my roommate?”

“they left.” suguru changes his posture. sitting in crossed legs while you slowly backed away until your back is pressed against the wall. gojo sitting in front of you. examining you.

geto tuts at you. “let's get down to other important matters, princess.” you winced at the pet name. your head hanging low and suguru climbs to your bed. grasping your chin with his finger and forcing you to look at him. meeting the fierceness of his own eyes. “where were you? ignored calls and messages. care to explain?”

“i was sick.” you mutter softly. blinking in a nervous manner and suguru let goes your chin. satisfied with your answer and knowing that you're not lying to his face. he smiles and looks at satoru.

“clearly, you're recovering but you can take us again. right?” he whispers behind you. his hot breath tickling your ears. you shaked your head. you've been sick. they would understand but they have other things in their mind running right now and that is to use you again. he places you in his lap, forcing your chunky legs to spread.

suguru ignores it that little denial you were doing and his hands slides in your arms and cups your round belly. slowly pulling the hem of your oversized shirt until it rested at the top of your breasts which suguru wasted no time in fondling them. groaning at your ear from how soft you are and kissing your nape.

satoru beams up like a child on a christmas day. his present in front of him unwrapped. suguru had abandoned your other breast. satoru removes your panties and suguru takes advantage of it. brushing his fingers in between your slit and slapping that cute little clit of yours making you jolt and suguru chuckles. enjoying the tiniest of reactions coming from you. he rubs your slit for a few seconds until you were wet before plunging his thick fingers inside you. making sure you're prepped before satoru takes you whose already stroking his cock, bead of precum leaking in the slit of his cock.

satoru's patience is running thin he crashes his lips into you roughly. forcefully shoving his tongue in you making you sob at the intrusion. his pulse quickening. moaning from the kiss from how good it was. why it was this easy to feel this way with you. just a kiss, a touch. yes, he torments you. took pleasures of your pain. seeing how helpless you are and with the tears in your eyes. his reflection mirrored on it.

do you see him? for what he is. do you know how little self-control he have for you when he takes you.

he hold one of your round cheeks in his hand. his gaze in your trembling lips. swollen it was from how much he have kissed you. swept away from the fervent passion.

“slowly, satoru.” suguru warns him after making you cum with his fingers. he removes his digits to your soaked hole replacing it with satoru's cock aligning to your sweet pussy. “i know, suguru. i want (y/n) to recover but i know she misses my cock too—fuck” he hisses after sinking his cock deep inside you. the stretch burns despite being prepped by suguru's fingers. “that's it, sweet girl. taking satoru's cock so well.” suguru murmurs. biting the shell of your ear while he watch satoru crumbling in front of him from how good your pussy is.

gojo hoists your leg up, putting it beside his wait and his moans got louder. his cock getting deeper inside of you. pleasure coursing both of your stomachs from how good it was. “you love me being this deep, baby?.” gojo pants. once in a rare occasion he would be this sincere to you. for once it wasn't condescending. it was real soft from how he was speaking to you. holding your plush waist in his hand while he rolls his hips.

suguru chuckles. “but i bet you like it better when it's me and satoru are inside you, right? you always have the cutest reaction.” suguru taunts and followed by a chuckles after feeling your body tensing up. a curse coming from gojo following through.

“f-fuck, she does like that, suguru. she's tightening up.”suguru chuckles. “but i bet you want both of our cocks inside you, right? you love it when we make your slutty pussy ours. cause you're our greedy baby. bet you can't cum on satoru's cock without mine.” gojo lets out a curse followed by a laugh.

“f-fuck, she's squeezing my cock tight, suguru. yeah? you want suguru's cock inside you too, baby?” gojo teases. “shit, shit. okay, we'll get into that, okay. if you can cum on my cock, suguru will give it to you. understand—” his breath turning into labored breaths as his hips snaps forward, what once easy pace turning into much of harsher pace.

every jiggle of your body just turn him on more. seeing your round stomach folded and your breasts and just everything about you. he's not going to last. added by your chubby pussy choking his cock and trying to milk him with every worth of his cum. suguru warned him to never get this rough to you but if you're still on brink of recovering why this pussy of yours greedily sucks his cock deep inside you.

“want me to cum inside you? you're my good girl. you deserve to be given by my cum.” he babbles. holding the back of your thighs as he gets deeper insider you making you cry again and sob. geto cradles your cheek. whispering sweet nothings to you as his friend gets closer to his release.

“make sure to take satoru's cum, sweet girl or we won't get easy on you even you're not feeling well.” suguru warns. you can only nod. not wanting to prolong your suffering from this two even it was their way of being nice to you for a brief short time.

your pussy squelches with satoru's thrust. the man who's currently shaping your pussy hole with his length is clouded in haze. all he can do is drive his large cock in your hole that has been clenching on his length. beads of his cum are being slowly staining your insides along with your slick.

a choked moan out of the blue coming from you and a sudden burst of your orgasm came in manner that you didn't expect. your pussy convulses around with his length and satoru with his full force, buries his cock to the hilt in to your cunt. trembling as he spills his thick load of his cum inside you. his grip on your hips tight as he makes sure that he's balls deep while he empties himself inside of you.

“fucking good, hah, going to fuck this pussy again.” satoru grunts and suguru stops him. “not so fast, satoru. i'm next.” satoru grumbles and he hissed removing his still hard cock.

satoru's now behind you. fondling and pinching every skin his hands can cover while kissing you fervently.

“ready for me?” suguru asks you, already in between your legs with his cock brushing against your folds and you know it wasn't a question.

you thought after being done to you, they'll leave like they always does but instead they're still here. the clouds were dark and there's a cold breeze coming from your window.

after passing out from how they spent fucking their loads inside you, you expected to be alone with nothing as your tears comfort you but there was nothing as suguru holds you in his arms. your back pressed against his chest while he lay in your bed. half-naked while he smokes his cigarette.

satoru on the other hand was resting in your round stomach. pawing at it like he was an overgrown cat. fascinated at the softness of your flesh. kissing it occasionally and sucking it.

suguru was the first to notice the change in your breathing. signalling that you were awake and he presses a soft kiss in your temple. “slept well, princess?” you nodded at his question. “good.” drawing circles in your shoulder.

“i was thinking, maybe we should upgrade your wardrobe for a purpose, what you think, satoru?” he briefly looks at the man in your stomach.

satoru raises his head. “better. i'm getting tired of ripping those annoying clothes.” he grumbles. burying his face into your stomach.

“you okay with that?” suguru gets back to question you and you shrug. you never had a choice when this two put their mind on something, you're not an exception.” suguru growls and you immediately regrets your lack of reaction.

“yes, thank you.” you muttered.

“we're going shopping tomorrow.”

they didn't wait for your response and only smiles. you didn't have a choice. they'll make it a fun shopping trip for you.

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syoddeye · 26 days

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consequence / hyacinth

price x f!reader | 1.9k words series directory tags: exes, angst, references to depression. a/n: an ex boyfriend. a story. a kiss. ☕

a surprise trap door. an errant self-driving car. a jet engine falling from the sky. anything to get you out of this.

hyperbolic? maybe. necessary? absolutely. forty-five minutes, and you haven’t gotten a word in edgewise. ben drones on about his studio and his upcoming exhibition. you brought this on yourself by doing the polite thing and asking him how are you?—lesson learned.

it hurts. it blisters to hear how happy and successful he is and how he’s moved on from the breakup. as if he didn’t leave you hanging with a dinner you couldn’t afford after admitting that he cheated. he hasn’t asked about your wrist, your old flat, or your art career.

eventually, he stands. sets you free.

“i should go, long trip home,” he says, eyes glued to an incoming text. “it was lovely to catch up. thanks for holding onto this junk for me.” he hoists the box off the seat beside him and tucks it under an arm.

you let him kiss your cheek. “yeah. of course.”

he doesn’t look back. you wish you could do the same.

you order another cider and resolve to not remain looking like the miserable slump you are.

~~~~

>> are you in town?

>> if you are, i could use a drinking buddy

john’s hair is still damp when he spots her at a two-top in the garden, nursing a cider. he waves, then ducks inside for his own drink. his head buzzes with whatever this invite means.

he checked with the florist twice to ensure the flowers arrived intact at her place. made the woman on the phone read back his apologetic note and bit his tongue when she reminded him it wasn’t her ‘place to say whether it sounded good enough or not’. he never heard if she liked them.

there’s a stiffness to her smile but relief in her voice. “you came.”

“‘course.”

“how’re you?”

in six words or less, he knows something’s off. he eases onto the seat, trying to exude a sense of humor and not telegraph his one hundred questions. “undercaffeinated, but i’m more interested in how you’re doing.”

“i noticed you hadn’t stopped in.”

“didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“about that. it was rude of me to kick you out without warning.”

guilt isn’t what he wants. he adjusts course to shoulder the blame. “i crossed a line.”

she isn’t having it. “please, it was rude. i know you weren’t trying to…”

“cross a line? overstep?”

her mouth wavers undecided between a frown and a smile. “you didn’t know. i could’ve explained. spare you £45.”

you. little.

“so you did get them. the note, too?” she nods. “then why the radio silence? hyacinths a bad choice?”

“no, they’re perfect. i just. i sort of froze. i had a rough couple of days.”

the hangdog expression she hides with the glass makes his chest hurt. “i’ve been told i’m a decent listener.”

“it’s a long story.”

“i got time.” he offers quietly. “just got back. caught me in the shower, actually.”

her eyes narrow, curious. “did you dress and come straight here?”

“well, it’s generally frowned upon to walk around naked.”

he beams at her laugh, her shaking shoulders. for a moment, her whole face lights up. it relaxes her posture as it peters off, leaving her looking less like a cornered mouse than when he initially sat down.

“so.” john pushes carefully. “the paintings.”

her smile lapses into something unreadable, a pause to find the right place to begin. her fingers trace the table’s grate.

when she finally speaks, she refocuses. meets his eye. good. he doesn’t want to twist her arm to get the story. the tale starts innocently enough.

the woman is hannah, her best friend and a ceramicist. they met on the first day of her mfa and were paired for the terms project shortly thereafter. they quickly became inseparable, until his girl met ben.

“i can’t talk about hannah without talking about ben. to talk about ben, you need context.”

john leans in. his thick eyebrows lift in a silent go on.

“they say it happens when you’re not looking, right?” you nervously laugh, smiling at the table sheepishly, unable to meet his eye. “well, i met ben at a networking event. last place i thought i’d find a date, rubbing elbows with alumni. but he introduced himself, said he liked my portfolio book. told me about his work and all these shows he’d done. he took me to lunch the next day.”

you wince at the memory, crystal clear and acutely embarrassing. how starry-eyed you’d been. your throat dries, sandpaper scraping down your esophagus at the thought of ben scribbling his number on your wrist. you clear your throat.

“then he asked me to dinner. during lunch.”

if john’s disgusted or disappointed, he doesn’t show it. his self-control is infuriating yet reliable. steady where you’re shaky.

why can’t i be like that?

you push on.

“without diving into minutiae, i eventually had to introduce hannah and ben. they hounded me, because if i wasn’t with one, i was with the other.”

“jealous of each other.”

“i think so. i agonized. they’re big personalities, i thought they’d clash.” you replay their first meeting in your head. you have a thousand times. “and they did.”

‘differing artistic opinions’ and ‘absurd expectations’ are the root causes of the squabbling she describes. her words, not his.

(he thinks of less charitable ways to characterize interpersonal conflict.)

barrages of text messages competing for her attention. underhanded attempts to get her to cancel plans with the other. emergencies that turned out to be trivial. guilt trips. one particularly ugly screaming match at a mutual friend’s birthday.

(if it were him, he thinks, they’d’ve lost privileges long ago.)

“it took weeks for them to come around to the idea of each other.”

“what was the catalyst?

“me again.”

john hums. he watches her rest against the back of her seat, her arms crossing and tightening over her chest. compressing herself as much as she can. embarrassment rolls off her in waves. he doesn’t say a word, afraid he’ll cut what courage she’s mustered off at the knees.

she has her own idea.

“can we—are you finished?”

his glass is two-thirds empty, and he polishes off the rest. a fist squeezes his heart when her lip twitches at his abruptness. she makes it difficult to be collected with his interest.

“where to?”

“where else.”

it’s a challenge, defending oneself from an insistent, bullying cat. cece shows no mercy.

“she likes beards.”

“does she see many beards?”

“just a theory.” she leans against the cushions, watching him and the cat, a glass of water held in both hands. “yours is the only one she’s tried.”

in the end, after negotiations, cece loafs between them. her purr a white noise.

“where were we?” her tone suggests she knows precisely where.

“the truce and you.”

her eyes find a spot past his head to rest. he’s tempted to tilt his head into her line of sight, assuming that nudging her on home turf’s a safer bet than in public. but the hesitant, almost imperceptible exhale that leaves her keeps him still.

“alright. so. me.” her chest expands with another sigh. “i was already struggling two terms into school. really struggling. when i applied, i had this clear vision, but then classes started, i met my peers, and suddenly it felt like everything i thought i knew just disappeared. nothing looked right, nothing felt right. i pulled constant all-nighters. sat through brutal critiques. i’m lucky i had thick skin from my job, otherwise, i might have dropped out to join a convent or the circus.”

immediately, his mind conjures the image of a tattooed nun, swiftly followed by a tattooed strongwoman. his lip quirks. he hastily buries what those do for him. later.

their gazes meet briefly to share a smile.

she licks her lips after a drink and sets the glass aside.

“they realized their bickering wasn’t helping, so they put their heads together. kind of forced us to become the three musketeers. they helped me where they could, and things smoothed out between them in the process. he found her ceramics shows to exhibit. let her move her wheel into our joint space. we were in close quarters, and i needed it. i needed them.”

a couch width is suddenly too far a distance with how she crumples. something difficult passes over her face, and she excuses it with a shrug.

“despite their joint efforts, i barely scraped by that first year. i was burnt out, miserable, and i spent two weeks holed up alone, trying to not go off the rails.”

oh, sweetheart.

“where were they?”

“hannah was visiting family stateside, and ben was traveling for work.”

not that his schedule allows flexibility, not that he’s behaved the perfect partner in the past—but john knows instantly that he would not have left her. he’d’ve been there. the more he hears about ben, the more he wants to meet him. come to a violent understanding. impart a lesson or two on loyalty.

“when ben returned, he told me he decided to move here to ‘reconnect with the country’. something about ‘capturing and celebrating the bucolic’. he wanted long-distance, but i, uh, i said i’d rather quit and move with him. we fought and he called in reinforcements. at hannah and ben’s…encouragement, i finished out the term. and it nearly killed me. as you know, i withdrew.”

john often reads between the lines. a vital skill, interpreting indirect and unintended communication. what’s unsaid. shame pulls her inward again, a moment where she seems smaller. swallowed by the enormity of whatever she doesn’t say. can’t say.

“i know they were disappointed. they didn’t need to say anything. hannah felt abandoned, and ben burdened by my tagging along. i got this awful feeling the morning we left and i ignored it. i was convinced leaving school behind and taking a break from art would fix me.”

cece stretches, stands, and allows herself to be scooped up.

she holds the cat under its front legs, bringing their faces closer together. “but it’s like that saying or whatever. ‘wherever you go, there you are’. i got here. settled in. and i was still a loser.”

it’s instinct.

“you’re not–”

she bulldozes.

“i started working at the café. ben booked murals. he painted the big one a few streets over.”

he’s familiar. “the one with–?”

“yep.” she releases cece. “he tried to get me to paint. he begged me. but i couldn’t do it. things took a turn last summer when ben won a huge job in the city, which snowballed into an invitation to exhibit. hannah got busy with the final stretch of the program, and couldn’t visit much.”

“so you were alone again.”

“yeah.” her voice thins, then breaks. “alone again.” she digs the heels of her palms into her eyes before a single tear drops off her lashes.

john’s beside her before doubt seeds itself in his mind. one arm gathers her to his side, his chin lifting then settling atop her head when she tucks closer. his other arm winds around her, and the slight tremors of her distress ripple through him. she’s quiet, not quite sobbing, but sucking in deep breaths. he rubs her back in a slow circle, murmuring nothings.

“what do you need?” he asks as she gradually stills.

she sniffs.

“sleep.”

without thinking, he kisses the crown of her head. “okay.”

john only catches a glimpse as she hands him a quilt. but he sees them. blue hyacinths, pinned and drying above her bed.

“sorry. this is all i got. you set?”

he smiles at her sweet, tear swollen eyes.

“yeah. i’ve got all i need.”

#price x reader #price x f! reader #john price x f!reader #john price x reader #loser barista

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changetheprochecy · 10 days

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i feel like we’re always mischaracterising todd. this boy is not a shy and timid mouse who’s just in the movie to look cute and squish-able and be neil’s potential love interest!! every look portrayed by Ethan Hawke in this film shows todd’s internal feelings without the need for him to speak. todd anderson has found his voice, he is passionate about the people he loves, he is an observer, he is sharp. he is a guy willing to scour the seven seas, to walk across the earth on his bare feet, just to stand up for the people he loves, every blister and wound plastered all over the surface of his foot, a mark that makes his love for you so evident!! even if doing so makes him look like an embarrassment!! this boy won’t speak very much, but every word that escapes from the crooks of his mouth, every word he writes, is a loud cry yearning for someone to notice him, and to appreciate him for him. (which would’ve been neil 💔) todd anderson is so much more than we all illustrate him to be and we must realise that!!

#did i just cook #dead poets fandom #dead poets society #dps #dps boys #todd anderson #writers on tumblr #inner writer fr #dps fandom

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dancinglikebutterflywings · 2 months

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Hiking.

-> Pairing: Lee Know x Reader (You)

-> Request: This is a repost from my old account

-> Synopsis: You regret agreeing to go on a hike with your boyfriend.

-> Warnings: None. No use of pronouns

-> Word Count: 439

-> Requests: Closed. I will make a post when they are open again.

Lee Know Masterlist

©️ 2024 dancinglikebutterflywings - do not copy/modify/repost anywhere. Likes, comments & reblogs are welcomed and appreciated, thank you.

“Are we almost there yet?” You ask well into your hike with Minho. 30 minutes into the walk you started to regret agreeing to his offer of going on a hike with him.

Despite being in the shade, it’s hotter than hell, the bugs seem to be immune to the cheap bug spray you used, and your feet are aching, hot and sweaty and your pretty sure you have blisters that are beginning to form. Minho’s always been the more active one out of the two of you, unless it involves water. But you agreed to go with him because it's been a while since you got to do something, just the two of you.

“Another 10 minutes, Jagiya,” he assures you.

“You said that 10 minutes again," you pant as you stop walking. "Next time could we go see a movie? Go out for dinner? Maybe do something that doesn’t involve a 40-minute hike?” you suggest.

“We can do whatever you want,” he says turning around when he realizes your no longer right behind him. He moves his backpack to his front and crouches down a little in front of you. “Jump on.”

“Are you sure?” you ask a little uncertain. You’ve always admired his strength, but he would be carrying you as well as the backpack filled with supplies and food. "We still have another 10 minutes."

“If it’ll stop you complaining, I don’t mind,” he assures her.

“I wasn’t complaining,” you pout but jump onto to his back.

"Yes, you were," he teases with a little smirk.

Carrying you the rest of the way, you reach your destination in less than 10 minutes. In front of you is a beautiful river. The water is shallow and crystal clear. You didn’t doubt it would be freezing cold but nice and refreshing.

Minho lets you off his back. The first thing you do is kick off your shoes and dip your feet in the nice cool water. You turn back to Minho, seeing him crouched down and pulling food and water out of his backpack.

“I’m sorry I complained and that you had to carry me,” You apologize feeling slightly guilty.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, looking at you. You can see the mischievous look in his eyes, “But I won’t be carrying you back to the car.”

“The walk back always seems to go quicker,” You smile. “I think I’ll be fine but you’re cooking dinner tonight.”

“I’m fine with that,” he agrees. “Your cooking is terrible anyway.”

Pretending to be offended even though you know he’s right, you kick water in his direction, splashing him.

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fortheloveofwonderland · 3 months

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Midnight | Chapter 24 FINAL | S.R

Previous Chapter

Summary - eighteen months after narrowly escaping the motel explosion, finally you and Spencer seem to have found your happy ending. But old habits die hard and you can’t help but keep one last secret from him.

Pairing - unsub! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - dark angst | smut | very eventual happy ending

Warnings - explosions, fires, burns, scars, swearing, secrets, injuries.

WC - 4k

Chapter 24 - Partners in Crime

Eighteen Months Later

Luke Alvez squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the assault of a headache pressing against his temples. They happened less frequently now, maybe only about once every few weeks but it didn’t make them any less of a pain.

When he closed his eyes he was met by the same scene he’d pictured every time he closed his eyes for the last year and a half. Spencer’s face contorted into a malicious smile as he’d pulled that trigger and disappeared inside that vent as the little Cave Creek motel room exploded into flames.

The sound of the gun going off and the gasoline igniting, Emily’s screams from somewhere behind him to get down echoed in his mind along with the ringing in his ears that hadn’t been silenced for days following.

Luke was, as the doctors and nurses and all his team kept telling him, lucky. Lucky, what an incredibly frivolous summation. Lucky. He was lucky he hadn’t been more seriously injured, lucky to have gotten out of there alive.

Lucky.

Lucky that his old teammate, his old friend, hadn't killed him. He knew they were only trying to help but Luke didn’t feel lucky. Not in the slightest.

He opened his eyes as the dull throb continued at his temples, one of the side effects from the blast that had thrown him halfway across the motel room. His eyes landed on the backs of his hands still poised over the keyboard and the scarred skin he had to look at every day.

Again he’d been lucky that in trying to drag himself from the fire that he’d only sustained second degree burns on his hands. He’d had to wear bandages for nearly three weeks after the event and have his wounds treated regularly before the blisters started to scar.

It didn’t hurt anymore, but they were a constant reminder of that day. They were a twisted memento of the day he failed to save you, and unfortunately for him it wasn’t the only one.

After eighteen months sightings of you and Spencer were few and far between. At first the tips had come in thick and fast, people claiming to have seen the two of you anywhere from Florida to the Outer Hebrides. For a long time Luke had lost his belief that they would ever find you.

And some days he thought maybe that was for the best. You’d made your choice and him and the BAU weren’t it. Maybe one day he’d be able to accept that and move on with his life.

He heard a door open across the room and braced himself for what was to come without looking up from his hands.

“We’ve got a case.” Emily’s voice carried across the bullpen followed by the shuffling of chairs and footsteps.

Luke exhaled and forced his eyes onto his computer screen, hand moving to his mouse and shuffling the cursor over to the little X on the corner of the window. Before he closed it, he took one last look at the message on his screen, a rare smile pulling at the corner at his lips.

If anyone was to find out about this he could lose his job and honestly the FBI was the only thing he had left these days. But admittedly, he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. He’d taken a vow to uphold the laws of this country but some things were more important than that.

He read the brief message over again in his head. Maybe he was going soft, but maybe he also knew that even Penelope Garcia herself wouldn’t be able to trace this and therefore it would be fruitless letting the rest of the team in on this.

He glanced over his shoulder and removed his hand from the mouse. Once he was sure no one was nearby he typed a quick reply before hitting send and pushed his chair back. When he looked up, JJ was standing over him like he knew she would be, the same melancholy smile on her face she gave him every damn day.

He allowed her to take him by his scarred hands and help him to his feet. He’d stopped fighting it by now. At first he’d found it humiliating, but after a year and a half he’d stopped opposing his friend's help. It did make his life easier after all.

Once he was on his feet she handed him the cane that was resting against his desk and he nodded his thanks to her. She motioned for him to go ahead, always letting him go first so she could be behind him just in case he stumbled.

He closed his eyes again as he leant his weight on his good leg, the ringing in his ears almost immediately returning as he did so, accompanied by the bright orange flash from the blast. And then another sound entered his field of consciousness.

“Alvez? Alvez? Luke!” Emily screamed to be heard over the chaos, trying to duck under the fire to see him.

“I’m ok.” He coughed, smoke instantly starting to fill his lungs. “He went out the vent, send the team round the back!”

“I’m not leaving you here!” She called back from just inside the motel door.

“I’m fine, Prentiss!” But he wasn’t fine and he knew it.

When he tried to move an agonising pain shot up his left leg. He managed to internalise his yelp so as not to worry Emily but the pain made him dizzy.

“I am not leaving you here!” She yelled back, coughing a little herself as she tried to waft the smoke out of her face.

“Prentiss I said-“

“Never leave a man behind.” She cut him off, knowing she was speaking his language.

He tried to move again but his leg wouldn’t allow him to stand. The fire was spreading, getting closer to him with every passing second. He turned towards the door where he could just about make out the faint outline of Emily through the thick plumes of smoke.

If he didn’t do something soon he would die here.

“I think I can get to you.” He tried to sound more determined than he felt.

He covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt to try and limit the intake of fumes into his lungs. He rolled onto his stomach to keep himself low to the ground and using his free hand he started pulling himself towards the door.

He felt like he was dragging a dead weight. The heat in the room was stifling and every part of him thought it would be easier to just give up. But he knew he couldn’t.

Behind him the sound of ripping plaster filled his ears seconds before he heard the crash of another explosion and the floor beneath him shook.

He whimpered a little, tears filling his eyes and hindering his vision even more so than the smoke was already doing as he clawed his way forward.

“Follow my voice, Alvez. I’m right here!” Emily shouted, getting down on the floor herself and reaching blindly through the grey blanket of smog.

Luke saw her fingers brushing against the carpet and desperately tried to reach for her but the pain coursing through his leg was nearly debilitating. But he had to press on, he had to get out of here.

He coughed against his sleeve trying to focus on the smell of his laundry detergent as he used the thick, old shag carpet to pull himself forward. Eventually he felt Emily’s hand gripping his wrist and she helped tug him through the wall of smoke just as the fire rumbled and spread to the soles of his shoes.

She yanked him across the threshold of the motel and into the fresh air outside. Another set of strong arms suddenly wrapped around his upper torso and carried him across the parking lot until he was far enough away from the blaze ripping apart the little motel room.

Once he was released, Luke collapsed onto the tarmac, spluttering and coughing, trying to gasp for the clean air to refill his aching lungs. He rolled onto his back and looked upwards. Emily and Matt were crouched over him, Emily’s hand coming to rest on his cheek.

“You scared me there, Alvez.” She smiled but he noticed the tears behind her eyes.

“Told you I was fine.” He coughed again. “Did you get them?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. For now you need to-”

“Did you get them?” He cut her off and her expression told him exactly what she was going to say before she said it.

“No, they got away.”

“Prentiss?” Matt’s voice spoke up. Emily let go of Luke’s face and turned to the other man who was kneeling by Luke’s side. “We need a medic, asap.”

Matt’s voice was so quiet Luke barely heard him over the sound of the commotion going on around him. But he knew by the pain rapidly worsening in his left leg that Matt was right.

But before Luke had a chance to hear anymore, the pain consumed him and his eyes fluttered closed despite his attempts to keep them open. And he must have blacked out, because the next he would be conscious of would be waking up in a hospital bed.

He was lucky to ever have been able to walk again. The doctors had told him when he’d woken up in hospital that he may be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. But Luke had beaten the odds because he was lucky.

He would probably never walk unaided, without the use of his cane and he would always have a limp. He could no longer go out into the field with the rest of the team. But he was lucky because he could walk, the damages sustained to his leg when he’d been tossed across the room in the blast hadn’t completely ruined his life.

Because he was lucky.

Some fucking luck.

***

The soft breeze came in through the open balcony door, causing the net curtains to flutter. From the bed came a grumble as he raked his hair back from his sweaty forehead. Even the wind was hot.

Sometimes he wondered why, of all the places in the world, they’d chosen to live somewhere so freaking hot. Growing up in Vegas he’d gotten used to hot climates but this was something else entirely.

Spencer Reid was not built for the heat.

Sound from downstairs wafted through the open bedroom door and he knew if he didn’t get himself up soon then it would only be a matter of time before he was forcibly removed from this bed.

He rolled onto his side, the thin bed sheet clinging to his sweat slicked naked body as he did so and having to physically peel it off of himself so he could get up.

He passed through to the en-suite and jumped straight in the shower, running the water particularly cold to the point it was enough to cause goosebumps to flare on his skin. God how he missed being cold sometimes.

After his shower he grabbed a towel off of the rail and slung it around his waist. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, a hand instinctively raising to run through his ever growing facial hair. It didn’t help with the heat but he really liked the way it looked on him, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who appreciated it. It also helped to disguise his appearance because he never knew when someone might recognise him.

He dried himself off before dressing in a pair of shorts, possibly the first pair he’d ever owned in his life, and a polo shirt. He swept his damp hair back off of his face before leaving the room.

The house was large and airy, neutral coloured walls and carpet and minimal furniture. It was a world away from his pokey, dark apartment in DC, but it suited this new era of his life.

As he made his way down the stairs the sounds grew louder. The French doors were propped open, if he listened close enough he could hear the distant cadence of the sea lapping at the shoreline.

You had your back to him, standing on a chair whilst trying to tack something to the wall. He smiled to himself and approached with caution.

You wore a long, flowy pale yellow sundress covered in flowers. Your hair, which you’d dyed for the same reason he grew out his beard, shone in the sunlight beaming through the windows.

“You know,” he spoke as he closed in on you, placing his hands on your hips and gently tugging you off of the chair and onto the floor. “I’m tall enough to hang that without being a hazard. You could have waited.”

You turned to face him, pouting your bottom lip at him in a way that always made him chuckle.

“If you didn’t sleep so damn late maybe I could have.” You huffed which caused him to laugh harder.

“Maybe if someone hadn’t kept me up all night, I might not have slept so damn late.” He gently kissed your forehead and moved past you to grab the end of the sign you’d been trying to tack up.

You huffed again at the ease in which he was able to do a job you’d struggled with. He stepped back and looked up at the banner as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close.

“See how easy that was?” He chuckled lightly.

“You don’t need to be smug.” You grumbled.

“No one’s being smug, it’s called teamwork.”

“Hmm.” You rolled your eyes but got up on your tiptoes to kiss him all the same. “Did I thank you for your willingness to be kept up all night?”

“I’m not sure I was willing but it was only fair.” He smiled softly at you. “You do owe me a night of being kept up for other reasons though.”

“Maybe one day. When she’s in college.” You teased him.

“Only seventeen years to go until I can have crazy all night sex with my wife. Super.” He laughed, kissing you once more before sidestepping you. “And speaking of, where is the beautiful birthday girl who kept me awake all night?”

The little girl squealed from her highchair as soon as her father turned to face her, her chubby little legs swinging back and forth in excitement. Spencer beamed at his daughter as he picked her up and spun her around, causing her to giggle, before he held her closely to his chest.

“Happy birthday my sweet princess.” He placed a kiss on her mop of curly hair which she most certainly got from him.

He turned around and used his free arm to wrap around you, holding both of his girls close whilst looking back up at the banner proclaiming “Happy 1st Birthday Lilith.”

It wasn’t an easy life, that was for sure. Being on the run with a child was never going to be ideal. But Spencer relished in these moments with his two favourite people in the entire world snuggled against him. For this moment at least he could forget the fact it could come crumbling down any second.

The two of you had fled the country in a blaze of glory after Spencer had narrowly avoided going up in flames with the motel room. You managed to get a flight using the fake passports you’d gotten back in Virginia when you’d first embarked on this journey before the BAU had locked down all airports in a hundred mile radius.

You leased this house under the names on the passports; Troy and Daisy Malone. Your daughter was born in the local hospital and although she was legally Lilith Diana Malone, she would always be a Reid in Spencer’s mind.

Daisy Malone volunteered three days a week at Lilith’s nursery while Troy worked full time at a research facility. The adjustment was made a lot easier for him given he already spoke the language. But the irony was not lost on you at how many years Luke had tried to teach you Spanish and it had taken fleeing the US for you to finally learn it.

Spencer had gone on the straight and narrow, he hadn’t had any of his murderous inclinations since the two of you left Arizona. He was calmer, his previous anger at the world seemingly left behind in the states. He was finally the man you knew in your days at the BAU, the old Spencer Reid. And even though it wasn’t the dream scenario, you were happier than you’d ever been.

There would never be a day that the two of you wouldn’t constantly be looking over your shoulders, living in fear that the front door could come crashing down at any minute and the three of you would be ripped apart. But you just had to take every day as it came and make the most of the time you had together.

“So, what does the birthday girl want to do today?” Spencer tickled Lilith under her chin making the girl giggle again.

“Well mommy is going to be making a birthday cake and I could really do with focusing on this, because as you know I am not much of a baker.” You gave him a look.

“Understood.” Spencer smiled at you. “Maybe Lil would like to go to the beach while mommy bakes?”

“I think she would love that.” You nodded, rounding the counter and pulling the recipe up on your laptop.

“She would, or you would love the alone time?” He smirked at you, jiggling Lilith in his arms.

“Both.” You shrugged.

Spencer chuckled and came around the counter, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. You cupped his jaw in one hand, running your fingernails through his facial hair.

“Have I told you recently how much I like this beard?” You hummed against his lips as he kissed you again.

“Only every day for the last eighteen months.” He laughed, stroking your hair back from your face. “Have I told you recently how much I like this hair colour?”

“Only every day for the last eighteen months.” You laughed too.

You placed a kiss on your daughter's cheek before Spencer went about finding shoes for both him and Lilith while you read through your recipe again, only partially understanding what was being asked of you.

“You owe me for this by the way, it's hot as hell out there.” Spencer called from where he was hovering by the back door, sitting Lilith in her stroller and pulling the cover over the top to shield her from the sun's rays.

“Hey, Puerto Rico was not my first choice of hideaway destination.” You shrugged at him.

“So that’s a no to a birthday blowjob?” He teased.

“Ask me again on your birthday.” You rolled your eyes.

“See you soon, my partner in crime.” He winked at you as he took the handles of the stroller and wheeled your daughter out the backdoor.

You smiled to yourself, your hand instinctively coming up to toy with the rose gold heart around your neck which you had never taken off to this day. It wasn’t an easy life, but Spencer made it seem so simple.

Yours was a tale of reckless love from the start. It was funny to think back, to waiting for Spencer on the other side of that motel vent and thinking there was no way you would all make it out of there alive. You still remembered the way you’d screamed when you heard the explosion and then the relief that had washed over you when he dropped out of the vent and onto the concrete.

As he’d smiled at you and gripped you by the hand and the two of you started to run, the words he’d said that day still echoed through you.

“Until death do us part, princess. I’ll never leave you so easily.”

Lovers and partners. Partners in life and in crime. Until death do you part.

You let go of the necklace and turned your attention back to the laptop screen just as an incoming message popped up. Your eyes flitted back up to make sure Spencer was gone before you clicked into it. You tried not to make a habit of lying to him anymore but some things were better kept a secret.

A clock started to chime from upstairs and you focused on each one and counted them up to twelve as the morning ticked by into the afternoon. Twelve o clock. It happened twice a day but for so long you’d let yourself be ruled by the shadowy midday counterpart. Because sometimes there was no darker place than our thoughts, the moonless midnight of the mind.

But you were starting to see that midnight also offered its own kind of solace, the dawn of each new day bringing with it the dawn of hope. Even if you’d always be bound by your past mistakes, always doomed to have to watch your back.

However that didn’t seem all that bad when you had Spencer and Lilith in your corner, your dawns; your hopes.

You had a smile on your face as you clicked into the message and read the brief text on your screen. Having Spencer and Lilith on your side was one thing, but having an extra ally never hurt either.

Reaching out to him several months ago could have been your biggest downfall but deep down you’d always known you could trust him with your life. And as always, he didn’t disappoint you.

As you read over the single line of the message, you were sure you could even still hear his voice in your head as he wished you and Spencer’s little conejito a happy first birthday.

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive.

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime.

This, the tale of, reckless love,

Living a life of crime on the run.

I brush to a gun to paint these states?

Green and red.

Everybody freeze,

Nobody move.

Put the money in the bag,

Or we will shoot.

Empty out the vault,

And me and my doll will be on our way.

Our paper faces flood the streets,

And if the heat comes close enough to burn ,

Then we'll play with fire 'cause,

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive.

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime,

Partners in crime.

Here we find our omnipotent outlaws,

Fall behind the grind tonight.

Left unaware that the lone store owner,

Won't go down without a fight.

Where we gonna go,

He's got us pinned.

Baby I'm a little scared,

Now, don't you quit.

He's sounded the alarm?

I hear the sirens closing in,

Our paper faces flood the streets,

And if the heat comes close enough to burn,

Then we're burning this place to the ground 'cause,

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive,

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime.

The skies are black with lead-filled rain,

A morbid painting on display.

This is the night the young love died,

Buried at each other's side.

You never took us alive.

We swore that death would do us part,

So now we haunt you in the dark.

You never took us alive,

We live as ghosts among these streets,

Lovers and partners.

Partners in crime.

@bubblebuttwade @jay-2s-world @daddy-dotcom @nomajdetective @rebelliousstories

#unsub spencer #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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phoenixyfriend · 8 months

Text

Shmi Acquires Some Teenagers... Sort Of

Read on AO3

Two weeks pass before something changes, and someone new is introduced to Satine and Obi-Wan's routine. Unfortunately, the someone new is not Qui-Gon Jinn, here to rescue them. Fortunately, the someone new is not a torture specialist or some other horror Death Watch is keeping up their sleeves for when Tor arrives. The woman has near a decade on them, and seems meek as a mouse. She is not shoved into the cell like they were, and isn’t even made to wear cuffs. Her clothing is threadbare and stained, but she is… clean and fed, and not carrying any particularly visible bruises. When she turns to the closing door, her profile is visible for long enough that Obi-Wan can see the bulge of her stomach. Ah.

Anyway, yeah, have a thing where Shmi, for Reasons, ends up in a Kyr'tsad jail cell with Obitine.

Shmi is twenty-eight years of age when she is purchased from Gardulla.

She is also seven months pregnant.

Her new owner is young. Fifteen, perhaps as young as twelve, though the tattoos make it hard to tell. He is gruff and rough and angry, stiff with the Hutts and their enforcers in a way that tries and fails to mask that he’s not yet fully grown. He is not particularly careful with Shmi. He ensures that she is not too damaged, at least, because his master—and he insists that he is an apprentice, not a slave, but she has her doubts how he radiates his fear—is interested in the child she carries, not her.

She is a little bruised, by the time they are in hyperspace, but she is not ill or bleeding, not even from a blister. There is a medical droid to ensure it.

Days pass. They are jolted from hyperspace. They are boarded by Mandalorians in grey-blue armors, and her new owner—or fellow slave—is subdued. He had a sword, red and flaming, and is missing a limb by the time he makes it to the escape pods.

Without her.

(She pities him, a little, to be so young and so desperate to please a master who does not care.)

The Mandalorians find her, and she does not fight. She does not imagine they will be any more careful with her than the boy was. She does not wish to lose her child, for all that it has put her life in danger more than most slaves would expect of such a condition.

They aren’t sure what to do with her, and she does not speak enough of their language to know what it is that they are saying. She thinks—thinks—that this was an opportunistic boarding, not a deliberate attack.

Her Basic is a little shakier than it could be. They do not speak Huttese. They put her in a brig, and mostly forget about her for the rest of the week and change that it takes to reach their destination.

She is fed, and the medical droid from the zabrak’s ship is given leave to check on her just long enough to prescribe some vitamin or other.

They reach the destination. The Mandalorians argue with each other, and the only words she catches are portmanteaus with Manda: Mand’alor, Mando’ade, Manda’yaim, and so many more that she worries for ever learning more than a fraction of this language.

And Jedi. She’s mostly sure she heard Jedi.

Obi-Wan is a failure of a padawan.

Satine scoffs and kicks him when he says it, telling him that he’s fifteen—though he might be sixteen, at this point, given how time slips away when on the run—and all the magic in the world isn’t a sure thing against a dozen heavily-armed Death Watch. They’ve been captured, fine, so what? He’ll get them out. Between her brains and his magic, they’ll escape.

He thinks she’s trying to be nice.

It sort of works.

Even if she technically called him stupid.

They keep track of guard rotations and scrounge for dropped scraps of metal and glass, pretending to be too caught up in kissing and crying to figure out how to escape.

Kissing is a great cover for trying to pry up the casing on Obi-Wan’s Force-nullifying cuffs.

Two weeks pass before something changes, and someone new is introduced to their routine.

Unfortunately, the someone new is not Qui-Gon Jinn, here to rescue them.

Fortunately, the someone new is not a torture specialist or some other horror Death Watch is keeping up their sleeves for when Tor arrives.

The woman has near a decade on them, and seems meek as a mouse. She is not shoved into the cell like they were, and isn’t even made to wear cuffs. Her clothing is threadbare and stained, but she is… clean and fed, and not carrying any particularly visible bruises.

When she turns to the closing door, her profile is visible for long enough that Obi-Wan can see the bulge of her stomach.

Ah.

“You stay here,” the guard says, slow and careful, more so than they bother with when speaking with Obi-Wan. “Do not run.”

“I understand, Masters,” the woman says, softly and with a heavy accent.

Hutt space.

The guard nods stiffly, and then leaves.

The woman looks around the room. Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet. “Here, sit down!”

She blinks at him, and then nods and makes her way to the bed. There is a bench, but the bed is padded, if barely.

Satine scoots over a little to give her room.

“I’m Obi-Wan,” he says. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. That’s Satine.”

“Satine Kryze,” she corrects. “Bit late to hide my identity from Kyr’tsad.”

Kyr’tsad, the woman mouths, brows pinching. She blinks, and shakes her head, and says, “I am Shmi Skywalker. I do not speak Basic much. I will need help, if you can.”

Obi-Wan thinks, and tries, “Mi man-tie Huttuk no vanlocha.” [1]

A smile passes across her face. “Basic is better for me, ah… Not Huttese for you.”

There’s a pause in the middle of her speech, as if searching for a word she cannot remember.

“We can both try,” Obi-Wan offers, “and learn.”

Shmi nods.

(Continue on AO3)

#shmi skywalker #satine kryze #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #obitine #mij gilamar #anakin skywalker #(he's a newborn tho)#pregnancy #star wars #the clone wars #phoenix files #sw legends

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venus-haze · 1 year

Text

Got No Reason To Run (Homelander x Supervillain!Reader)

Summary: Homelander fantasizes about you, his supervillain arch-enemy, and getting the revenge he so desperately craves.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on some of the headcanons I wrote here. I’m definitely open to writing more of a supervillain!Reader with Homelander. This is short because it's PWP, honestly. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content which includes masturbation. Non-con, violence, intentional scarring, mild bloodplay, and dacryphilia in the context of a fantasy. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander’s eyes were glued to the television as soon as the story about you began to run. Rosethorn. More like a thorn in his fucking side. Ever since Vought decided to let you wreak havoc on the streets of New York because having an arch-enemy was good marketing, you were inescapable. Every interview inevitably derailed into questions about you, the Homelander Vs. Rosethorn comic series was almost out-selling his solo ones, and to make matters worse, half of the internet seemed to ship you, the marketing team bafflingly thrilled the first time #Roselander trended on Twitter.

All of those things he could reasonably deal with, but among the people who regarded you as an anti-hero rather than a supervillain, they’d developed a conspiracy theory of sorts that you were somehow as powerful as, if not more so than, him. He often seethed in rage over it. You were only alive because you were useful to Vought. At least, that’s what he told himself after the first time the two of you were face-to-face, and you spit your venom at him, burning through his costume and blistering his skin, to both of your shock. The faint scar on his arm became a point of sensitivity for him, few people had ever seen it. To him, it was a symbol of failure, but even worse, it fed into the paranoia that what your handful of supporters were saying was true.

He watched the news replay the security footage of you and your accomplices, a rotation of other, less powerful supes, robbing a bank. You could secrete incredibly potent, acidic poison through your saliva and breath at will, though most people were too scared to put up a fight and see what damage you could do to the human body. You practically skipped over to the vault, spitting on the metal door which quickly melted into twisted scrap. Your goons wasted no time in collecting the money and valuables that were then ripe for the taking.

Your gaze landed on the security camera that had caught the whole crime in action, and you grinned, staring directly at it—eyes crystal clear and haunting, as if you were looking into his soul as you stalked over like a tiger waiting to strike.

“Homelander, you can come and get me,” you said with a playful wink at the camera before disappearing in a toxic haze.

Something stirred in him at that. He grabbed the remote, playing the clip back over and over until his cock was half-hard. If he were there, that bank robbery would have gone a hell of a lot differently. He licked his lips as he thought about how he would have made his appearance, crash through the ceiling or laser through the wall—no, he would’ve walked through the doors like he owned the damn place.

He had a firm grip on his cock as he pumped the length, imagining the bank was empty and dark, after hours with no hostages in sight. You grinned at him from inside the bank vault you’d just half-obliterated. It was all a game, as usual, playing cat and mouse until you’d make your escape. Not this time.

Vought’s orders to avoid grievously harming you were endlessly frustrating, but in this instance, he was the one calling the shots. If he had his way, he’d make sure you faced the specific brand of justice a supervillain like you deserved after years of getting away with countless crimes with little more than bruises and scratches. You were too cocky, too smug. He’d be more than happy to knock you down a few notches and remind you who exactly your arch-enemy was and what he was capable of.

“Homelander, come and get me,” you repeated, voice light and airy, clueless as to what his true intentions were.

He strode across the threshold of the bank, his steps strong and purposeful as he closed the distance between you. The ensuing fight was laughably easy since he was actually trying to cause some damage, and from your place on the floor, disheveled with blood trickling from the corner of your mouth, you looked betrayed.

You attempted to push yourself off the ground, only to be met with his boot on your chest, his gaze nothing short of mean.

“Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

Your confused silence infuriated him.

“Answer me!” he shouted, his eyes glowing red.

“You’re—you’re The Homelander.”

“That’s right. So I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, Rosethorn, but injuring me? Scarring me? I don’t bleed. I don’t break. I sure as hell don’t scar,” he raged, droplets of spit flying in your face. “I can’t let that stand.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered pathetically.

He scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

“Homelander, please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scar you. Forgive me.”

His silence was accented with the sound of your racing heart, the blood rushing through your veins. You were terrified. Good.

“We both know you’re not sorry. You loved every second of it, didn’t you?”

“No, Homelander I didn’t–”

“I think I should return the favor.”

Your eyes widened, and you began shaking your head frantically upon realizing what he intended to do. He grabbed your arm, and his teeth broke the skin with ease, just a bit of pressure from his razor blade smile to cut you open. Your blood on his lips almost tasted sweet, at least, he imagined it would.

"Scream all you want, there’s no one to hear you," he would snarl at your weeping figure. Now you had matching scars, now you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror without being reminded of him too. In a disturbing display of dominance and possession, he licked your open wound. You wailed. He squeezed your arm tighter. You should have been grateful he didn’t try to cauterize it himself. Finally, he released you, but this temporary freedom wouldn’t last.

“You’re a monster,” you sobbed, clutching your injured arm.

“Me? No, I’m The Homelander. I might as well be god. You? You’re only around to make me look good.”

Then he heard it, the way only he can, the sound of your spit collecting in your mouth. He grabbed you by the throat, hauling you to your feet. “Try it, and I promise I’ll take all the time in the world to kill you.”

Teary-eyed, you nodded. When he released your throat, he heard you swallow.

“Now, how to properly serve you justice for being caught red-handed robbing a bank," he mused.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all.”

The fear that would glaze over those eyes that he couldn’t get out of his mind made him jerk his hips, and he slowed how quickly he was pumping his leaking cock. He didn’t want to cum, not yet. Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he exhaled through his nostrils, trying to ground himself.

Where was he? Fear. You were afraid of him, of what he’d do to you, as you should be. You weren’t rivals, the implication that you were as powerful as him was outright offensive. His lip curled in disdain.

He pushed you against the wall, tearing off your clothing with little effort, reveling in the way your body shook against his as it was suddenly exposed to the cool air in the vault. He reached from behind, his gloved hands feeling how wet you’d gotten. The squelch of leather squeezing into your wet pussy made him moan out loud, but in his fantasy he was in control, mocking you for being turned on and how easily he was able to fit two–no, now it was three fingers inside you.

Tears streamed down your face as you begged him to be gentle, to slow down. Your legs were shaking as you tried to stay standing despite the overstimulation from his strong fingers curling inside you and pumping in and out. He wouldn’t get exhausted, not from brutally fingering you until you were little more than a blubbering mess. You begged him to stop, to at least have some mercy and give you a break.

“What’s the matter? You told me to come and get you, and here I am,” he taunted. “Don’t think I’m even close to being done with you.”

You cried out in response, or maybe you’d just cum. It didn’t matter, this was about his pleasure. In that moment, watching you sob and struggle got his proverbial rocks off, and he turned your head to capture your lips in a messy kiss. Your mouth stayed open as your desperate protests disappeared down his throat. His tongue curled. He wanted to swallow the noise, digest it, let it sit in his stomach. A wave of pleasure rocked through him. He was close, dangerously so.

He pulled his hand from your cunt, soaked and stretched out for him. Your juices glistened on his gloves, and he broke the kiss to suck each of his fingers as you utilized the time to catch your breath, or at least try to while he gave you this short break. You’d taste perfect, and he’d lick his fingers clean, his mind almost wandering to what it’d be like to eat you out.

Instead, he unbuckled his belt, observing the way you clenched your thighs at the sound of the metal hitting the floor as he rid himself of his spandex bottoms. His hands gripped your hips tightly, and you gasped as he pulled your ass to press against his hard cock. You tried wiggling out of his grasp, and he almost laughed. Stupid girl.

“Beg me not to break you in half right now,” he ordered, his voice low and husky.

You choked out your plea through sobs. “Homelander—don’t do this—don’t—please don’t break me in half.”

“No promises.”

With that, he slammed his cock into your wet cunt, grinning to himself as your eyes squeezed shut and you clawed at the wall, a near-animalistic howl tearing from your throat. He kept a steady, unforgiving pace that made your legs finally give out on you, relying on him wrapping a strong arm around your middle to keep you up. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon baby, you’ve made it this far,” he purred. “Why not see this thing out to the end?”

He kissed down the side of your face, his lips lingering along your cheek and jaw, covering them in open-mouthed kisses as he moaned into your skin. Your pussy clenched around his cock, and when he glanced at the wound he’d inflicted on your arm, he gave a forceful thrust that had you reaching back to grab some part of him to hold onto.

You were his. You wanted to be his. You wouldn’t have permanently marked his skin if you didn’t. You laid claim to him first. It was only a matter of time before he reciprocated, showing you what you were really in for. Part of him wanted so badly to just kill you, but the part of him that was winning out was buried deep inside your cunt with the intention of filling you with his cum.

Briefly, his mind wandered to keeping you in the tower, maybe in his own suite, tied up pretty like a present for him to come home to at the end of each day, or maybe isolated in one of the supe containment cells where through time and pressure you’d be begging for him to use you, just to get some physical contact.

As much as he could dream, the main event beckoned him back to that bank vault he’d conjured up, his thrusts into you still strong, but more erratic, and he felt your pussy milking his cock as you came, your voice strained as you cried out his name.

Homelander, you can come and get me.

He orgasmed, and you were gone. Back to reality, just him, his hand, and the remote control he’d accidentally crushed. Fuck. He ran his clean hand through his hair, taking another look at the paused frame of you smiling in the security footage.

Maybe he would come and get you.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #the boys x reader #the boys x you #the boys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #homelander

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scuttlingcrab · 7 months

Note

"The doublet is a magical item, so it can fit and mould to Raphael’s body no matter his form or temper." Now I'm just picturing Raphael transforming in anger while wearing the doublet and his rage is momentarily stopped when he realizes that it transformed with him and wasn't even singed.

Like, I could be incredibly angry with someone, but if I suddenly realized that my dress had pockets in it I know darn well that I'd need to at least stop and take a moment to marvel at that discovery before even thinking about continuing on with my anger. 😅

I was literally working on something similar when you sent your message! I've attached the ask below I was initially responding to. Thank you for your message anon and hope you enjoy! x

"Also, the idea of Raphael showing off his new clothes is just- It just tickles me! I can see him preening and flaunting like a peacock because of Tav's gift. I'd honestly read a sequel piece about that, if you want to write it. I've kinda already fallen in love with the whole idea of a luxury magic tailor Tav that the initial prompt fill and response has created as well as that Tav's potential dynamic with Raphael (and other characters *looking at Gale and his sewing needle quip*) and would absolutely be down to read more of that from you! 👀"

Summary: Raphael is caught off guard by his recent gift from Tav, so he decides to pay his little mouse a visit.

Notes: Read A Perfect Fit, which inspired this continuation.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

Dressed to Kill

Raphael stomped through the halls of the House of Hope, shedding his mortal skin. The doublet didn’t set fire when Raphael transformed, instead, it morphed with his growing size. The silk fabric soothed his ridged body, feeling like a warm embrace. Raphael suppressed a scream. Wretched mortal! The debtors scurried out of his path like rats, seeking the shadows for an ounce of solace from the blistering rage.

He passed an open window and jolted to a halt. The blood-red light of Avernus caught the designs of his doublet, causing it to glimmer like diamonds. During his shift, the colour of his clothing changed. It now had a dark golden shimmer, the infernal embroidery a deep blue. He extended his arm, admiring the sleeve as he twisted it only slightly, and watched as the adornment reflected tiny devilish patterns onto the marble floors. The decorations moved, as if dancing. Another interesting, subtle detail.

Staring at these animations, Raphael’s breath calmed, his mind cleared. He stood taller, his head never held so high. Abruptly he spotted one of the debtors staring at him from his peripheral and lowered his hand, slowly turning to face them. Fire burned in Raphael’s eyes as he hissed, barring his sharp teeth. The debtor screeched before scurrying off to continue their meaningless eternal task.

“If I catch just one more incompetent lackey idling about, I will impale your sorry souls on trees and leave you to rot. You are all interchangeable. Do not forget that.”

Raphael watched as the last debtor fled from his sight. He will not be caught off guard again. No. In fact… he will pay that creature a visit.

–

Raphael materialised at the creature's camp in a swirl of flames and sparks, returning to his mortal disguise.

The camp was quiet at this hour, the creatures asleep, separated into their individual makeshift tents. And what a ghastly camp it was, third-rate, at best. Miscellaneous equipment littered every corner, books lay discarded, shoddy clothes hung drying on trees, and the animals… When did these mortals domesticate owlbears? Savages.

He slowly approached Tav’s tent, nestled towards the lake's shoreline. He parted the flap with an index finger and peeked inside. The creature was fast asleep, sharing her tent with that monstrosity Karlach.

He watched them sleeping, so defenceless. He perked up at the thought. If he was so inclined, he could have easily ended their lives, consumed their souls before the tadpoles defiled them; all it would take is a snap of his fingers…

“Rise and shine, little mouse.” Raphael purred.

Tav sprang up from her bed roll, clumsily readying a dagger from her sleeve. She held it out towards Raphael, one eye still closed, as she fought off the interrupted slumber.

Karlach simply turned over in her bedding, yawning and stretching like a cat. She slowly opened her eyes, sitting upright when she spotted Raphael standing at the entrance.

He smirked in response, placing a hand on his hip.

“What the hell is this creep doing here?”

“Good evening to you too, Karlach. I am simply checking in on my prospective clients.”

Raphael bowed deeply, making sure to be as flamboyant as possible in his gesture.

“In the middle of the bloody night? Fuck off, devil.”

Raphael slowly straightened himself, adjusting his sleeves. He aimed his cuffs towards the campfire, taking care to make sure the lighting was just right to highlight the devilish decorations.

“Tut, tut, Karlach, language. If I wanted to hear such hideous sounds I’d speak with a lemure.”

Karlach leapt to her feet, the rickety infernal engine in her chest glowing brighter as she stared daggers at him.

“Karlach, please…”

Tav raised a hand at Karlach, putting away her weapon. She rubbed away the rest of the sleep and focused on Raphael. Her face instantly lit up when she caught sight of his doublet.

“You’re… wearing it?” Tav whispered. She brought her hands to her mouth, attempting to hide her flushed cheeks.

“But of course! How could I resist such a delicious gift? It’s not often a devil like myself comes across a mortal with such curious tastes. Your attention to detail is…”

Raphael dramatically clasped his hands together, as if in a prayer. Yes, indeed. Thank the Gods up above for damning these poor creatures and sending them straight into his claws.

“Superb!”

“Hells, what have you done?” Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

Tav gave Karlach a sidelong glance, narrowing her eyes. Raphael’s smile grew, devouring the creature’s disapproval and embarrassment. Almost as scrumptious as a soul.

“You are quite the seamstress. What else have you been creating on your adventures, hmm? I wonder, what would be the price for another item such as this? Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement?”

Tav’s mouth hung open at his words.

“I-I-uh, didn’t think that far ahead. Let me sleep on it.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, little mouse. You had my curiosity, but now… you have my full attention.”

Raphael raised his arms out wide, like a peacock strutting their finest feathers. He laughed as he surrounded himself in infernal flames. He had truly stumbled upon his greatest prize, his secret weapon to uniting the Nine Hells. Raphael would reach his target soon, that was for certain, but oh, oh yes... he would look hellishly chic in his pursuits. He would turn heads, devils and mortals alike.

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sscamanderr · 5 months

Text

Gods Above, Devils Below

Raphael x reader

Warnings: smut, fingering, bit of dub/con

Near-blistering air carried with it smoldering embers and the faintest hint of cherries. The House was his domain, the very pores in the rock filled with his scent, meant to overwhelm and lay claim to all those who enter and all those who would never leave. Despite this control Raphael had over his hellish home, it was steadily dwindling in the presence of the creature before him. Her scent was all that surrounded him. Her face that clouded his dreams. Her, the darling who bartered her soul so that her friends could be heroes and save her home of Baldur’s Gate. An honorable act had earned her a fool’s fate.

How the gods above should see her now, playing servant at his side on one of his castle’s many balconies with stoicism etched into her expressions, stray hairs whipped about her face by hell-wind. A golden tray with an ancient bottle of wine and a single goblet rested atop her upturned palms. Her eyes were frozen at a point ahead on the jagged and ashen landscape of his palace safely tucked away in his slice of Avernus. The darling dared not look at him—dared not spare him a glance that would hold him over through the night.

His lips curled in annoyance and he swore the woman braced herself. The slightest puff of her chest, the stiffening of her back already pin-straight. Raphael could not deny the swell of devious pride that just his change in attention caused such a reaction in her. She had been seeing him even without looking.

“Do pretend to be happy, little mouse. I could have you scoured away in my dungeons in Hope’s place, should you keep up your display of disrespect,”

He reveled in the way the delicate muscle under her eye twitched.

“Hope is a much better prize than I, devil, but do what you wish.”

Raphael let out a spirited sound from his chest. “Ha! What I wish for is a little appreciation for your current arrangement,” his eyes trailed down the woman’s body, the gossamer gown the color of the surrounding barren landscape leaving little to the imagination if he were to squint, “I allow you almost entirely free reign of the palace, meals, baths, music—“

“And endless poetry from yours truly?” She quipped. Her stoney stature finally broke. Raphael’s way to rejoice was to grace her with a slowly creeping smile.

“You’re such wonderful inspiration. Prayers ignored by the gods, forgotten by friends you risked your soul for,” the devil clenched a fist, “A little darling in the clutches of a fiend forevermore,”

Her gaze soured. The tray in her hands wobbled dangerously. “I know what I’ve done. That does not mean I have to enjoy it,”

“Ah, but it’s such a delight to try. Who knew lending fine treatment only leads to your torture instead?”

“‘Fine treatment’? I’m a servant,”

“My servant, yes,” Raphael stood, noting the way her eyes followed his form. He wondered if it would always be fear behind her fierce gaze or if he could see it change to awe. Or desire. Then he wondered again if he preferred the fear a little too much. “That’s what your contract says, dear one,”

“I know what it says!” She snapped. With a breath strained with anger she set the tray with his wine down on the small round side table nearby before it toppled completely. She stormed away from him, towards devils know where. Raphael remained quiet as he followed close behind—Oh how he loved to rile his little pet. He admired the glimpse of supple thigh as the material of her dress whipped around her legs in her movements of fury.

“Something burdens you,” Raphael gave no warning as his hand shot out to grip her wrist. The woman came to an abrupt halt at the threshold of his balcony. The golden bracer adorning her wrist clinked softly. “I gave your friends the solution they’d been fighting for, the happy ending you felt they so deserved. Yet you feel they don’t deserve it, right?”

Her jaw worked around her stuttered reply. “O-Of course they do.”

“Then what still burns so harshly in that brave heart of yours?” Raphael’s insides sang at the roll of her eyes.

“Do I really have to answer that?” She asked the air in front of her. Raphael gave but a small tug that had her spinning to face him.

His voice took a darker pitch. “Oh, I command it,”

This glorious creature of his stood shorter than he but perfected the act of looking down her nose at him nonetheless.

“Release me, devil,”

“That was not negotiable,” his grip tightened and the woman winced. She looked into his eyes, looking upon how they blazed in her presence. “And do call me Raphael,”

“Just yesterday you told me ‘it’s master to you’,”

“Answer,” he warned, and the woman squirmed. Her nostrils flared, that fire in her heart spread; Raphael basked in the heat.

“I regret every second,” she spat. “I called them friends. I held them. I even shared in their kisses. But they allow me to sell myself to help their cause. They left me down here to rot in a devil’s prison,”

Raphael inhaled deeply, audibly. “Your bitterness becomes you, darling. The taste of it is marvelous,”

The woman flinched, and he did not know if it came from his words or disbelief of her own. Raphael answered for her. “There it is. The truth you've been denying yourself of for all the time you’ve been in my domain,”

His little mouse’s fire doused. Raphael opened his fingers and she tucked her hand away. She hugged her arms across her chest, silky fabric catching gently on the gold bracer. “I did what I thought was right. I can only blame myself.”

“That is what I find most fascinating about you, dear one,” Raphael held her gaze and stepped closer, causing his delightful dear to maintain the distance with a hasty step backward.

“What’s fascinating?” Her question dripped with wariness though she refused to shrink away from him as he neared once again.

“Your loyalty to those most cruel to you. So-called friends wouldn’t leave you here this long without at least an attempt of rescue,” Raphael began, watching the woman’s nose crinkle, “The gods didn’t listen to you,”

“As you love to point out, devil,”

“Raphael,” he stated; a repeat reminder. “Let me finish now, pet.” He stalked forward until the woman had nowhere to run, nowhere to flee. Her back pressed against the stone railing behind her and her mouth pinched in helpless frustration. “The gods didn’t listen to you…” Raphael brought his knuckle under her chin and tipped it up so he could gaze upon the face that brought him such delicious turmoil, “but I will,”

Pretty lips parted and breath hitched. The struggle with realization danced behind her eyes. Her chin jerked back and away from his touch. What terrible games she played.

“There is nothing you can offer me,” she swallowed; Raphael watched her throat move and wanted to wrap his hand around it.

“On the contrary, my darling,” he pressed closer, sliding a leg between her own and finding now resistance. Her shock was evident, but she quickly gathered her wits and bared her teeth.

“You have Haarlep for your filthy needs,” The bite of her words left no marks.

“What of your filthy needs?” Raphael felt a smirk pull at his lips. “We are bound, dear one. I feel your loneliness—the ache it bears on you. You miss the affection of your companions. Look to me to remedy that,”

“I hate even looking upon your face, devil,” her palms pushed on his chest only to find him immovable. He took her hands in his and maneuvered her to face away. She yelped as her stomach pressed against the railing.

“Then don’t,” Raphael hissed in her ear from behind; he heard her swear in response. His hands released hers and they trailed up her arms. She dared not move. Gently as he wished, they slid over her trembling shoulders. Down her sides, to her hips.

Rage pooled around her, mixed with something else.

“You said you’d listen to me,” her statement sounded more like a question, asked with a sigh. Resignation. That’s what he detected.

“Yes, pet,”

Her hands gripped the stone she pressed against, “I want to see what my sacrifice helped,” she breathed unevenly, “That’s all I ask. I want to know exactly what I was worth,”

Raphael summoned a shimmering visage of the world above, of a healing Faerûn. Not free of conflict, but not at war; not under threat of the Elderbrain. Raphael felt the woman in his arms shake against his front but she held her head high.

“Thank you.” The statement was whispered but it echoed through him with all the strength it took her to say it.

“I am a man of my word, dear one,” he bowed his head and kissed the soft spot where her neck met her shoulder. Another shudder ran through her. This time she did not resist.

“Make it quick,” she said. Her words were edged with malice.

“You ask impossible things of me,” Raphael nipped at her earlobe. It earned him a growl. He drank it in as his hands crawled over the front of her thin gown. The piece draped in front lifted with weightless ease. His darling shifted, making the curve of her ass press against his hips.

She remained wordless as he grazed the bare plane of her belly with his fingertips. He brought himself closer against her, molding around her body and gliding his mouth over her neck. “I want to touch you, dear one. I will touch you, in all the ways we both need,” She inhaled sharply as his hand sank further down her torso and his middle finger found the slit of her. Heat pulsed from her swollen bud under the pad of his finger. Raphael let out a deep purr.

His darling bit back a moan. “Damn it, devil…”

He chuckled darkly as collected her wetness and began to rub rhythmic circles. Her jaw opened soundlessly beneath his lips. Raphael parted from her enough to watch her eyes flutter closed. Fingers joined together and applied more pressure. She whined. Music to his ears. The devil played her sensitive body like organ keys. Her back bowed. In arching her back she became a crescent moon. Glowing and pure in his world of darkness. Just a little sliver of her could make him howl. And he heard it.

“Raphael…” she pleaded. He could have crashed into his own climax with the brush of a hand. His name cried from her lips brought the old devil halfway to salvation.

His fingers curled and pumped inside her tight heat, slick dripping between them. She came undone with her head thrown back against his shoulder, knees weakening enough to make him hold her up with his own body. His darling collapsed into him, knuckles white from her grip around the stone railing. His chin nuzzled her hair and lips planted a kiss to her temple. Embers and cherries scented the air. Teeth grazed her neck, begging to sink in and claim her.

There was no need. Her soul already his. Now her body too. Maybe now she would come to welcome him enthusiastically, to let him make her forget the shared moments of intimacy with her companions. Maybe now she would look upon him without fuss, and with reverence as he tasted more and more of her. The possibilities made his fiendish heart race.

As he panted into her skin, he thought of the numerous deals he refused made by her friends for her release. Some more tempting than others: ascension, a throne, a crown. Raphael found it all too easy to resist. He’d gotten what he’d desired and he’d tell her one day about her friends’ attempts at being heroes again. Only when he was sure they could both laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Only when he was sure she would choose nothing else than to be at his side. Raphael could taste the delight of that future on his tongue. He would have it one day. They had eternity together, after all.

#bg3 #bg3 imagine #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 imagine #Raphael #Raphael imagine #raphael bg3 #Raphael bg3 imagine #my work

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newbornwhumperfly · 3 months

Text

in defense of lightening...

so, uh, i love when whumpees think they deserve to suffer and it's even more fun when whumpers think so too! 😈😈😈🥺🥺🥺 here's a silly little snippet of Morja suffering at the hands of Jorah "Self Righteous is my Middle Name" Cuthbert 😩

written for the @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 3: "____ deserved it" - because it's glorious and delicious and fitting for my blorbos 💖

title insp. by this hanif abdurraqib quote - “in defense of lightening, there is always a darkness asking to be split open.”

Annoyingly, the asset is limping.

The rec room on this stiflingly small base is stupid-small and doesn’t leave much room for hiding in corners, but Morja seems to be doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, at least. Small blessings. But he hasn’t left the rest of present company alone, lingering by the water cooler and taking infuriating little sips of a paper cup.

Short journeys, quiet shuffling steps, from the cooler to the corner. Cooler to corner. Jorah’s jaw tics. The soft drag of the tip of his shoe across the floor. Lift, absence of pressure, drag, tiptoe, mouse-step, take more water, scurry away. Fuck, can’t he just take the whole industrial jug at this point and leave well enough alone?

Like a mosquito buzzing near his ear and never quite landing, Jorah just can’t ignore it. He’s lost a second round of Battleship to Pfeffer, inducing one of the guy’s booming chuckles in the wake of slipped curses. He doubts anyone else has noticed - it’s not exactly obvious. Whether the asset isn’t feeling very sulky today or else he’s too chicken-shit to fish for sympathy while Jorah is in the room, Morja is behaving himself.

It’s not like anyone can see it either. It’s not like anyone knows why the little creep is dragging his heels around. But if the twinge of soreness in Jorah’s arm is anything to go by, Morja’s soles have gotta be smarting in the hours since last night. In the cool shadow of the corner, he leans against a wall to spare his stance.

His soles were that pre-bruise red, that deep shade right before purple Jorah knows well by eye, the welts in perfect straight lines over the arch of his thick skin. Jorah has to work for the break in the skin. Had to stop before it bled, before the lines broke altogether, even though a scream, hard to draw out as blood, broke in muffled echo through the rag between the asset’s teeth. Jorah is patient, he’s not some fucking brute who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows when to stop.

Knows when to reel back, gloved hand gripping the black metal ruler firmly. It’s shimmering ricochet gleams in the low-wattage, unstained by its task. God, Jorah admires military hardware. Even tools as simple as this have many uses, such as drawing out beads of sweat from the asset’s screwed-up face, rolling down into his dark hair, in making the skin of his knuckles bleach white with clenching, making those bare feet quiver and dance to the beat of Jorah’s tune, unable to fake.

The way those thickly callused toes flinch in their tight bonds can’t be faked.

It's different than the spasm drawn out by the jolt of electricity across his feet. Jorah's baton can always cause that. Getting the skin tender, blistered. But some days, you've gotta hit something. And the response - the jerk, the whine at the tail end of a trailing yelp, the harsh drag of breath through the nostrils - feels practiced in a way that doesn't at all discourage the conversation.

That’s the beauty of physical pain. It might not “work” for traditional interrogation but it sure does tell you a lot of other shit. Jorah checks the bonds over, the tight security of zip-ties over cloth, no grooves, no marks, good work. He watches a bead of sweat roll down the back of the asset’s calf, catching on dark hairs, a path down to land on one of the welts that match the feet. Watching the clench of his thigh when the stinging salt likely hurts like a motherfucker in the stripes across the backs of this thighs.

Pain is a language everyone speaks fluently. The perfect fucking teacher. The highest grade in understanding.

There’s a purpose to the shit he’s going to Morja. Mindless beating accomplishes nothing much - not unless you’ve got a lot of free reign to work with. And here, Jorah simply doesn’t, not with soft-touch attitude of everyone at hand. No. Until Claudia or Cobi or especially Brax - Captain Hutchins - sees the value of it, Jorah’s work has to stay discrete, even-handed, subtle.

Unfortunately for this guy, he gives Jorah a lot of room to work with.

“Never knew you beefed it so bad at Battleship, J-Man, wanna switch to Go-Fish?”

Jorah blinks, shaking away the fucking mosquito buzz around his ear, snorts, flicks a little plastic boat at Cobi’s arm and it bounces off the skin.

“Owwwww.” Cobi whines, his big dumb face wrinkling up as he flicks the boat back. Sticks his tongue out. “Sore loser.”

“Grab you a soda and we’ll call it even.” Jorah drawls, drawing cheerful agreement from his friend as he stands, stalks to the nearby little fridge. Drawing out the cold cans in hand, he catches a you, uh, a fan of Go Fish, buddy, it’s cool if you join us, right, Jorah?

Oh. Right. He’s still fucking there, huh?

Jorah straightens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, catching the asset, catching Morja, stock-still. Cobi’s head tilts back, yellow curled and shaggy, dog-like, beaming in the man’s direction like a spotlight.

Morja’s stillness is broken by the flicker of his eyes, dark, narrowed, from Cobi to Jorah. Blink. Widen. Blank. Creepy.

Jorah’s fingertips crack the tab of his soda, the sharp pop snapping through the air, a hiss of cool air, and Jorah’s mouth pulls up at the corners.

Morja’s throat jumps in a swallow and those black blank eyes blink once-twice. Sways side to side on tiptoe. This close, Jorah hears a small squelch at the sway. Oh. Interesting. Putting cold water in his shoes, huh? Jorah’s eyes flick down to his feet, up again, close-lipped, and Morja blinks faster.

“Yeah, man.” Jorah says. “You wanna sit down with me and Cobi?”

It’s almost boring the way Morja’s eyes widen. The way he lowers his weight down to rest on his swollen soles to spare his thighs the strain. It’s a little funny though. Like a dog trying its hardest not to look at you when it threw up behind the couch.

Flick to Cobi. Back to Jorah. Back again.

“I-“

Almost on cue, Cobi cuts in with a musical you don’t HAVE to, of course, only if you wanna. Jorah can always count on Cobi not to ruffle any feathers. And at that, Morja’s body unfreezes, doing his little at-attention routine, shoulders drawing back like a flinch of its own.

“Thank you, sir, I have work to do.”

Right answer, Asset.

“Hey.” Jorah shrugs. “If you have work to do, you should do it.”

There it is, that dumb fucking tilt of the head, like he doesn’t get it. Like he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. Has to be told fucking everything - what to eat, how to kneel, when to talk, where to shit, probably. Jorah’s mouth pulls at the corners again, his teeth grit and bare. Read the room.

That sends the asset scurrying off, click-swallow-blink, the paper cup tumbling out of his hand into the garbage, squelch squelch squelch, and that awkward thorn-in-foot limp when he retreats, dragging one foot after another.

Jorah’s body relaxes all at once, shoulders dropping down, rolling his neck. Fuck, corralling people in line is hard work. Whatever, a sheepdog is thankless sometimes. Still. It’s a nice thought that this idiot runs off with his tail between his legs, with wet shoes and a dry tongue, unable to sit or stand.

Setting the sodas on the table with a wide grin, Jorah lounges back for the first time, guard settled, plucking a new little ship between his fingers.

“Fuck Go-Fish, bro, I’m stretched and hydrated now, your fleets gonna sink.”

Cobi’s face beams and then frowns a little, glancing back towards the exit, the crinkle in his face making Jorah’s stomach sour again. “Man…I hope Morja didn’t feel left out. I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Jorah flicks another ship at Cobi, drawing another sqwuak. His shoulders are down flat now, hackles soothed. The mosquito has fucked off and the room is cool and calm again.

“Aw, big softie. Get your head in the game or I’m gonna sink your battleship. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He deserves it.

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @haro-whumps @whumpthisway

@whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @whumpzone @straight-to-the-pain @redwingedwhump

@wolfeyedwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @liliability @whumpster-draganies @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @scoundrelwithboba

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet cause i was so so excited to write something new again!! 🥰🥰🥰 have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly 💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

#yes haven't written in a thousand years can only be motivated by prompts 😩😩😩#morja and company #my writing #morja #jorah cuthbert #whump #whumpee #whumper #hidden whump #punishment #foot whump #stoic whumpee #whumpmasinjuly2024 #wij24day3

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hey-august · 6 months

Note

Hello!

Could prompt number 4: Matching be paired with "You're Annoying" and "You're gonna make me cry", Said by either Buggy or Reader?

Phew, finally finished this one! I hope you like it!

Prompts: Matching, "You're annoying." "You're gonna make me cry." Teaser: "It was sweet. Misguided, but sweet. And that’s what you liked about Buggy." Warnings: SFW. Established relationship, some profanity. Word count: ~1.6k

Check out my 250 Follower Prompt Event and see fulfilled prompts here.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It started small. So small that you didn’t even notice. Buggy started with buttons. It didn’t take long to replace one. Then another. And another. He kept going until he ran out of notions to swap.

That wasn’t enough, so your pockets were the next target. Cutting out the fabric and sewing new pouches in place was pretty simple for the pirate. His stitches were clumsy, especially since he did this craft in the dead of night, but they were strong enough.

The most important part of this project was remembering to put all your crap back into the right pockets. You carried a lot of junk - pens and pencils, a small toy mouse, bandages, candy, and other shit that he didn’t recognize. You caught him one morning, mouth full of a reward he sneaked from your stash and hand in the pocket he finished not long ago. Assuming that he was after the candy, you rolled your eyes. He barely heard the words, “you’re annoying,” as you turned away, shaking your head. The stray hair escaping your nest of bedhead danced and beckoned the pirate to move on from his secret crafting and pull you back to bed.

Then came the gifts. New boots which were perfect for stomping around the ship. Jewelry with gemstones that shined even in the dark. Silk scarves, reminiscent of the captain’s own striped bandanas. Buggy even got you gloves to protect your hands from blisters and splinters. You felt his ocean eyes linger whenever you wore one of his gifts. The heat from his gaze dragged along your body as it traversed each part of your body decorated with his adoration. Even though the jewelry was a little flashier than you’d prefer and the gloves made your hands sweaty, you made sure to wear all of the gifts periodically.

Buggy’s plan began to fall apart at the seams when the accidents started.

One afternoon, Richie’s claws got caught on one of your pants. The elongated tear that ran from your ass cheek to the hem of your pants didn’t look like the lion’s usual clumsy grab for attention, but a commanded swipe that luckily didn’t break skin.

Another time you were assisting the captain with his knife throwing. Apparently he needed the practice based on how many times he nicked your top. Buggy claimed he just needed to warm up and flashed the bashful smile that always tugged at your heart.

It soon became a daily event for a piece of your clothing to meet its untimely demise. Three items were blown off deck while hung out to dry. Four were burned through by the iron. Two were stained with paint. And an indeterminate amount was confused with scraps that were ripped up and used for rags.

While Buggy shouted his head off at whoever caused the damage (excluding himself, of course), the anger would quickly dissipate when he attempted to fix the problem. Sharp words and screeching volumes were replaced with soothing remarks. Substitutes and replacements came from his own closet, or were picked up at the next town. The solutions were suspicious, though. The captain almost always had the right item of clothing ready to hand over.

You sat on the edge of the shared bed with yet another ruined bit of fabric in your hands. The vest had just barely survived an iron burn last week, but sometime this morning small claws shredded the clothing beyond repair. The bedroom door creaked open and you nearly cracked your neck turning to see if the four-legged culprit returned to the scene of the crime. Instead, a clown sauntered in.

Buggy’s peppy steps fell as his gaze landed on the newest victim clutched in your hands, then flicked back up to your steely face.

“A-another accident?” he stammered.

“Yeah, sure. Accident,” you said, tossing the vest onto the floor. The tightness in your chest was eased slightly with a deep breath. A heavy sigh.

“Here, I have a spare,” Buggy offered, as a floating hand carried over a terracotta-colored linen vest.

The only common thread the replacement had with your loss was the lack of sleeves. Still, it was nice. And familiar.

Your eyes flickered between the clothing hanging in front of you and Buggy’s outfit. The thoughts in your head started linking arms and grouping together as you stared at the linen vest he wore. And his striped bandana. The black top with reversed seams. His brown baggy pants. Boots, perfect for stomping. Feeling your crowded thoughts getting ready to surge, you looked once more at his vest and the buttons on it.

Snatching the second vest he was offering, you also yanked open one of your dresser drawers to grab a handful of clothing before sprinting into his closet. You weren’t fast enough to evade the pirate entirely, but you were quick enough to close the door on his arm, leaving you with a hand and forearm and the rest of him outside the closet. The surprise maneuver gave you just enough time to snatch corroborating evidence.

The door flew open, exposing Buggy’s contorted face. Before he could throw himself into the tirade ready to splash over, you stopped him with a single word.

“Why?”

Buggy stayed silent. His mouth hung open from words that were unsaid and words that he wasn’t ready to speak. You were upset, he could see it in your face. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

You shook the matching shirts before dropping them and grabbing another pair of clothes from the pile draped on your arm. Another moment of silence fell and so did those clothes. You pulled out a button-up shirt and studied it before letting it fall to the floor. The cardigan you found next had what you were looking for. You pinched a colorful button between your fingers and pointed between it and the button on Buggy’s vest. They matched.

“I don’t understand,” you said, desperate to avoid another quiet moment.

“I-it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, I didn’t mean it,” Buggy finally blurted out.

“So you ruined my things on purpose?” The soft quiver in your voice was sharp enough to stab the pirate in the chest.

“No, no, no…” Buggy stumbled over the words and over his feet as he lurched towards you. “Not that, I didn’t do that. I did the buttons and the pockets, I swear!”

He grabbed some of the clothes you held and started pointing out his handiwork. Your buttons had been replaced with ones that were more detailed and brighter.

“I only did a few at a time so you wouldn’t notice,” he explained hastily, before moving on to the pockets.

Shoving his hands into any clothing that he worked on previously, Buggy pulled out the new pouches that were made of flashy colors and patterns. Then he exposed his own flashy pockets.

You reached out to touch the fabric in his pocket. There was a bit of stray thread poking out of the hand sewn seam. The seams of your pockets were the same - a clear sign depicting a lack of skill and an abundance of dedication.

“I wanted to match with you sometimes. Just little things, you know? ‘cause we’re a pair. And when your stuff kicked the can, I figured we could match more,” Buggy said quietly, his face turning the same shade of red as his nose. “I didn’t ruin anything on purpose though…those were really accidents.”

“Really?”

“Maybe not Richie… I didn’t think he was going to fuck you up like that. I just wanted him to tear a little hole so I could replace the pockets in those pants next.”

You sighed at the trickle of truth. “And the other things were accidents too?”

Buggy scowled at the scorn in your question, clearly offended that you didn’t believe him. “Yeah, that’s what I said. You think I would yell at my crew for things I told them to do?”

Silence.

“Well, not this time,” he continued, flustered. “I had them switch laundry duty when it was clear that using irons and paint required training. And I can’t control the weather, we all lose shit when it’s windy out.”

“And my vest today?”

“...I also can’t control the cat. She doesn’t listen to me, you know that.”

“You’re her best friend.”

“And she doesn’t listen to me. Just like you’re not listening to me now!” the frustration in Buggy’s body finally spilled out. Fed up with the argument and his failed plan, the pirate clown left the stuffy closet.

“Wait,” you called out, to no avail. “Buggy, wait!”

When he didn’t listen, you threw what clothes you still held at him. They hit his back with a sad fwump and he stopped walking.

“You really wanted to match with me?” you asked his back.

He nodded.

You wrapped your arms around his figure. “That's it?”

Another nod.

You pressed your face against his back so your next words were muffled. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

It was sweet. Misguided, but sweet. And that’s what you liked about Buggy. Sometimes his intentions were overshadowed by bad luck, but underneath it all is someone who cares. The more you thought it over, he really wouldn’t have ruined your clothes on purpose. A pirate at heart, he wouldn’t want to spend money if he didn’t have to. He’d rather take things in his own hands, even if that meant poking himself with a needle.

You asked Buggy to stay there while you went back to the closet. After a few moments, you came out and bounced past him. Striking a pose, you gestured towards your new outfit, which matched his exactly. His expression brightened, finally matching the painted smile on his face.

Buggy walked over and tugged at the hem of the vest. “Nice outfit. It looks good on you.”

You bit back a smile, wondering what he’d say next - that it looks better on him, or that it would look better on the floor. Either of which would be true.

#buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #buggy x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #hey-august 250 follower event

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kaiso-woo · 10 months

Text

Just Stay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

-> Masterlist

PART 1 of my ‘Stay Series’ - a long hypothesised journey of a relationship between Bang Chan and Reader.

WC: 6.8k | Overall ‘Stay Series’ Synopsis: Bang Chan experiences the suic!des of Stays, so when you lot choose to die, he dies right along with you. Reader is the “antidote” to this condition.

Notes: Second Person Narration, Skz Fluent in English, Swearing, CaféOwner!Reader, Fem!Reader, Idol!Chan, Barista!Chan, Suic!de (Strong Descriptions), ANGST (LITERALLY EVERYWHERE, NO NEED TO SQUINT), Fluff (At the End)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

PART 1

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

If this were the case, could you then be compared to a lonely garden gnome, fated to ponder life’s every aspect through a single perspective? Would you shrivel away from the light, choose to accept the pitiful concept of simply existing and allow your garden to wither; green to grey, flesh to bones, petals to stems? Perhaps your coping mechanism is to simply scream. Shut the doors. Close your blinds. Block your ears. Scream. Dry your eyes. Breathe…

Scream.

He does none of those. Instead, his eyes flutter closed momentarily, chest heaving, hands shaking, before he pulls himself away and picks up the computer mouse again. They’re becoming more frequent, or maybe he’s becoming more attune to them.

He doesn’t witness these deaths, exactly. He feels them; what it’s like to have the frigid wind tug at your hair, howling in your ears, the moment of impact with the blistering ground causing him to flinch violently, hand clamped over his mouth in a desperation to quell any yell; what it’s like to have your vision swim, blotting in and out of darkness, your throat constrict as though a pressure is forcing its way from inside out, desperate, erratic gulps for sweet sweet oxygen achieving nothing; what it feels like to stand there, shivering, your heart rate increasing tenfold, breaths quickening to mere pants, as you will every instinct in your body to remain still – ‘do not move’, you think, ‘it’ll be over soon’, you remind yourself, ‘the lights are closer now, and they’re fast, they won’t stop’.

How dearly he wishes for them to stop.

He’s better at dealing with them now, definitely more subtle. The panic that envelopes him every time he realises something is about to happen however, will never leave him. He’ll drop what he’s holding, frantically disappear into one of the empty rooms in the company building, lock the door and rake a hand through his hair. The number of times the stylists have grumbled at him for messing up his styled hair is limitless, but he doesn’t care, why should he?

The studio door clicks open, and his head snaps to the sound. Immediately, he attempts to steady his breath, and pulls his expression into his signature straight smile :] as Jisung enters the room, a plastic bag filled with takeaway containers in his hand.

“Eh? What’re you doing here…?” Chan grins, his eyes widening dramatically. Swiftly, he swipes his computer mouse to the top of the screen to check the time.

2.23am

“It’s so late Jisung, were you practicing choreo?” he continues, hitting save on his keyboard so he doesn’t accidentally delete his work while distracted. “I brought you food,” Jisung mumbles, lowering it onto the coffee table and carefully unpacking it all. Chan’s mouth begins to salivate excessively as the smell of chicken wafts towards him, but he rubs his face and resists the urge to sit down with Jisung and eat to his heart’s content.

Jisung plucks a drumstick from the box, “Why are you working here alone?” he questions, a sad pout on his chubby cheeks as he wanders over to the computer, careful not to drop any crumbs. Chan shrugs, hoping it’ll satiate Jisung’s concern.

It doesn’t, of course, and his pout morphs into a small frown. Jisung tries to shove the chicken into Chan’s mouth, offering it to him demandingly. “You eat, you eat,” Chan waves it away and turns back to his computer, “You wanna listen? I think it’s almost finished, something’s just not right with the auto tune… I think. It sounds off,” he picks the headphones off the desk and holds them out for Jisung, who has taken a bite of the chicken happily and is munching away. Again, he tries to give Chan the chicken drumstick, and refuses to take the headphones until Chan is eating the chicken.

As Jisung listens to the song, Chan’s mind drifts back to the corners of his thoughts, the shadows that have been swirling there for a long while now. He doesn’t know when it first began, doesn’t want to remember it to be honest. He was in his room, dozing off into a comfortable sleep, the purple LEDS providing a soft glow to the darkness.

It was abrupt, swinging into him out of nowhere, but he sat bolt upright, hands grappling with the sheets desperately. His vision swam, and he retched on dry air. He groaned and keeled forwards, hands suddenly clutching his chest as it tightened painfully – corkscrewing into his heart, but at the same time it was as though someone was trying to pry it open. He retched again, and he regretted in that moment that he had chosen purple to light his room earlier. The colour was making his head pound, his belongings swimming in and out of his vision, worsened by his unstable swaying.

In a panic, he crawled over to the side of his bed. Then with a last hacking cough, he vomited onto the floor, the acrid taste on his tongue causing him to recoil, the stinging burn in his throat making his eyes water. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t see shit anymore. A dry sob escaped his lips, as he desperately tried to fumble for something to ground him back to reality. He saw speckles – grainy, fuzzy, surreal.

The world tilts, and maybe he falls off the bed too. And he’s gone.

“It’s not the auto tune effect – it’s the timing of the bridge,” Jisung drags Chan back to reality, his head bopping slightly to the music. Chan blinks and scoots aside to allow the younger to fiddle with the computer mouse, rewinding the audio so he can listen again. Chan is finishing off the chicken drumstick, so he hums in acknowledgement instead to Jisung’s feedback. “Yeah, it’s the bridge. The vocals need to be delayed a little,” Jisung concludes, “Want me to fix it up?”

In the silence of the room, Jisung pulls over another chair and gets to work. Chan watches him contentedly for a while, happy to absorb himself in the clicking and tapping of his first child’s proceedings - watching him edit and perfect the track they’ve been working on for the past few months. Jisung glances at Chan, his concentration breaking, “You’re unusually quiet.”

Chan reaches over and squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, “Just thinking.” “Right... well, eat more. And then go to bed,” Jisung insists, briefly squeezing the hand on his shoulder in return. Chan sighs and hoists himself out of his chair, sinking back onto the couch so he can easily dig into the food. “Thanks mate,” he mumbles, and when the man makes no move of acknowledgement, Chan smiles softly and nibbles on some more chicken.

He woke that time, on the floor of his bedroom, dangerously close to the stinking heap that was his vomit. His head pounded, a dull ache ringing in his skull as he mustered all his strength to simply stand up and pull over the blinds.

“What the fuck was that?” He groaned, resting his head on the window and basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, so comforting, so full of life – a steady presence. After he spent the next ten minutes gathering his wits and cleaning up the mess, he brushed it off as food poisoning; maybe something in the food Hannah cooked last night (he’d never tell her that, of course).

On another day, in another place, maybe a few weeks from then, he had returned to Korea, jumping straight back into his busy schedule. They were in the middle of an interview, not the first, and certainly not the last. In hindsight, he was thankful he had chosen to stand in the back row. At first he thought he merely needed to cough, a ticklish sensation wrapping around his throat, a ghost of a hand caressing his neck. He swayed dangerously when he felt it tighten harshly, so suddenly, and his heartbeat escalated, his legs becoming jelly.

His head snapped back as his whole body teetered over the edge of the platform he was standing on. A searing pain blazed across his neck for a second, causing him to grapple with it in shock. Changbin grabbed his arm at that point, preventing him from completely falling over backwards.

“You okay?” he whispered, careful not to draw too much attention to the pair, professional as always. Chan corrected himself and tried to control his breathing, forcibly inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. He pulled a face, his eyes wide, and waved his arms a little, “Thanks. Almost lost my balance there.”

Throughout the rest of the interview, he remained silent, thinking hard. What just happened? And why did it feel like… he had just been… hung?

It took him months to string two and two together, months of spontaneous moments of death, in which he remained alive. He’d be drowned countless times, be stabbed infinitely, shot in the head, electrocuted, run over by train… after train… after train, until he fully accepts that these were all connected.

As time wore on, he began to hear things too, inner monologues he supposed, of their voices. He figured if this condition, whatever it was, lasted long enough, he’d soon be able to see it too.

Stay. Just stay. Stay’s. It’s you. You’re not staying. He was burning in the middle of a fire. That much was obvious by the scorching pain on his skin, brutal enough that he just wished he couldn’t feel. He screamed into the couch pillows, knowing full well that the studio was soundproof, but paranoid all the same that any of his members would hear him.

‘Thank you Stray Kids, for everything.’

Stay. He couldn’t tell at this point whether the pain was his or from the person who was dying. Both, perhaps. All this time, the people who were dying, the people who were killing themselves, were Stay’s. Or maybe this time was a coincidence, maybe this person just happened to be a part of the fandom.

It wasn’t though.

More and more often, in the midst of some version of death, he heard thoughts, whispers:

“You got me this far Stray Kids.” “Skz you’re my everything.” “Keep fighting Stray Kids.”

“Chan, I love you.” “Thank you Chan.” “Life was good thanks to you, Chan.”

Fuck. This. Shit.

Stay.

His members were either dense, playing dumb or he was an incredible actor and the sneakiest being on all of planet earth. He had no idea how he had managed to hide this, for so long, and not hear a peep out of any of them.

Sure, he attributed his puffy eyes (from tears) to a lack of sleep, or too much time in front of a computer screen. Maybe his lack of sleep could be contributed to insomnia, not that he genuinely didn’t want to sleep with the fear that he might wake abruptly to a strangling death. Again.

More recently, in an attempt to be more cautious, when that panic settles in - a familiar feeling of fear, 'I can do this. I'm going to do it. I want to die. Do I want to die?' - he'd excuse himself to the bathroom.

“Chan hyung’s gone to the bathroom.” – posts Hyunjin.

Yeah. To die.

He yawns, stretching as he returns to the studio from a genuine bathroom break. He’s excited to return to his work; a sample he’d stumbled across waiting to be incorporated into a new song. After he shuts the door, he checks the time on his phone.

There’s an hour and a half until 12am– he needs to do Chan’s Room soon too, it’s Sunday. He was comforted by Chan’s Room, to see so many Stay’s on his lives, thankful to have them there, rather than at the top of a building, or sinking at the bottom of a river. He decides that the sample can wait – it’s saved anyway.

He flipped his black hood over the top of his cap, carefully adjusting it so it was presentable, and began to set up the live. He had a few songs in mind that he’d play for you all but was really hoping you’d contribute to the song suggestions too. He smiled, and he laughed, and he danced along to the songs, joyously reading your comments and responding with enthusiasm despite it getting later into the night.

Then the mood shifted when his eyes skimmed over a particular comment. He froze, and his bubble of security popped. He wasn’t sure if he had managed to blot you out, or if the fear had only crossed through after you had sent that message, but he was positive that the person who typed the question, was the person currently pressing a knife to his heart – a small, sharp prick on his chest.

Chan inhaled sharply and swivelled in his chair, “Yeah don’t… don’t hurt yourself, yeah?” The chat exploded with questions and comments, wondering why he was bringing it up and offering words of comfort. The sharp pain on his chest receded slightly, but the fear was still there, the emotional pain ever present. “Just because you have a lot of stress, it doesn’t mean that you have to relieve it by hurting yourself.”

There. Same user. New comment. ‘Your future isn’t worth living for’? Bullshit.

“If you think about the future… it’s best to just keep away from that and find different ways of relieving stress.” Self-consciously, he fiddles with his hoodie drawstrings and swivels in his chair again, desperate to hide the panic flicker across his features briefly. The knife was back.

“You never know what’s going to happen in the future. Something might go wrong, then there might be a turning point and then- from then on you feel really, really regretful,” he’s rambling at this point, thoughts unhinged, spluttering and mixing like mush in his brain. He just needs to get you to stay.

He takes a deep breath, and drills his eyes into the camera, pleading with what little he could offer, “If you really, really can’t help it or if you really just don’t know what to do or you’re really- really lost, as I’ve always said,” he smiles, eyes shimmering, “come here; look for me, ask me, talk with me.” He waits, praying, fiddling his thumbs below the desk.

And the agonising feeling fades, leaving him deflated, relieved.

“I’ll try my best to relieve your stress,” he concludes, then spreads his arms wide. He knows Stay didn’t ask for it, but he was offering one of his hugs more for himself than them.

His relief would be short-lived. He can’t save everyone.

I guess, it’s about time I introduce you. You, not as one of those who have given up. Not as one of those who have caused Chan’s suffering. I introduce you, as simply you. You, who carefully pulls your keys out of the café door. You, who draws down some of the shutters with a soft smile. You, as wonderful, loving, bubbly you.

You make your rounds around your haven, your café. It’s a combination of everything you could possibly imagine to be creative. It’s been your dream to create a safe hub for the public that incorporates a library, a café, study area, art studio, computer labs, rehearsal room and even a recording studio.

Pets were welcome, of all kinds, as long as they wouldn’t fight with each other, and you were open from 7.30am in the morning until 1am the following day.

If anyone fell asleep studying, working on music or reading, you’d leave them where they were and pull out the blankets you kept in storage. The policy for this was simply a bond of trust. Customers could stay working for the night as long as they didn’t mind watching you drift around in the morning in your bedhead and PJ’s, slowly beginning to set up for a new day.

You would always offer them a morning hot chocolate, coffee or tea, free of charge, but more often than not, they’d leave their money on the counter when you turned away, refusing to let you best them in a game of generosity.

Books could be borrowed, studios and study rooms booked, pets left in the backyard day/night day care. Equipment was supplied in all the rooms, instruments for loan, computers to log into, art tools for perusal. The rule for these? Don’t break them. If customers break them, they pay for them.

If something run’s out, let you know. You only offered the basic necessities anyways, so you restocked them yourself. Anything else customers bring for themselves. It was safe. It was cosy. It was yours. Yours to give. Admittedly, you still had to pay off the loan you took out to set up the place, and if time grew short you were considering shutting down the recording studio – it was the least used area.

You pushed the last few stray chairs in as you considered whether to make yourself a final cup of tea before settling down in your apartment upstairs. There were two people currently dozing in various locations of Café Studio, one of whom was a regular. A third customer was sipping the last dregs of his coffee, watching your humble movements out of the corner of his eye.

“Mind if I call it a night on one of your couches?” he asks, scraping back his chair to place his mug on the counter by the coffee machine. That’s James. James fucking Jamison. Always here for whatever reason, never not here, where you wanted him to be. You withhold a sigh and the temptation to pinch the bridge of your nose, “Yeah, go for it. You know the drill.”

You welcome all customers, all are valuable guests. Except for him. He just won’t take a hint.

He saunters idly over to you, hands in his pockets, and clears his throat, “So… are you sure you won’t be free any time this week?” You can feel his eyes drilling into your back and scrunch your nose distastefully, pulling out your phone as if to check something, “I can’t, I run this place.”

He’s still staring at you, so you whisk your earphones out from a pocket in your apron and plug them into your ears. It doesn’t take you long to press shuffle on your playlist, and immediately your current favourite song begins to play, as if it knows exactly what would help you through this situation, or maybe they knew.

“What if you just shut the place down for the day?” he asks with an awkward laugh, running his hand through his hair dramatically. So cool. You roll your eyes and turn around to face him, internally dancing to the song in your ears. You give him a once over, genuinely considering him, “I can’t shut down my only source of income for a day.” “Even for-”

“Especially not for you.” The two of you stare at each other and you can sense that somewhere in those blue eyes of his, you’ve angered him. He’s not pleased, and he never has been with your constant rejections, but so far he hasn’t tried anything. He would be stupid to do so, with surveillance cameras set up everywhere and two customers sleeping not far away.

Go kill yourself.

You wince as sharp pain crackles across your forehead, “Sorry what?” James blinks at you quizzically, his sizzling demeanour vanishing at your confusing outburst. “I didn’t say anything.”

Go. Kill yourself.

You hiss, hand clutching your forehead, and stumble into the nearest table. James is onto you in a second (“Woah there”) trying to support you, when the table was doing just fine. “Back off,” you snap, pushing him away, which causes you to stumble back into the window, the last one without its shutter pulled down, “and shut up.” Again, he blinks at you, ever the stupid dolt he is.

‘Heh… funny.’ Why’d I say that?

Desperately, you swivel and press your forehead to the cool of the glass window, groaning in agony. The music playing in your earphones becomes too much, so you tug them out of your ears, your phone lighting up on the paused song of “Silent Cry”, by Stray Kids.

I wonder if it’ll still be funny after- if I-

You crack your eyes open and peer outside, dimly trying to discern whether this was a voice in your head, or a voice in real life. It spoke with a pained clarity, exhaustion numbing what could have been a voice of laughter and passion. How you knew this, you had no idea.

“Hey, are you good? Are you on your period or something?” James piped up helpfully, and if you weren’t so heavily concentrated on scanning your surroundings outside you might have kicked him out of your store right then and there.

Then you spotted someone. A lone figure, shrouded in the hazy glow of a streetlight, leaning over the bridge railing. Café Studio was located on the banks of the local river, wide enough for boats to barge through, deep enough to be terrified of the unknown creatures writhing within.

You watched, the incessant pounding in your head diminishing the longer you stared at the figure. If he wasn’t standing in the middle of the light, you wouldn’t have spotted him in his completely black outfit. Someone certainly wasn’t one for colour. He leaned further over the railing, clutching his beanie to his head as though afraid it would fall off in the wind.

In seconds, you had ripped your phone and headphones from your apron, leaving it on one of the tables, and fumbled with the key to unlock the café door. It was chilly out, but you ignored the goosebumps speckling your skin, and James’ confused fucking shouts – like would the guy stitch his mouth shut please.

That was him. The idiot leaning too far over the railing was the one whispering nonsense in your brain. How you came to this conclusion was to anyone’s guess, but it was him. In the seconds it had taken you to sprint over to him, he had clambered on top of the railing, balancing precariously, his hands in his hoodie pockets, gazing into the depths of the water.

Maybe in another life, if you weren’t out of breath trying to stop him from ending it all, you might have been enamoured by his features. As you drew closer, you could make out the defined cut of his jaw, his wide shoulders, plush lips tinged with pink from the cold, dark eyes alluringly intimidating. This wasn’t that life though, and you paid no attention to any of it really.

A dawning realisation settled on your features however, after a brief assessment of his face caused you to realise that you knew him, perhaps not personally, but still knew him. “Bang Chan?” you whisper, the name falling from your lips in a panicked whisper, “Chan no…” your legs work harder, and you pray almost deliriously that he doesn’t do it. Don’t do it. He can’t.

“Bang Chan!” you yell, losing all sense of discipline as he sways gently, contemplating, “Chan!!” he doesn’t appear to hear you, absorbed in his own mind. You’re there, you’re right there, and this time, when you call desperately, “Christopher!” his eyes snap up to meet yours.

It’s this particular moment, that will be ingrained in your mind in the following years. The way his eyes spark in shock at the sight of you, then relax, as though he understands, and has complete control over everything in his life.

Without hesitating, you snatch at his clothes and tug him backwards. His heavy body crashes into yours, but you don’t care. You wrap your arms safely around his waist as you tumble to the paved path in a heaped mess of clothes and limbs.

He wriggles around in your grasp, trying to position himself more comfortably, and eventually wind up staring each other dead in the face, blinking through your lashes up at him, his palms on either side of your head.

An uncomfortable silence settles between you, fizzing in the limited space between your faces. Then without warning, you roughly shove your hand behind his head and pull him down into a hug, tears beginning to stain your cheeks.

“What the fuck? What the fuck?” you croak, needlessly shoving your hand underneath his beanie so you can tangle it into his curled hair, “What the actual fuck, were you doing?!” you cling to him tighter, and your breath escapes in garbled gasps that quieten to silence when you feel the trickle of wet tears on your neck.

Gently, you remove your hand from his head and relax your body, allowing him to remove himself from you if he so wished. He burrows his face further however, his arms collapsing onto his elbows, and suddenly you can hear him sobbing.

The tears on your neck weren’t your own. He sounds so broken, crying his heart out as though he were a lost little child who dropped his ice cream. The raw emotion and lack of restraint in his sobbing scrapes at the threads of your heart, and again, you’re crying. Crying with him, for him – understanding everything, and nothing at the same time.

Eventually, you wipe the tears from your face, trying to figure out what to do next. You need to comfort him, talk to him, remind him that he’s worth this world, and the world doesn’t deserve him because by god- if anyone knew even a scrap of what this man meant- he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

His warm breath tickles your neck as he chuckles, his sobs magically morphed into an amused laughter, which is the most concerning thing by far. Chan pulls away from you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs and hastily dries the tears on his face.

“Sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that,” he grins, and you frown at him. “Sorry I had to see what? You almost jump off a fucking bridge, or your tears? It better not be the latter Christopher, or I’ll gladly rewind time and push you over myself.” Almost immediately, you regret the words tumbling out of your mouth when his face crumbles again, “Would you really?” he whispers, sitting up beside you.

“No. No I was kidding. I was just- you’re allowed to cry, Chan,” you sit up too, and then it’s just the both of you, sitting alone, a strange pair, by the railing of a bridge. “So you know who I am then?” he dutifully asks, gingerly fixing his beanie and offering a small smile.

“Yeah,” you take note of the way his posture deflates, and add quickly, “But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. What matters is that you tried to…” your words die in your throat at the reproachful glint in his eyes, shimmering eerily in the lamplight. Instead, you stand up and offer him a hand. He cautiously accepts it, allowing you to help him stand with you. “Y/N Y/L/N. Nice to meet you,” you smile, giving his hand a shake. He stares at you, bemused, and shakes your hand back. “Christopher Bahng. And… thanks.” You’re not sure if he’s thanking you for stopping his plummet to death, or for helping him sit up, or for letting him cry… he could be thanking you for a lot of things, so instead, you do the next best option.

“Want to head over to my café? I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” you offer, flicking your head to the still lit building, where fucking James is standing outside, ogling you from afar, his hands on his hips. “Sure… only… I assumed you’d know I don’t drink coffee,” he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets again, and as your eyes slide from James and then back to the man in front of you, you suddenly struggle to process everything that’s just happened.

“Why would I? We just met,” you flash him a coy smile and lead the way. You stroll into the café, holding the door open for Chris so he can step through, his hands still in his pockets. James makes to follow, but you slam the door shut in his face and lock the door swiftly.

“Uh…” Chris begins, his eyes wide, asking for an explanation. “No questions. He won’t leave me alone, and that’s that,” you grin brightly, then rush to disappear behind the café bar and begin to prepare him a drink. He seats himself on a stool and tries to watch as you work. You grow uncomfortable in the silence, especially with him watching you so closely, so you instinctively begin to ramble.

“This is Café Studio. You might have noticed by the sign out front.” He nods, indicating he’s paying attention. “I run this place entirely myself, and I live above…” You tell him everything you can think of, from the studios attached to the café, to your favourite pets that frequently get dropped off for day care or overnight stays. His eyes light up when you mention the recording studio, and you have a feeling he’ll go back to the topic after.

In no time, you have two hazelnut croissants prepared, a steaming mug of white hot chocolate for yourself, and a mug of caramel hot chocolate with a dusting of cinnamon for him (you refuse to tell him what’s in his drink, which makes him pout sadly because he loves it). You lapse into silence as you eat and drink, and you know you need to breach the topic again, somehow, you can’t just leave it unattended.

“Can I ask…” you begin, but he interrupts you smoothly. “I just wanted to see what it would look like.”

Chan knew he could never tell you that he’d experienced death a hundred times over in the past months. You’d think him insane.

You knew you could never tell him you heard his voice, loud and clear in your head. He’d think you delusional.

“About that… recording studio… does anyone use it?” he inquisitively asks, and you shake your head sadly in response, wiping croissant crumbs off your face. “Not really… I’m considering selling it. I need to repay the loan I took out, and if the recording room is just dead weight then I don’t see why-” “Don’t. It won’t be dead weight,” he hurries, and is about to say more before he reconsiders, “Mind if I check it out?”

Of course you don’t.

Chris returns to his hotel later that morning. It’s 4am by the time you crawl into bed, recounting the events of the day in a sluggish fashion. Only 2 and a half hours ago you had pulled him away from certain death.

A shiver disturbs your spine as you replay the memory, and you curl tighter into your blankets. What if you hadn’t? His inner monologue certainly didn’t sound like he simply just “wanted to see what it looked like.”

Somehow, you manage to drag yourself through the rest of the morning, living off a few hours’ sleep at most. Thankfully, there aren’t many customers to begin with, giving you a chance to get organised a little later than usual. Chris had left with a small smile and a wave, and you watched him disappear down the street, a part of you worried he’d decide to try the bridge again.

He returns in the afternoon with the same small smile and wave, shocking you to the core. He’s got a cap pulled low over his eyes, hood pulled neatly up, and a black mask obscuring most of his face.

The only reason you recognise him this time is because of those actions, and the particular way his eyes crinkle, disappearing when he genuinely smiles. Quietly, he asks for the same drink you made him earlier that morning and asks to borrow the recording studio – “change of scenery,” he explains casually.

As the days go by, he visits as often as he can, always with those same twinkling eyes, and always still carefully covered up. You have no idea how he’s managed to convince his company to continuously let him out in public without staff, nor how long he’s staying here for.

He must be on vacation or something because this was certainly not Korea. You frequently check up on him too, never hesitating to ask whether he needs any support. He shakes his head every time and stares at you unblinkingly, trying to convey a message through only his eyes.

You’re already helping him. This haven, your haven, is helping him already. You don’t know this of course. Nor do you know that his odd connection to suicidal Stay’s has ceased. He hasn’t felt them in ages, and in a twisted way, he’s relieved – hasn’t felt this light in a while.

“Mind if I book the whole café out for a day?” he mumbles to you from your side, his hands nimbly working with the coffee machine to produce an order for a customer. One day he had asked if you could teach him a few things on the machine. Before long he knew how to make every drink, and happily watched underneath his mask as customers sipped his creations.

Every drink that is, except for the special one you made for him – it was actually your Mum’s recipe. You refused to teach him, but he could easily figure out the ingredients and method to make it for himself by now, if he really wanted to, which perplexed you every time he asked you to teach him.

Truthfully, he didn’t really want to know. He just liked seeing the tiny crease on your forehead and adorable smile whenever you refused. And now… he had even more reason to come back. For the hot chocolate. Definitely.

“The whole-? Library and everything?” you inquire, as you refill the jar of chai powder. “Mhm,” he hums, nodding to a regular as they float by, “Staff want us to film a Skz-Code Episode while we’re here, and they left it up to us to decide where.” “Oh. Sure. What do you need, for me to close up for the day?”

“I want you to stay though. Don’t disappear upstairs to your apartment… please. Can you stay and… watch?” he innocently asks, and you stare at him in surprise, clipping the jar in your hands shut with a snap, “Am I allowed to?”

It turns out that would be their last day. They returned to Korea on the following. In hindsight, you wish you had hugged Chris tighter when he tackled you with one before they left after filming, raising the eyes of several staff members and causing the Skz Members to chuckle with one another.

Chris was hugging you because he would miss you, and he was afraid that if he left, the traumatic episodes would return.

You were hugging him because you were full to the brim with Stray Kids’ warmth and happiness, but also because an unfamiliar safety nestled into your stomach as he hugged you, burying his face into your neck – the same place he had where he first met you.

“See ya soon, mate!” Felix called, carrying a box of your brownies. He had given you his recipe, and you eagerly followed its instructions while you watched them record their episode, smiling contentedly at their tinkering laughter, “These taste better than mine!”

“No one can beat Felix’s brownies,” Hyunjin muttered through a smile, but he’s happily munching on one of yours all the same. Jisung also has his mouth stuffed, his chubby cheeks wobbling as he nods his head. Seungmin offered you a polite handshake, and Jeongin an energetic round of high fives.

Somewhere in the distance, Changbin calls out your name, and performs a half heart above his head. You complete it, sticking your tongue out playfully. Not surprisingly, you and Chris have to duck back inside the café to hunt down Minho, who’s been playing with the cats left in your care for the day.

You didn’t find out that Stray Kids were leaving until that night when you spotted a live of them on your YouTube at the airport, and your heart plummeted with a sadness you couldn’t explain.

What… a strange… dream.

Everything become’s more surreal when you discover an envelope by the coffee machine the next morning, tucked neatly under the corner where Chris would usually stand to make his coffee’s. You pull it out carefully; there’s no name penned on the front. Curiously you pull out two sheets of paper. The first you open is in Chris’ handwriting (he had been leaving random notes and scribbling his signature wherever he could during his visits, so you were relatively familiar with it now),

A B C D E F G I wanna send my code to you Eight letters is all it takes And I’m gonna let you know

Lyrics. You flip over the paper and stare in a daze at the phone number scribbled there. Further down the page, there’s more lyrics, but from a different song.

Together, I feel time has flown so fast In my time, memories are crowded I didn’t know the sky was so clear like this until I met you I thought the sun was only scorching Thank you for coming to me And becoming the same shadow as mine before approaching the light

“Chris you cheesy ass,” you laugh, heartbeat thumping loudly in your chest.

You can STAY.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you almost forget about the second piece of paper. It’s a receipt. And on the bottom, are more words written in his handwriting.

The loan for Café Studio has been paid off, and the rent on your apartment. It’s all yours now. You can thank me when I come back.

Your eyes widen, and a small gasp leaves your lips. You fumble for your phone and add his number to your contacts. Then sparing no second, type out a message.

(A/N: When dialogue is in script format, it's meant to represent text messages)

You: “No you did not”

In the few seconds that you stare at your message, that you sent to Chris, disbelief written across your features, your phone buzzes with a response.

Chris: “Oh but I did”

You laugh, the sound gradually increasing as you throw your head back, giddy, a delicate pink tinge warming your cheeks.

“Something good happen?” James interrupts, rapping his knuckles on the counter to get your attention, “No side barista with you today? Who was he anyways, and what was with that mask?” “He’s… a good friend. Care for some tea?” “But I don’t like-” “Perfect.”

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe that time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

Chris: “Are you awake?” You: “I am now” Chris: “Sorry go back to sleep” You: “I was kidding Christopher” You: “Of course I’m awake” Chris: “That’s not a good thing” You: “Look who’s talking” You: “Are you all good? Can’t sleep?” Chris: “Just felt like a chat”

They only visited him in nightmares, he discovered, which was still an improvement from before.

You: “Sure” You: “Care to explain your latest Insta post?” Chris: “No haha” You: “You burnt Stayville to the ground” You: “I think that deserves an explanation”

Chris smiles and flops back into his pillow. It certainly was an improvement from before. His mind was working over the possibilities, the many different choices he could make from here on out. Did you have something to do with this condition? Were you the solution to it all? What was it about you, exactly, that drew him to you?

You can thank me when I come back, he had written.

He thinks… he’ll be back for sure.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

-> PART 2 -> Masterlist

Yay! Milestone Event 1, Check!

Feedback is always appreciated, negative and positive alike. I apologise for any editing or formatting errors, I’m forever learning.

Until next read! - Kaisowoo

#bang chan #bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader #stray kids #bang chan angst #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x you #bang chan fic #suicide #feminine reader #cringecheeseycornycrap #swearing #wth idk what other tags to include #just don't read if you can't handle dark themes and SEVERE angst and strong descriptions of suicide :D #bang chan imagines #skz #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader

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